The Midnight House jw-4

by Alex Berenson

  “Maybe you don’t.” Shafer turned the picture facedown on his desk.

  “Meantime. Setting ghosts aside. I know you’re angry, John, but I think we ought to wait on Duto until we have a better idea of the game he’s playing. Because this whole thing just keeps getting stranger. While you were sunning yourself in Cairo, I was keeping busy.” Shafer explained his meeting with Murphy and then the anonymous letter that Joyner, the inspector general, had gotten.

  “You think Murphy was stealing?”

  “Yes. But that’s not the strangest part. The letter had twelve PINs. I copied them all.”

  “PINs.”

  “Every detainee gets a unique prisoner identification number, a ten-digit serial number. Most of the time, the PINs are matched to a name, date of birth, home country — the basics of identity. If detainees aren’t carrying ID when we arrest them, and we can’t figure out who they are, the PIN won’t be matched to any biographical information. In that case it’s called a John Doe PIN and the first three digits are always 001.”

  “Did 673 have any of those?”

  “No,” Shafer said. “They always knew at least the name of the person they were interrogating. But whether or not we have any biographical details, once a prisoner is assigned a PIN, it’s entered in what’s called the CPR. Stands for Consolidated Prisoner Registry. The worldwide detainee database. And the CPR includes everybody, without exception. If you’re in U.S. custody, whether you’re at Guantánamo or the black sites, you are required to be in it. Even the base in Poland. Which was called the Midnight House, according to Murphy.”

  “Zumari said the same.”

  “Must have been proud of their ingenuity if they were telling prisoners.” Shafer sat at his desk and tapped keys until a blue screen with a white title appeared: “Consolidated Prisoner Registry — TS/SCI/ BLUE HERON — FOR ACCESS CONSULT OGC—” Office of the General Counsel.

  “I got the passcodes two days ago,” Shafer said. “In between explaining to Cairo Station why you were there and why you hadn’t told them. You can imagine.”

  “If only I cared.”

  Shafer entered the codes. A new screen popped up, a black word on a white background. Query. Beneath it, a space for a name or a PIN. Shafer typed in a ten-digit number—6501740917. A brief pause, and then Alaa Zumari’s name and headshot appeared on-screen. “That’s him, right? Zumari.”

  “Yes.”

  Shafer flicked to the next screen, which had rows of acronyms and dates. “DTAC — that’s date taken custody. CS, confinement site. Et cetera. You can see, he was arrested in Iraq by something called Task Force 1490. Then a couple of weeks in custody at BLD — that’s Balad.”

  “Says BLDIQ SC-HVD.”

  “We do love our acronyms. I don’t know for sure but figure it means something like ‘secure custody, high-value detainee.’ Then he’s transferred to 673-1. We can safely assume that’s the Midnight House. Then, a month after that, transferred back to Iraq, held again at Balad. This time not as a high-value detainee. They’d decided he didn’t have anything. And two months after that, they release him. The final note is AT-CAI.”

  “Air transfer to Cairo International?”

  “Probably. This match what he told you?”

  “More or less.”

  “And you see, the record is confined to movements and detention sites. Nothing about what he actually said.”

  “I get it, Ellis. So how’s this help us?”

  “That letter to the inspector general. It had twelve ID numbers. Six of them, they’re like this. Complete, with a reference to 673-1 as a detention site. Four of them, they have some gaps in time. And no mention of 673.”

  “And the other two?”

  “See for yourself.” Shafer typed in a ten-digit number: 5567208212. This time the screen went blank for several seconds. Then: Record not found. He retyped the code. Same result.

  “And this is the other missing PIN.” Shafer typed it in. Record not found.

  “Ellis. You’re sure—”

  “I’m sure. They went right in my BlackBerry like the others.”

  “Maybe those two were fake.” Wells knew he was stretching.

  “Ten real and two fake. It’s possible. Sure.”

  “Or they were so high-value that — maybe there’s another database.”

