Admiral Sir Michael Boyce, the chief of defense staff, launched into a diatribe about the West’s near helplessness to influence the course of events in Iraq. Worse, he said, was the Bush team—members of the administration were secretive, even hiding information about the plans for Iraq from their own colleagues. It was hard to tell if anyone in Washington grasped the wider strategic picture.
“Only Rumsfeld and a few others know what’s being planned,” Boyce said to Blair, mispronouncing the name as Rumsfield. “You may speak to Bush or Rice, but do they really know what’s going on?”
Blair waved off Boyce’s doubts. “In the end, Bush will make the decisions,” he said.
Another problem—Blair had been pushing for a new U.N. Security Council resolution against Iraq before launching a military campaign, but the Americans didn’t think it necessary. Bush and his aides believed that earlier U.N. declarations about Iraq provided a sufficient legal basis for war.
Lieutenant-General Sir Anthony Pigott, who had coordinated Britain’s efforts in Afghanistan, was invited to give his views. It was possible, he said, to launch a full-scale invasion that culminated with an assault on Baghdad.
“It would be bloody,” he said, “And it would take a long time.”
Even then, he said, victory could not be proclaimed with the defeat of the Iraqi army and the overthrow of Saddam. The preparations for war had to include a realistic plan about how the allies would manage Iraq once the fighting ended. “The Americans believe they can replicate Afghanistan, but this is very, very different,” he said.
Boyle piped up again. A British soldier based in Tampa and working with U.S. Central Command, he said, had told his superiors in London that he could not get a read on General Tommy Franks. The Americans seemed to be planning for something later, maybe around New Year. By all appearances, Franks was considering using solely airpower and Special Forces to topple the Baathist regime. If so, the game plan was woefully inadequate.
“If they want us to be involved in providing forces,” Boyle said, “then we have to be involved in all the planning.”
The military men finished their presentation, and Blair stroked his chin. True, he said, the Americans’ planning and strategy was flawed. But that left him caught in a conundrum.
“Do I support totally in public and deliver our strategy?” he asked. “Or do I put distance between us and lose influence?”
The primary issue, Pigott said, was defining the goal of any military assault. Was the central aim to target Iraq’s weapons-of-mass-destruction capabilities, or was it to oust Saddam and usher in a new regime?
“It’s regime change, in part because of WMD,” Blair said. “But more broadly because of Saddam’s threat to the region and the world.”
Just saying “weapons of mass destruction” would not persuade the public that this was a war worth fighting, Blair said. “People will say that we’ve known about WMD for a long time.”
So many uncertainties, so many problems. Only one thing was guaranteed, Blair said. “This will not be a popular war. And in the States, fighting an unpopular war and losing is not an option.”
• • •
The U-Tapao Royal Thai Navy Airfield is located ninety miles southeast of Bangkok on the coast of the Gulf of Thailand. During the Vietnam War, the United States used it as a forward operating base for B-52 Stratofortress bombers and KC-135 Stratotankers, refueling aircraft of the Strategic Air Command. In the recent bombing runs over Afghanistan, U-Tapao served as an indispensable refueling station, although the Thai government kept that secret to avoid inflaming the country’s Muslim population.
Now, in April 2002, the United States turned to U-Tapao once more. A small, disused warehouse at the airfield was hastily secured as the site of a temporary secret prison where the CIA could hold and interrogate senior al-Qaeda operatives far from the public eye.
Their first guest was Abu Zubaydah. After receiving his medical treatment in Pakistan, he had been whisked by the CIA to U-Tapao for interrogation. Ali Soufan and Steve Gaudin—two FBI agents who had worked on the investigation of the 1998 embassy bombings—were dispatched by Washington to assist in the questioning.
Their supervisor, Charles Frahm, gave them specific instructions. The CIA was in charge of Zubaydah, and its operatives would call the shots. Zubaydah was not to be read his Miranda rights. If the CIA did anything that discomforted the two agents, they were to leave the facility and call headquarters.
Speed was of the essence. Interrogation subjects are at their most vulnerable from the chaos and trauma they feel just after being caught—the so-called shock of capture. The agents needed to get to Thailand fast so they could take advantage of this period of overwhelming confusion for Zubaydah.
Soufan and Gaudin arrived before the CIA interrogators. They went to Zubaydah and spoke with him in Arabic and English; Zubaydah was fluent in both languages. At first, Zubaydah insisted he was not the person that the agents thought. His name was Daoud, he said, not Zubaydah.
Soufan smiled. “How about I call you Hani?”
It was the nickname Zubaydah’s mother had given him as a child; Soufan had found that tidbit by digging through FBI files. Zubaydah couldn’t hide his surprise. These men had come prepared.
“Okay,” he said.
With that, the agents and the terrorist began to talk.
• • •
Soon after, Zubaydah went into septic shock from his gunshot wounds. His condition was grave, and the CIA was not equipped to treat him. Worried that Zubaydah might die—taking his secrets with him—the agents rushed him to a nearby hospital.
Soufan and Gaudin stayed with Zubaydah, dabbing his lips with ice, cleaning him up after he soiled himself, changing his bandages, and pushing for better medical care. When he was conscious, they prayed with him.
