How to Break a Terrorist (4 page)

“Bitterness motivates him.”

“No, I don’t think so. He’s bitter over what has become of his life, but I don’t think it motivates him.”

“It drove him to join Al Qaida.”

“Not really,” I say, “I think he did that out of self-preservation more than anything else.”

“Yeah, probably. Listen, I don’t know how to get to this fucking guy. I’ve run just about every approach in the damn book, and he hasn’t cracked. He’ll admit to anyone what he’s done, but he offers up nothing else.”

“How much more time do we have with him?” I ask.

“Not much. At any moment Randy could kick him into Abu Ghraib. I’m not even sure we’ll get another shot at him.

“What do we do?”

Bobby thinks it over for a moment. “Let’s go pay a visit to Abu Ali’s childhood pal. See if we can’t work them off each other.”

“Do you think they’d rat each other out? They’re lifelong friends.”

“Probably not, but what do we have to lose?”

A
N HOUR LATER,
Bobby and I sit down with Zaydan, Abu Ali’s childhood friend. I’m surprised at the difference between the two men. Where Abu Ali is skeletal, Zaydan is rotund. Where Abu Ali is bitter, Zaydan is cheerful. Zaydan exudes no hatred, no poisonous resentment or dislike for Americans. In fact, he doesn’t act as if his life hangs in the balance at all.

After Bobby introduces me, he asks Zaydan to explain his role in Al Qaida. Zaydan doesn’t hesitate. He freely admits he worked to recruit Sunni fighters through the mosques he preached at in Yusufiyah and southern Baghdad. He joined Al Qaida for the same reasons Abu Ali did. Zarqawi’s organization offered him safety from the roving Shia death squads.

In the absence of leadership or structure, the Shia unleashed a wave of vengeance against the Sunnis. They
murdered and plundered their way through the Sunni neighborhoods in Baghdad and Najaf, polarizing the population. Our inability to stop the violence drove thousands into Al Qaida’s ranks. Zaydan is just one of those, though more important than most since he is an imam.

After Zaydan tells me his story, Bobby goes to work on him. “Zaydan,” he begins, “We’ve been talking for many days now and I’m trying to help you out, but the clock is ticking here. We don’t have much time left before you will be transferred to Abu Ghraib. That’s no threat, it’s just a fact. From here, you’ll be sent there to stand trial before three judges.”

Zaydan nods dismissively, “I know.”

“Okay, then. Help us help you. If you just tell us who your boss is, we can go to the judges and work on your behalf.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

Bobby glances at me. Though we’ve only worked together for a few hours, I can already sense what he’s thinking.
Can’t help because you’re loyal to Al Qaida, Zaydan? Or are you afraid of them?

Bobby tests the waters. “We can protect your family.”

Zaydan laughs. His bulging belly rolls with the effort. We stare at him, unsure of what sparked this outburst. Finally, he says, “You Americans already protect my family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My family lives in a compound in Yusufiyah. It is a new settlement, walled and guarded. There is a checkpoint at the entrance. U.S. Marines guard it.”

Bobby and I are floored. An elite community in the most actively hostile area outside Anbar Province protects the family of one of Al Qaida’s top recruiters in Baghdad.

Bobby makes no effort to hide his surprise. “Really?”

Zaydan laughs and replies, “Sure. Abu Ali’s family is there as well!”

I ask, “You mean his wife and daughter?”

Zaydan frowns, “No, his wife, son, and daughter.”

Interrogations are like poker games. This sort of revelation is obviously significant. We just can’t let our detainee know he’s inadvertently given us something of value. I cover up.

“I forgot he had a son.”

“Why do you think I call him Abu Ali?” Zaydan chides us. “Abu means ‘father of’ and his son is named Ali.”

The interrogation rolls on, with Bobby working the Love of Family approach. He can’t get Zaydan to budge. On the fly, he makes a decision not to use the Prisoner’s Dilemma yet on Zaydan. I’ll have to ask him about that later.

Two hours later, we’ve gone in circles. We’re no closer to breaking him or finding his motivation. With our troops already protecting his family’s home, we have no observable leverage. Bobby ends the interrogation with a resigned, “You know, Zaydan, we’re at a standstill. I like you. You’re a good guy, and I want to help you. But I don’t know what else I can do.”