  Shafer shook his head. “I checked. There’s a couple guys like that, cases where we don’t want to disclose anything about where we caught, where we’re holding them. Even in here. But it’s about four guys. And then you get something like this—” He typed in another number and the screen flashed: Restricted/Eyes Only/SCAP. Contact ODD/NCS—the office of the deputy director for the National Clandestine Service, the new name for the Directorate of Operations. “There’s always a record. Precisely because we don’t want guys to disappear from the system.”

  “But two of them did,” Wells said. “How easy is deleting these records?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Shafer said. “I’m guessing not very. And probably you’ve got to be very senior.”

  “Senior like Vinny. But then why get us involved?”

  “Guilty conscience.”

  “Good one, Ellis.”

  “Truly, I don’t know,” Shafer said. “There’s too many angles we can’t see yet. You’re sure Zumari’s not behind the killings?”

  “I’d bet anything. He’s been hiding from the Egyptian police since he got home. And if you’d seen him — he’s not a terrorist.”

  “Then it’s all pointing the same way. Inside.”

  “Inside meaning somebody who was part of the squad? Or inside meaning bigger, like a conspiracy?”

  “I don’t think we know that yet.”

  They sat in silence, the only sound the hum of the computers under Shafer’s desk. “So you don’t want to go to Vinny?” Wells said eventually.

  “Anything we tell him now isn’t going to come as much of a shock.”

  Shafer was right, Wells realized. Even if Duto hadn’t deleted the numbers himself, the letter to the inspector general would have tipped him. He knew much more than he’d told them.

  “WE NEED TO GO BACK to the beginning, find out what we can about 673,” Shafer said. He pulled a folder from his safe, handed it to Wells. “These are the individual personnel records for members of the squad. I warn you it’s less than meets the eye.”

  Wells flicked through the file. The personnel files hadn’t been put off-limits, because they predated the creation of 673 and weren’t part of its record. They held basic biographical information on the members of the squad — names, unit histories, birthdays, home addresses.

  “No obvious pattern,” Wells said. “They’re from all over. Mostly not interrogators.”

  “That is the pattern. Only four of the guys have experience handling interrogations. Terreri, the LTC who ran it. Jack Fisher. The lead interrogator, Karp.”

  “And my old buddy Jerry Williams.”

  “Even those four, they were all over the map. None of them knew each other before 673 was formed. It’s all spare parts.”

  “You think we wanted a clean break from other units.”

  “Remember the legal situation at the time. Post-Abu Ghraib. Post-Rumsfeld. Pressure to close Guantánamo. The Red Cross accuses us of torturing detainees. Torture. That’s their word. And it’s the Red Cross. Not Amnesty International. Everybody knows the score. This stuff isn’t supposed to happen anymore,” Shafer said.

  “But we still need intel.”

  “And we think we have to get rough to get it. So, we make this new group, a few old hands and a few new ones. They’ve got a connection to the Pentagon, but nobody’s exactly responsible for it. That was the point. The whole reason for the structure.”

  “Maybe so, but these guys, they’re not dumb. They would have wanted legal protection. There’s got to be a finding”—a secret Presidential memo that authorized 673 to operate. “Even if they destroyed the interrogation tapes, or didn’t make any,
there’s transcripts.”

  “Forget the records,” Shafer said. A note of irritation crept into his voice. “They’re gone. Focus on what we know.” Shafer held up his fingers. “One: Ten guys on the squad. Six are dead, one’s missing. Two: Millions of dollars can’t be accounted for. Murphy and Terreri, the guys who allegedly took the money, are two of the only three to survive. Three: Two detainees have vanished. Their records, anyway. Four: Duto — maybe on his own, maybe on orders from Whitby — stopped the IG from investigating. And then, for some reason, pulled us into this to do our own investigation. Five: According to the FBI, the remaining members of the squad have airtight alibis. Terreri’s been in Afghanistan for a year. Poteat’s in South Korea, and like Brant Murphy told us, he wasn’t part of the squad for long anyway.”

  “And Murphy?”

  “He was at Langley last week when Wyly and Fisher were killed in California. Our own surveillance tapes prove it.”

  “Maybe he outsourced.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Doubtful.” Contract killers were popular in the movies. In the real world they were greedy, incompetent, and more often than not police informants.