“Ask God for strength,” Soufan told Zubaydah.
The agents weren’t acting solely out of compassion; rather, this was another tactic, known as “dislocation of expectations.” It is designed to disarm a suspect who is braced for harsh treatment. Most captured terrorists expected to be manhandled and tortured—they were caught off guard by acts of kindness from someone versed in their language and culture. Psychologically unsteady and deprived of a frame of reference, they often responded by cooperating.
As Zubaydah’s health improved, the agents questioned him again. They had come to Thailand with a handheld computer containing pictures of suspected al-Qaeda operatives, in hopes that Zubaydah would identify them. Gaudin asked Soufan to show Zubaydah a photograph of Abdullah Ahmed Abdullah, a suspect in the 1998 embassy bombings. The wrong picture popped up.
Zubaydah stared at the photo. “How do you know Mukhtar?” he asked.
“We know all about Mukhtar,” Soufan replied without skipping a beat.
He was lying. The FBI had been struggling to identify a person called “Mukhtar” who had been mentioned in bin Laden recordings. The CIA had been pursuing leads about the man for a year, but it wasn’t the top priority. The name seemed like just another drop in an ocean of data.
But by pretending he knew of Mukhtar, Soufan retained dominance in the interrogation. Had he expressed excitement about the name, Zubaydah would have realized he had information that the agent coveted and could have seized the position of power merely by clamming up. In this game of mental poker, Soufan had no choice but to make a high-stakes bluff.
Soufan moved on to other pictures, then casually returned to the photograph of Mukhtar.
Zubaydah looked up. “How did you know he was the mastermind of 9/11?”
Neither agent answered. Instead, they plowed ahead on other topics, silently containing their elation.
After the night’s questioning, they forwarded the information to Washington. CIA analysts pored over their records about Mukhtar. They located an August 28 cable that gave the man’s real name.
Mukhtar was Khalid Sheikh Mohammed.
• • •
How, the
CIA officials debated, would they force Zubaydah to really talk?
Sure, the FBI had made some headway, but the information was mostly flotsam. Admitting who he was? Identifying Mukhtar? Not enough.
Once again—as they had with al-Libi before whisking him off to Egypt for more abusive interrogation—agency officials believed that their captive knew far more than he was letting on. A source had revealed that Zubaydah had assembled plans to strike Israel, or Saudi Arabia, or perhaps India. His name had been linked to a plot involving an attack on a school—and possibly not just one. Evidence confirming that intelligence had turned up in Zubaydah’s safe house. There, authorities had found a map of a British school in Lahore near a table loaded with bomb components. Then there was “chatter” being intercepted by the NSA—it was spiking again, just as it had been before 9/11.
Something bad was about to happen; people were about to die. There was no time, agency officials argued, for the FBI’s treasured “relationship building.” If Zubaydah wouldn’t speak, then the CIA had to pry the information out of him.
At a series of meetings at agency headquarters in Langley, top counterterrorism experts floated ideas for tactics. Perhaps they should place Zubaydah in a cell filled with corpses. Surround him with naked women. Administer electric shocks to his teeth.
None of the agency officials knew much about interrogating captured terrorists, and all but one man in the room expressed doubts about which road to take. That lone exception was Jim Mitchell, the former SERE psychologist who had analyzed the Manchester Manual for the CIA. Despite his own lack of expertise in the methodology of interrogations or the psychology of Arab terrorists, Mitchell’s calm self-assurance captivated the others in the room.
“The thing that will make him talk,” Mitchell told them, “is fear.”
• • •
As the CIA officers listened to Mitchell expound on the benefits of aggressive tactics in interrogation, a classified report that would have shown him up as a fool lay buried deep within the bowels of their own headquarters.
Decades before, agency psychologists and interrogation specialists had conducted extensive research on successful interview techniques, publishing the findings in a 1958 classified report. The study reached two unequivocal conclusions: Interrogators who cultivated relationships with captives got results, while those who threatened and bullied got nowhere.
“Maltreating the subject is, from a strictly practical point of view, as shortsighted as whipping a horse to his knees before a thirty mile ride,” the report said. “It is true that most anyone will talk when subjected to enough physical pressures, but the information obtained in this way is likely to be of little intelligence value.”
Even the theory at the heart of the argument in favor of rough treatment—that it would eventually push the interview subject into confessing to the lies he had previously spun during less aggressive questioning—was wrong, the study found. Instead, subjects had to be gently guided into a tacit, yet unspoken, acknowledgment of their deceit, sparing them the indignity of having to admit it.
“Showing some subjects up as liars is the very worst thing to do, because their determination not to lose face will only make them stick harder to the lie,” the report said. “For these, it is necessary to provide loopholes by asking questions which let them correct their stories without any direct admission of lying.”
The approach, the study said, was somewhat different from that used by law enforcement, because the focus of an agency interrogator should be on what persuaded a subject to talk, rather than on whether the information could be used as evidence in a court. But the technique used by the FBI of establishing a relationship was the best for CIA interrogations, too.
