by Barry Eisler
“You needed to find out in your own way.”
More manipulation, then. He was seeing a side of Hort he’d never adequately appreciated. Or that he’d been willfully blind to. “How … you were involved in that?”
“Yes.”
Ben waited. Hort said, “In the last administration, JSOC was reporting directly to the Office of the Vice President. There was a special class of detainees the CIA had rendered out of various Asian and European countries. Highly secret. Unacknowledged. People we picked up in targeted operations, not the wholesale bullshit we used to populate Guantánamo. The vice president wanted a specialist to interrogate them. One man, to keep things compartmentalized, to have a single source who could assemble the pieces and see through the lies. I went to Larison.”
“Larison tortured them.”
“That’s … what it turned into.”
“That’s what you meant before. When you told me not to give in to that temptation.”
“That’s right. And I hope you were listening.”
“Did you get anything from them?”
There was a pause. Hort said, “Nothing we couldn’t have gotten using the Army Field Manual. If we’d wanted to. But like I told you, the vice president and his crew were after more than just the results.”
“And when they were done, they couldn’t let them go.”
“That’s right. Once the original mistake was made, we were faced with a variety of unpleasant choices. The least unpleasant was the Ecologia program.”
“When was this?”
“September 2006. The same time the president acknowledged the existence of the black sites and the fourteen high-value detainees being moved from the sites to Guantánamo. And there was a bonus: the administration needed some actual bad guys in Guantánamo, which the black site detainees provided.”
“A distraction?”
“Misdirection. All the president was doing was announcing what was already widely known. The black sites became the story, and while public attention was focused there, Larison was quietly eliminating the Caspers, the black sites’ premier occupants.”
“You used Larison for it.”
“To maintain the compartmentalization. Plus, I thought he was hardened at that point. Another mistake. In fact, he was suffering. But too tough to admit it.”
“But … that means he would be on the tapes.”
“I doubt he cares at this point. Or if he did, he could just have deleted or obscured his face.”
Ben was as fascinated as he was appalled. What Hort was telling him had really happened. It didn’t get more inside than this.
“How did it work?”
“The program?”
“Yes.”
Hort shrugged. “The CIA was holding the Caspers in various secret prisons—Thailand, Romania, Lithuania, a prison within a prison at Bagram. They were identified only by a number. Larison would show up with the prisoner’s number and an authorization code. And the guards would turn the prisoner over.”
“Like an ATM.”
“Same concept. But without records of deposits and withdrawals.”
They were quiet for a moment. Something occurred to Ben. He said, “Giving Larison fakes … was that authorized? On the call you had me listen in on, the national security adviser was on board with giving him the real thing.”
Hort smiled. “No. It wasn’t authorized.”
“Then who has the real diamonds?”
Hort’s smile broadened. “I do.”
Ben shook his head. “What are you … what’s going on here?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on. The country is facing a perfect storm of vulnerability. The previous administration turned programs like rendition and torture that had always rightly been run at a retail level into a wholesale operation, an operation that couldn’t be concealed. There’s a public backlash now and the new administration is having trouble containing it. Meanwhile, intel demonstrates what common sense already told us: U.S. torture has been the greatest jihadist recruitment bonanza ever invented. We need new capabilities to address the problems we’ve created. Unfortunately, we’ve lost some of the old ones. For a while, there was an off-the-books operation run by someone named Jim Hilger that had been doing the country a lot of good, but that’s been wiped out.”
He took a sip of wine. “I and a few others are trying to rebuild. The military is going to have an increasingly influential role in the new order of things. Two active war theaters with no end in sight, the war on terror, military commissions for terror suspects, that’s all bipartisan now. The last administration wanted to use the military in domestic law enforcement, and I expect we’ll see more of that, too. I want you to be part of it all.”
Ben thought. The management-style questions, letting him listen in on the conference call with the national security adviser … this is what it was all about. He didn’t know what the hell to think.
“And Larison?”
“I want Larison to be part of it, too. A highly capable man and officially dead on top of it. There’s a lot he could do. And a lot you could learn from him.”
Ben thought about what Larison had told him, and wondered if maybe Hort didn’t know the man the way he thought he did.
“You see the pattern?” Hort said. “We take the gloves off, it works, so we do more of it. What should be a retail program goes wholesale. You get force drift, mistakes, revelations, commissions, dismantling. Now we’re unprotected, our methods have made things worse, and when we’re attacked again, the public will scream for protection and won’t care how. And we’ll repeat the whole sorry cycle again.”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t get what you’re trying to do.”
Hort nodded. “This is all new to you,” he said. “I get that. I want to explain a few things about how America really works. I think then you’ll understand where I’m coming from.”
“Okay.”
“Number one, the country is run by corporate interests. I never understand when people get all worked up about socialism. There’s no socialism here. There’s corporatism.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Okay, pop quiz. Why do we give nearly three billion dollars a year to Israel?”
“So she can defend herself.”