  Wells stared at the ceiling. Everything Shafer had said was true, but he couldn’t see how it fit together. “What about the FBI interviews? Anything yet from them?”

  “So far, no.”

  “There is one other mystery,” Wells said. “Jerry Williams. We keep assuming he’s dead. What if he’s not? What if he disappeared because he got wind that someone was after 673?”

  “There’s another explanation,” Shafer said.

  “Not possible,” Wells said. “I know Jerry.”

  “You knew Jerry. I asked Murphy about him. He said Jerry was disgruntled, thought he deserved a promotion, hadn’t gotten it—”

  “So, he’s stalking his old unit?”

  “Deep breath, John.”

  Wells nodded. Shafer was right. He liked Williams, but they hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years.

  “Either way, you’ve got your next move,” Shafer said.

  “Noemie Williams.”

  “Beats hanging around here waiting for FBI reports, trying to figure out what Duto’s really up to.”

  “Amen to that,” Wells said. “But do me one favor. Next time you talk to him, tell him to make the Egyptians go easy on Zumari if they ever catch him. I’d do it myself, but you know it would be counterproductive.”

  “Done. Can I run any other chores, my liege?”

  “Mind holding on to Tonka a couple more days?”

  “The kids like her. Anyway, I think she’s forgotten all about you. Doesn’t even know who you are anymore.”

  “I’m going to pretend I don’t get that analogy.”

  13

  STARE KIEJKUTY,POLAND. JUNE 2008

  Three months left on the tour. As far as Martin Terreri was concerned, it couldn’t end soon enough. He was done with Poland. Sick of the whole damn country.

  Terreri was sick of their living quarters. The Polish government had given his squad two barracks in Stare Kiejkuty, a military intelligence base near the Ukrainian border. The Poles on the base shared a mess hall with Terreri and his men and provided overnight security for the prisoners but otherwise kept their distance. The hands-off attitude was the reason that the United States had chosen to operate here. But the freedom came at a price. Terreri had never felt so isolated. They could leave for day trips, but the Poles required them to return each night, since they hadn’t cleared Polish immigration and officially weren’t even in Poland. And ironically, they lived under harsher conditions than American soldiers almost anywhere else. Bases in Iraq and Afghanistan had the amenities that U.S. troops had come to expect: decent grub, live satellite television, well-equipped gyms. But the Polish army wasn’t much for creature comforts. The showers had two temperatures, scalding and freezing. The food in the mess was sometimes fried, sometimes boiled, always tasteless.

  Terreri was sick of the Polish countryside. Not that all the women here were ugly. In Warsaw they were gorgeous, a magic combination of blue-eyed Saxon haughtiness and wide-hipped Slavic sensuality. But the peasant women aged at warp speed. They wore ankle-length dresses to hide their boxy bodies and sat by the side of the roads selling threadbare wool blankets. They had stringy hair and tired, stupid eyes. The men were worse, sallow, with faces like topographic maps and brown teeth from their cheap cigarettes. They rode sideways on diesel-belching tractors, pulling bundles of logs on roads that were more pothole than pavement. No wonder the Russians and the Germans had taken turns beating up on them all these centuries.

  Terreri was sick of being alone. He’d promised to e-mail Eileen and the kids every day. He’d even attached a Webcam to his computer for video chats. But the calls, the instant messages, the seeing-without-touching of video, they made him more depressed, reminded him of what he’d left stateside. He almost preferred the old days, when being on tour meant checking in for five minutes once a week.

  Terreri was sick of his squad. The Rangers were fine. But the CIA guys, they weren’t soldiers. He could tell them what to do, but he couldn’t command them. He couldn’t give an order, get a salute, and know that what he wanted would be done quickly and without question. That instant response was the essence of military discipline. The CIA guys didn’t have it. He had to negotiate with them, explain his decisions to them. A pointless chore. And Rachel Callar, the doc, she was about two minutes from turning into a real problem. She didn’t have the stones for the job. Literally or figuratively.