“I am sorry, my friend. I cannot tell you who I work for or where to find him.”

And that’s that. We end the interrogation. As we walk back to the ’gator pit, I ask Bobby, “So do you think he doesn’t trust us? Or is he afraid for his family?”

“Not sure. Maybe both. You can’t believe what Al Qaida does to members who turn on them. I’ll show you the videos sometime.”

“I can imagine,” I say.

“No. You can’t. Believe me. They use power drills on the squealer’s arms and legs. Sometimes on their heads, too.”

We reach the pit and report to Cliff what little we learned. He seems disappointed.

“Randy’s not going to keep him or Abu Ali around much longer,” he tells us. “They’re not giving us anything, and the SF guys bring in new catches every night. Sooner or later, they’re going to Abu Ghraib.”

Bobby agrees, “Probably sooner.”

“Hey, why did you decide not to run a Prisoner’s Dilemma on Zaydan?” I ask.

“Eh, maybe next time,” Bobby says, but I can tell there’s something else on his mind.

“Okay, what next?” I ask.

Bobby ponders this. “Well, why do you think Abu Ali hid the fact that he has a son?”

“Weakness?”

“Maybe. Let’s ask him first thing tomorrow.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
we start with Abu Ali. A guard brings him into our interrogation booth. He glares at us as soon as his mask is removed. Hadir, our ’terp, stands to one side, already jonesing for a cigarette. He tries to drown his nicotine habit with liberal slurps of Coke.

Bobby gets right to the point. “You have a son.”

Abu Ali doesn’t even blink.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had a son?”

His lips curl into a semismile. It suits him about as much as a pink collar on a junkyard dog.

“You caught me,” he says.

He sits back, the semismile stamped on his face. He was hiding a weakness.

“How old is your son?”

The semismile evaporates. He growls something that Hadir translates as “Eleven years old. He is just a boy.”

This gives me an idea. I glance at Bobby who tips his head in another
go for it
gesture.

“Your family is staying near Zaydan’s family, right?”

Abu Ali shuffles in his chair at this question and doesn’t answer.

“They are under the protection of our marines. Why did you move them there?”

“Because it is safe.”

“So isn’t there a way for us to work together to make Iraq safer?” I say.

Abu Ali answers me with silence and a stare.

“Abu Ali, think about your son. What will happen to him in this Iraq?”

Implacable silence greets my question, but Abu Ali’s blue eyes burn with hatred.

We’ve hit a nerve. I press it harder.

“Look at all the violence going on. Your neighborhood has been ruined. Your life has been ruined. Is that what you want for your son?”

He mumbles something then sinks within himself again. He looks even smaller, even more emaciated than the day before. Hadir shrugs and says, “I did not understand what he said.”

“Look, Abu Ali, we Americans made plenty of mistakes. We didn’t realize that the Shia would form militias and take over neighborhoods. We didn’t know they would assassinate Sunni.”

His cold blue eyes spear me. At least I have his attention.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together to fix it now.”

Silence.

“Who else will help you? The Syrians? The Saudis? The Jordanians? None of them are going to come to your rescue.”

More silence.

“We want to help.”

“You caused this!” he barks.

Good, we’ve got him emotional. Now I’ll hit him hard with a Love of Family approach.

“But you’ve got nobody else. Who else is going to help? Al Qaida?”

“Al Qaida cannot help us.”

The words seem to slip out inadvertently, and Abu Ali looks surprised at the admission.

“What about the suicide bombings? Is that what you want for Iraq? More violence?”

He stammers. Hadir watches him intently. Abu Ali finally bursts out, “It was the only weapon we had.” Hadir mirrors his vocal inflections. He sounds desperate to believe his own words.

Bobby jumps in and goes for the throat, “Abu Ali, do you want your son to grow up in this cycle of violence? Do you want him living in an Iraq where he can’t even go to the market without getting blown up?”

Defiance flares in him. “I would be happy to see my son die. He would die a martyr.”

Bobby and I both sense he doesn’t mean it.

“Come on, Abu Ali. Your only son. You would give your only son to this insanity?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit!” Bobby yells. “That’s fucking bullshit and you know it!”

Bobby is throwing his last ace. And then Abu Ali’s head drops ever so slightly.

“I just want things back the way they were,” he says in a gentle voice.