“Wrong. It’s just a way of funneling a subsidy to U.S. arms manufacturers, which is where Israel, by quiet understanding, turns around and spends the money. But no one would support it if we called it ‘Raytheon aid.’ ‘Foreign aid’ just sounds so much more aboveboard.”
Ben didn’t answer. Hort said, “Okay, next. Health care reform.
Why?”
“So more people will have insurance.”
“Wrong. By requiring more people to purchase insurance, the government creates new customers for the insurance companies and big pharma.”
Ben nodded, unsure. He still didn’t understand where Hort was trying to lead him.
“And the AIG bailout was a way of funneling money to Goldman Sachs, which was owed thirteen billion by AIG and would have gone under without it. Hell, the government does this for its own, too. Without bulk mail subsidies, there would be no junk mail, and the post office would have nothing to deliver. And how do you think Halliburton and all the rest have made out from Iraq and Afghanistan? Think that’s just a coincidence? None of this is even new, by the way. The Marshall Plan wasn’t about helping Europe. It was about creating new customers for American corporations.”
He took a sip of wine. “People don’t realize it, but we have corporate interests so large they have foreign policy concerns. These corporations will pay for intel. And they’ll pay for action. Hilger, for all the good he was doing, was beholden to several of them. With a hundred million in start-up capital, we’ll be independent.”
Ben shook his head, thinking this couldn’t be true. “But … I mean, we’re not supposed to be independent, isn’t that right?”
“Theoretically, yes. We’re supposed to be beholden.
The question is, who are we beholden to?”
“Well … Congress, I guess. I mean, I know they’re a pain in the ass, but …”
“Congress? You know what the turnover rate in congressional elections is? In the neighborhood of two percent. Even the North Korean Politburo has a higher turnover rate than that. So who are we beholden to? Not the people. In a democracy, voters choose their leaders. In America, leaders choose their voters. There’s no competition anymore.”
“Come on, Hort, Republicans and Democrats … they hate each other, right? There’s competition.”
Hort laughed. “That’s not competition. It’s supposed to look that way, so people think their interests are being looked after, they have a choice, they can make a difference, they’re in charge. But they don’t.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m afraid it does. You see, there’s more money to be made in cooperation than there is in competition. It’s the same dynamic that leads to cartels. You can argue that the cartels should be competing. But they don’t see it that way. Their profit motive enables them to rise above the urge to compete. In the service of the greater good, naturally. People who think there’s actual friction, and real competition, between Democrats and Republicans, or between the press and politicians, or between the corporations and their supposed overseers, they’re like primitives looking at shadows on the wall and believing the shadows are the substance.”
Ben thought of Ulrich. Were he and Horton the same team? Is that what all this talk about cooperation meant?
“I went to see Ulrich,” he said. “Just now. Larison said I should.”
Hort smiled, obviously pleased. “I know you did,” he said. “And how was the late Mr. Ulrich?”
Ben looked at him, thinking he must have misheard. “What?”
40
Three Numbers
Ulrich cleaned himself up in the restroom. Now that the shock of the encounter was wearing off, pain was beginning to manifest itself. His jaw hurt, his nose hurt, and two of his teeth were loose. He felt nauseated and shaky.
What was killing him was the way he was being whipsawed. Hope, despair, then back again … you could reach the point where you just wanted it to be over, never mind how.
If what Treven had told him was true, there was still a chance. Talk to Horton, make a deal of some sort. Yes, there would be concessions—painful ones, certainly. But no one wanted those tapes out. In the end, that’s what would matter. He’d call Clements, brief him, coordinate. They’d come up with something.
He walked back to his office. Clements was waiting inside, standing in front of his desk, examining the shattered remnants of the phone. Ulrich jumped when he saw him. “Christ,” he said, “What are you doing here? I was just going to call you.”
Clements looked at him. “The door was open.”
Ulrich walked in. The door closed behind him. He turned and saw two burly men in dark suits that looked like they didn’t get worn very often. He noticed someone had closed the drapes.
“Is this supposed to scare me?” he said.
“Just some private security. We’ve been using Blackwater for a lot of projects lately.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the audiotapes you made.”
“You can’t have them.”
“I need you to open your wall safe.”
“Even if I were inclined to open it for you, and I’m not, and even if the tapes were in it, and they’re not, it wouldn’t help you. I told you, I made copies. They’re with a friend. Who will release them if anything happens to me.”
“The problem is, I don’t believe you. Look at you, you look down your nose at everyone, Ulrich, there’s no one you trust that much. And you had them handy the other day when you were on the phone, right here. Remember? You reminded me recently it was a secure line. I’m calling your bluff.”
Ulrich didn’t answer. The burly guys started to move in. Ulrich opened his mouth to scream for help and Clements nailed him with an uppercut to the solar plexus. Ulrich went down, wheezing.
“It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d screamed,” Clements said. “We’ve checked all the nearby offices. Everyone’s gone home. We checked the soundproofing, too. It’s very impressive.”
The Blackwater guys dragged him over to his desk. Clements watched, flexing his fingers open and closed. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said. “That, and more.”