“An interrogation yields the highest intelligence dividend when the interrogee finally becomes an ally,” the report said.
That was what the best minds of the CIA urged. But their report was languishing in a forgotten corner of the agency’s headquarters. Elsewhere in the building, a psychologist who didn’t know what he was talking about was clamoring for the approach that the experts had long ago concluded was worse than worthless. And the officials listening to his breezy assurances were eager to get going on Mitchell’s advice.
• • •
The London bureau for Al Jazeera overlooks the Albert Embankment on the south side of the Thames, directly across the river from the headquarters of MI5, Britain’s domestic intelligence service.
On an early April morning, Yosri Fouda, a reporter with the Arab television network, had just arrived at the office when his cell phone rang. The line crackled.
“Salaam-u-alaikum, Brother Yosri,” a man said. “I am someone who means well.”
The caller hadn’t given his name, and Fouda didn’t recognize his voice. But the man sounded friendly and was apparently devout—the first words he had spoken were an Islamic greeting.
“I hope you are thinking of preparing something special for the first anniversary,” the man said. “Because if you are, we can provide you with some exclusive stuff.”
The first anniversary. It was still a long way off, but was this man talking about 9/11?
The caller asked Fouda for a secure fax number and, as soon as the reporter gave him one, hung up.
• • •
A three-page fax arrived a few days later. It was an outline for a three-part documentary about the 9/11 attacks, complete with instructions on where to do the filming, whom to contact, and what to say. Fouda could scarcely believe the arrogance of this anonymous author in assuming that he could dictate the content and structure of a report by a global news organization.
Uncertain how to proceed, Fouda took the fax home with him that night so he could reread it. After he arrived, his cell phone rang again. The mysterious man was calling back.
“Would you like to come to Islamabad?” he asked. “We will make sure that you are, God willing, fine and that you get what you want.”
A religious man, apparently with detailed knowledge about 9/11, wanted him in Pakistan so he could be given information. Fouda wasn’t sure where this was going, but he smelled a scoop.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “As soon as I can get a visa, you will find me, God willing, at your end.”
• • •
He had arrived on the first flight of detainees brought to Guantanamo and had been assigned Internment Serial Number 9, abbreviated in the center’s documents as ISN 009. The official list of captives’ names identified him as Himdy Yasser, but no such person existed at Guantanamo. Instead, he was Yaser Hamdi, a name mangled during sloppy processing.
The Americans had picked him up with dozens of other men, including John Walker Lindh, at Qala-i-Jangi following the uprising in the compound. Like Lindh, he stood apart from the others. He was American. But unlike Lindh—who had been brought to the United States and indicted on felony charges—Hamdi was locked up at Guantanamo.
When he told his interrogators he had been born in Louisiana, they didn’t believe him, though his English was flawless. And because he had lived in Saudi Arabia since he was a toddler, even he didn’t realize that his birth in Baton Rouge made him an American citizen. In early April, someone checked his story and found his birth certificate. Hamdi had been telling the truth.
• • •
The news rocketed to Jim Haynes at the Pentagon. He could scarcely believe it—another American had been fighting alongside the Taliban. What was this?
Haynes alerted Rumsfeld, who seemed flummoxed about what to do.
“I recommend that we bring this guy into the United States,” Haynes said. “We’ve already been through this with John Walker Lindh. We need to be consistent.”
The situation also posed a potential legal threat to Guantanamo, he said. A court was far more likely to extend its reach to the detention center in Cuba if an American citizen was there. Moving Hamdi out would solve the problem.
Rumsfeld agreed. Officials at Guantanamo received the order and
hurried Hamdi from his cell. Taking Hamdi back to the United States required some care. If he was going to be handed over to the Justice Department, he shouldn’t travel by military transport, Washington officials decided. Instead, he was loaded onto a jet that belonged to the FBI.
• • •
Haynes’s deputy, Whit Cobb, called John Yoo to alert him to the news.
“You won’t believe this,” Cobb said. “Looks like we found an American citizen among the people at Guantanamo.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” You replied. “How’d that happen?”
“It appears he was born in the U.S., then left as an infant for Saudi Arabia. So he’s a citizen.”
Not good news. “This guy has to be brought back to the United States,” Yoo said. “We can’t have him at Guantanamo Bay.”
• • •
While Hamdi was in transit, administration lawyers rushed to an emergency meeting in Gonzales’s office. Not all of them bought Haynes’s argument that this detainee should be allowed on American soil, citizen or not. Maybe, some thought, the plane should be diverted before it had a chance to land.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Addington said.
“The decision’s already been made by the secretary of defense,” Haynes replied.
Flanigan broke in. “It could cause some real problems,” he said. “It’s going to completely shut off the military commission process.”
Instead, Addington said, bringing Hamdi to the United States would put a possible habeas corpus case on a fast track. Then some judge somewhere could order the administration to produce Hamdi and potentially reveal evidence that the administration had against him.
Haynes strongly disagreed. “He is a U.S. citizen,” he said. “We have to bring him back to the United States.”
Anger flashed across Addington’s face. “This should have been more carefully vetted,” he said. “This is a decision that’s going to have far-reaching consequences.”
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