We’ve gotten to him.

“Your son doesn’t have to die,” Bobby says.

Abu Ali rubs at the water in his eyes. He struggles to maintain his composure and squirms in his chair.

“I want my son to live in peace.”

“Well he won’t. He’ll live in this violence, in this hell, unless you do something about it.”

A long silence fills the interrogation booth. We wait him out. The tears slow.

“There are two farmhouses south of Abu Ghraib in Yusufiyah.”

Bobby leaps at this. “What are they used for?”

“They rotate through them. They are used for blessing suicide bombers.”

“Will you show us where they are?”

Abu Ali looks at Bobby and then looks at me and then back at Bobby.

“Yes.”

Bobby reaches for the laptop on the table between us. It’s loaded with digital satellite maps of Iraq that display on the flat-screen TV on the wall. Bobby scrolls through the maps and follows the route from Baghdad onto the main western highway toward Abu Ghraib. Abu Ali recognizes a bridge on the highway and slowly he works his way south on the map and locates the first farmhouse. It’s a lone house in the middle of farmland. The closest neighbor is a mile away. When we mark the location, Abu Ali says, “This place is
sometimes used for meetings. Suicide bombers gather there as well.”

“Meetings between whom?” Bobby asks.

“I don’t know.”

He’s not willing to go that far yet.

Then Abu Ali asks Bobby to return the map to Abu Ghraib. From there he tracks north on a minor road and then down a dirt path to another farmhouse.

“That one,” Abu Ali says.

“What’s this one used for?” Bobby asks.

“Sometimes they store weapons there.”

“Thank you Abu Ali. You have helped us and you have helped Iraq.”

“I did not do it for you. I did it for my son.”

“My friend,” Bobby says, “tell us who you and Zaydan work for and we can help you get back to your son. You can get back to taking care of your family.”

That’s too much. Abu Ali shakes his head. His eyes go icy again.

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Cannot or will not?” Bobby demands.

“I want my son to live.”

“We can protect you and your family.”

Silence. This time, it endures. We get nothing further from Abu Ali. He shuts down, resolved to his fate, and we send him back to his cell.

Afterwards, we huddle with Cliff back at the ’gator pit. We show the analyst the locations Abu Ali gave us of the safe houses. We mention that he said meetings are sometimes held at the first and weapons at the second.
“This one farmhouse looks familiar,” Cliff says. He turns to Bobby.

“Isn’t this the one that you got from a previous detainee? The police source?”

“I think so,” Bobby replies.

“Well, this is good stuff, gentlemen,” Cliff says with a smile. “We’ll pass this on to the SF guys and see what they can find.”

We return to our desks and get back to work. In a few hours, we’re scheduled to interrogate Zaydan one final time before he goes to Abu Ghraib. If we don’t get anything from him today, he’ll take his secrets to the grave.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I reach the ’gator pit by 10:30. I find doc Brady standing next to his desk looking thoroughly outraged over Bobby’s latest prank. A piece-of-shit rinky-dink metal chair is handcuffed to his desk. This is Iraq and we work in a prison. Everyone carries handcuff keys. I try not to laugh at his predicament as I slide into my own chair, which is so beat up that nobody wants to monkey with it.

The whiteboard has a new Randyism for the day. It reads, “Jesus can walk on water, but Randy can swim through land.”

The Doc goes off on his morning chair search. As soon as he disappears, Bobby arrives, Cliff in tow. Somebody flicks on the flat-screen TV at the front of the ’gator pit and tunes it to CNN and a breaking report from Yusufiyah. A suicide
car bomber just tried to run a checkpoint manned by marines. He detonated in a crowd, killing and wounding dozens of Iraqi civilians. There are no reports of marine deaths.

“Fucking Muj,” Bobby says through clenched teeth.

Muj, like mooch with a “j,” is short for mujahideen. Muj are the new Charlies.

“Foreign fighter, probably,” Cliff notes.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“Since I’ve been here, I have yet to see a single Iraqi suicide bomber. They’re all foreign volunteers. Young males, eighteen to twenty-five. Some of the unsuccessful ones come through here.”

As we’re glued to CNN, Randy walks up to us. “Bobby, last day on Zaydan. He talks or walks.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

“Shit-hot job yesterday. We put surveillance assets on those safe houses Abu Ali gave us. The first one was empty, but they’ll keep checking it from time to time. The second one the guys are planning to hit tonight.”