They pinned him stomach-up against the desk, his feet dangling just above the floor, each Blackwater guy securing an arm and shoulder. Clements opened a case on the floor and took out a battery-operated power drill. “I want that combination,” he said. “One way or the other.”
Panting, Ulrich said, “You’re bluffing.”
To that, Clements only smiled.
“You won’t get away with this,” Ulrich said. “The cameras in the lobby—”
“We’ve taken care of the cameras. When we’re done here, I’m going to call some of my favorite Washington Post op-ed columnists and leak a few choice details about what you’ve been up to, and what terrorist group might have done this to you. Nothing that could be proven, of course, but you know how those columnists like to traffic in rumors. Makes them feel like they’re savvy, isn’t that what you said? And it’s not as though you’ll still be around to set the record straight.”
He fired up the drill and came closer. “The good news, Ulrich, is that you’re going to be seen as a martyr. We’ll use your death to sow public fear and get more of what we want. See what I’ve learned from you? I hope you’re proud.”
Ulrich tried to kick, but the Blackwater guys braced his legs with their knees. He started to tell Clements to wait, just wait for a second, they could figure this out, discuss it, but one of the Blackwater guys covered his mouth with a callused palm. Ulrich struggled desperately, but the Blackwater guys were too strong, and too experienced. He tried to say something, anything, to reason with Clements, to beg him, to get him to just wait, wait, they didn’t need to do this, he could explain, please, just listen to me! But he could only grunt into the meaty hand crushing his swollen lips and loose teeth.
Clements came closer. The sound of the drill was horrifically loud. Nothing was working. He felt a wave of horrible panic. He struggled harder. He began to scream. Clements reached him with the drill. The Blackwater guys pushed down harder. He watched through bulging eyes over the top of the hand smothering his mouth as Clements placed the drill against his left knee. And then the pain was so shocking, so total, that his thoughts were obliterated. The pain consumed him.
It went on for a long time—both knees and his left elbow. Breaks and questioning in between. Ulrich sobbed and begged. But he held on to the number. The one thing he knew was that once he gave it, they would kill him.
By the time Clements moved to do his right elbow, the desk and the floor around it were covered in piss and sweat and blood. The Blackwater guys were barely restraining him now, just keeping him from sliding off the desk. He’d lost his glasses, and the room and the faces were a blur. At some point he’d lost control of his bowels and the room stank from it, stank from shit and the smell of his own singed flesh. He couldn’t even scream anymore. Something in his throat had cracked.
“After this,” Clements said, “we do your face.”
“Please,” Ulrich croaked. “Please.”
“We can’t let those tapes come out,” Clements said. “Think of the way they’d undermine people’s confidence in government. Imagine what that would do to national security. Be reasonable now. Do what’s best.”
The drill came closer. A sound came from Ulrich’s mouth, a sound he’d never heard before, a moan, a whine, the involuntary tenor of absolute despair. Clements paused and watched him.
Crying, Ulrich rasped three numbers, three numbers that a moment earlier had seemed so important to him. But they weren’t important anymore. Nothing was important. Not the tapes, not the Caspers,
not anything.
All he wanted was for it to be over.
41
The Oligarchy
Hort hadn’t responded. But he was still smiling, a smile Ben found increasingly chilling.
“What do you mean, ‘the late Mr. Ulrich’? And how did you know I was there?”
Hort took a sip of wine. “I mean ‘the late Mr. Ulrich’ because Mr. Ulrich is dead now. I understand he was alive when you left him. Though I’m not sure the building’s security tapes will reflect that.”
Ben felt the blood draining from his face. “Did you set me up, Hort?”
Hort regarded him calmly. “How? By making you go to his office? Having him argue with you in the corridor, with blood all over his face?”
Ben thought of what Larison had told him. He imagined Hort, or whoever, whispering to a reporter, He’d been under a lot of stress … family problems, an arrest in Manila … a grudge against the former vice presidential chief of staff …
“How do you know this? What happened to him?”
“It turns out he had some damaging information about some people who used to report to him. Those people went and got the information back. They didn’t ask nicely.”
“You?”
“CIA.”
“They tortured him.”
“I think Ulrich would have called it ‘enhanced interrogation techniques.’”
“What about everything you said, about how torture is always about something else?”
“I didn’t do it, and I wouldn’t have done it. Regardless, I never said torture could never work. Hell, it worked for the French in Algeria.”
“But they lost the war.”
“True. But if losing a war isn’t your concern, and if you know for certain the subject has the precise information you’re after, and if you can immediately test the quality of what you get from the subject without wasting your time on wild goose chases because torture produces a hundred times more chaff than wheat, and if the subject dies afterward so he doesn’t spend the rest of his life on a personal jihad against the nation of the people who did it to him, and if no one ever knows about it so the practice doesn’t recruit thousands more terrorists, sure, it can work. Now, the conditions I just described are almost entirely theoretical and have nothing to do with the program Ulrich and company designed, authorized, and implemented. Unfortunately for Ulrich, he seems to have been the rare exception to the rule that torture isn’t worth the cost. At least, that’s what the CIA thinks.”