  Terreri was just plain sick. Probably because he wasn’t sleeping right or exercising right or eating right. And because of the dirt and lead and chemicals in the air, the stale gray clouds that coated his tongue with a metallic tang that he couldn’t shake no matter how much Listerine he swigged. For a month he’d been fighting a sore throat, a low fever. Callar said he had a virus and antibiotics wouldn’t help. But she was a shrink, not a real doctor, even if she did have an M.D. What did she know about treating sore throats? He bitched at her for antibiotics until she gave him a course. The meds didn’t help his throat, but they gave him diarrhea for a week. He didn’t tell Callar, didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, but he knew she knew.

  Most of all, Terreri was sick of the work. Which surprised him. He’d been in the interrogation business since 2002. He’d run a squad in Iraq in 2004, when the army and the agency were just learning how to break guys. When Fred Whitby came to him, told him about 673, told him the army and the agency wanted him to run it, he’d jumped at the chance. He believed in the mission. They were doing what couldn’t be done at Guantánamo. Not with the lawyers and the reporters bitching and even the Supreme Court getting involved. The liberals could complain all they liked, but sometimes you had to let the bad guys know they weren’t in charge anymore and the ride was going to hurt.

  What he hadn’t expected, though maybe he should have, was that he’d finally lost his taste for wrangling these jihadis. In the last six months, he’d burned out, plain and simple. He was sick of playing Whac-A-Mole with them. Of their lies. Of their historical grievances. Of hearing about the perfection of the Quran and the greatness of the Prophet. They all were reading from the same script, and none of them had any idea how boring it was. They were by and large a bunch of jerk-offs who ought to be herding sheep. But they considered themselves soldiers because they’d gotten a couple of weeks of training with AKs and grenades. The real geniuses, the big winners, they could mix oil and fertilizer to make a truck bomb, something any tenth-grader with a chemistry book could do. They thought that made them terrorist masterminds.

  Terreri, he’d never been a cop, but he figured he knew how those LAPD officers in South Central felt. He was wasting his life with a bunch of losers who didn’t understand anything except a closed fist. When this tour was over, he was done with interrogations.

  Being here did have a few compensations. Like at no place else he’d ever been, Terrer
i had free rein. Nominally, he was on special assignment for General Sanchez, but Sanchez had made clear from day one that as far as he was concerned, 673 was nothing more than a line on an org chart. The intel went up to the Pentagon and only then was funneled to Centcom. Basically, nobody in Washington or at Centcom headquarters in Tampa wanted to know anything about their tactics. They wanted only intel.

  Terreri agreed. In 2003, 2004, lawyers for the CIA and army spent a lot of time talking about what was legal and what wasn’t. Lots of conference calls, lots of memos. Lots of ass-covering. Now some of those memos had wound up on the front page of The New York Times. The less in writing, the better. Instead of a list of do’s and don’ts, Terreri had a simple two-page document — a secret memorandum signed by the President.

  I hereby authorize Task Force 673 to interrogate unlawful enemy combatants, as defined by the Department of Defense, using such methods as its commander deems necessary. I find that the operations of Task Force 673 are necessary to the national security of the United States. Pursuant to that finding, as commander-in-chief of the United States, I find that the Uniform Code of Military Justice does not apply to the members of 673 for any actions they shall take against unlawful enemy combatants.

  Task Force 673 shall operate only outside the states and territories of the United States. Outside those states and territories, only the Uniform Code of Military Justice and not the laws of the United States shall govern the actions of Task Force 673.

  In other words, 673 was in legal limbo, exempt from both military and civilian law in its treatment of detainees. Of course, they weren’t completely off the radar. Their detainees were listed in the prisoner registry, and eventually most of them wound up in Guantánamo. So Terreri’s men had to be sure that they didn’t do too much visible damage. Still, they had plenty of room, and Karp and Fisher, especially, had found ways to take advantage of it.

  Then there was the money. The army’s accountants were strict. But the CIA was funding this operation, and the CIA had different rules. In fact, as far as Terreri could see, when it came to spending money on black projects, the CIA had no rules at all. Brant Murphy, who handled logistics for the squad, never turned down a request for gear. He bought flat-screen TVs, computers, even a couple of Range Rovers for prisoner transport, quote/unquote. Still, the money was piling up. At this rate, they’d have two million bucks in their accounts when the tour was done.