The live report from Yusufiyah grabs our attention again. Randy stands next to us, arms crossed, staring at the carnage. After a minute he swears lightly, then checks his watch. “Time for the morning meeting,” he calls to us as he heads to the conference room.

We’re assigned to interrogate Zaydan today, along with a couple of detainees low on the totem pole. Bobby decides the time is right for a Prisoner’s Dilemma approach.

Early that afternoon, we sit down with Zaydan. Hadir serves as our ’terp again. Bobby starts by saying how much we want to help him, then, weaving in the Prisoner’s Dilemma, mentions that Abu Ali has given us information.

Zaydan is cordial, but he doesn’t buy it. He offers us nothing.

During a lull, Bobby tries to lighten the mood. “Hey Matthew,” he asks, “Zaydan told me a great joke. Wanna hear it?”

Hadir translates this. Our big detainee chuckles.

“Sure,” I play along.

Bobby turns to Zaydan and says, “Correct me if I get this wrong, okay?”

“Certainly.”

Bobby starts in. “Did ya hear the one about the al Dulaimi who went to the soccer game?”

An al Dulaimi is a member of the largest tribe in Iraq. There are at least six million al Dulaimis in country.

“No, haven’t heard that one.”

Bobby grins and looks over at Zaydan, who wears a Cheshire-cat smile.

“Well, he goes home and runs into his cousin, right?”

Hadir translates. Zaydan nods.

“Okay, so he says to his cousin, he says ‘Hey! I just got back from the soccer game, and boy was it exciting! Guess who won?’”

Zaydan can’t contain himself. He starts giggling. He brings his hands up to his mouth to cover his laughter, and I notice he has chubby fingers.

“So the cousin shakes his head and says, ‘I already know!’”

Both Bobby and Zaydan start howling. Even Hadir cracks up. I alone sit unmoved.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you get it? Hadir does and he’s a Kurd,” Bobby says.

“Yeah. I get it. The al Dulaimi are gossipers. News travels fast. That sort of thing, right?”

“Yeah. There’s a lot of those al Dulaimi motherfuckers.”

“I guess it’s sort of an Iraqi inside joke.” I make an effort to grin. Zaydan’s still belly-laughing. He looks like an Arab jolly ol’ St. Nick, only with an
I recruit killers for Al Qaida
sort of dark side.

“You can’t throw a rock in Iraq and not hit an al Dulaimi,” Hadir opines.

It takes a minute to restore decorum in the interrogation booth. Bobby sips some water. Zaydan plays with his chubby fingers. Hadir polishes off his second Coke of the session. I sit next to the lone desk in the room, pen in hand waiting for us to continue.

Finally, Bobby nukes the jovial atmosphere. “Zaydan, you are going to be leaving us soon. I wish I could help you, but you’ve got to give us something. Anything. Please, we like you.”

Zaydan frowns and shakes his head curtly.

“I cannot give you what you want.”

Bobby suddenly erupts. “Damn’it! I’m trying to save you! Help me help you!” He emphasizes the last words with a palm-slap to his notebook. Zaydan looks surprised. He sits up in his chair, his eyebrows arch, and he crosses his arms. Bobby stares at him. Zaydan says nothing. He averts his gaze.

“Fuckin’ A, man! Give me something!”

“I can’t.”

Bobby lets out an exasperated “Fuck it!” and gets to his feet.

What’s going on? Bobby, what are you doing?

Bobby hovers over our detainee and gazes at him. Zaydan freezes, unsure of what’s happening.

Bobby pivots and walks out the door without another word. Hadir and I exchange quizzical glances. We’re left in awkward silence.

What am I going do now? Should I leave and follow Bobby? No. Stay here. Engage Zaydan. Build rapport.

What do I say after this? I’m not sure. My mind races.

Start with the basics. Start on his turf.

“So, uh, Zaydan?”

“Yes?” Zaydan sounds rattled.

“How long have you been an imam?”

“For about fifteen years.”

Keep going. He liked that question.

“Have you memorized the Koran?”

“Not all of it, but most.”

“I’m reading the Koran now,” I tell him. This piques his interest.

“Really?”

“Yes, I’m surprised to find that some of the stories in the Bible are also in the Koran.”

“Yes, that’s true, but they are a little different.”

We start talking about the Angel Gabriel and how he came to Mary. According to Zaydan, the immaculate conception is made after Mary goes into the desert and drinks from a stream that appears at her feet to quench her thirst and then eats a fig from a tree.

I marvel at this. “Wow. That’s different from what I learned in the Bible. But you know, it is amazing that you’re a Muslim and I’m a Christian, yet we believe in the same story.”

Actually, I’m not a Christian. I’m part humanist and part Buddhist. But in the booth, I become whatever and whoever can build rapport with the detainee.

“We are people of the same book,” I say. “We’re both believers.”

Zaydan loves this discussion.

“Are you interested in learning more about Islam?” he asks.

Before I can answer the door slams open. Bobby storms inside, a portable phone to his ear. “Zaydan!” he starts, but he’s out of breath. He gasps for air.

“Yes?” Zaydan’s face is puzzled.

“There was a bomb, a bomb at the compound this morning.”

The news stuns our detainee. “What?”

“The compound where your family lives! The one our marines are fucking guarding! A suicide car bomber rammed the damn checkpoint! There are bodies fucking everywhere! I just saw it on CNN.”

It was Zaydan’s compound that we saw. He’d said the marines guard it.

As Hadir translates the words in a raised voice, I realize I’m on the edge of my chair.

“Look, I’ve got the marine commander on the phone. I want him to send some soldiers to check on your family. What number is your apartment?”

Zaydan looks panicked. His eyes bulge. His face flushes bright crimson. “Uh, um…”

“Hurry up!” Bobby yells.

“My apartment number?”

“Yes. Hurry up! The colonel is waiting!”

Bobby’s urgency prompts Zaydan to say, “Building five, number one hundred and four.”

Bobby repeats it. Zaydan nods.

“Okay, sir, you there? I’ve got the address. It’s building five, number one zero four. Did you get that?” Bobby ducks a bit and blocks his other ear.

“Sir, I can’t hear you.”

Zaydan looks apoplectic.

“Sir, you there?” Bobby mutters to himself. “Shit, I think I lost him.”

Hadir translates that quietly. Zaydan emits a low moan, his hands come up to the sides of his head, and he mutters something to Allah.

“Yes, sir! That’s right. Building five, one zero four! Right. Okay. Call us back when you know something. Thank you, sir.” He lowers the phone slightly and says, “Zaydan, they’re sending people to check right now.”

The tension in the room is so thick that Bobby seems to swim through it as he paces back and forth.

“Zaydan. I pray everyone is safe.” My words sound stilted.

Bobby blurts, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to check on something.” He vanishes through the doorway, leaving me, Hadir, and Zaydan to stare after him.

Zaydan crumbles under the weight of the unknown. His face falls into his beefy hands and he mumbles a prayer. His voice cracks. Is he crying? I can’t tell. As the wait continues, he slaps his forehead repeatedly. This is an Arabic sign of extreme duress and angst.

Hadir and I share another glance. We’re both wide-eyed
and stunned. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection this morning. I wonder what triggered it for Bobby.

Zaydan rocks back and forth in his chair, still slapping himself, and mumbling.

“Allah,” is all I can make out of his words.

The minutes pass. Were I in his shoes, I don’t know how long I could take the suspense.

What can I say to this man?

I say nothing. I know Zaydan is picturing his wife amongst the dead and maimed; his girl, broken and bloodied by the debris thrown as shrapnel by the exploding car. Those are mental images no father, no husband ever hopes to endure, especially one who has played a role in this sort of carnage. Does he feel guilty?

Bobby returns ten minutes later. He appears in the door and presses the phone to his ear. “What Sir! I’m still here. What’s that? Say again?”

Zaydan stops rocking. Now he’s as still as a corpse, focused on Bobby. In seconds he goes from cherubic to ghostly.

Bobby clicks off the phone and pockets it. He pins his eyes on Zaydan.

“Is my family alive?” he pleads.

Hadir struggles to repeat the words, but finally he says, “He wants to know if his family is alive.”

“Yes. Your wife answered the door,” Bobby replies. Zaydan’s shoulders sag. Relief washes over him.

“Your wife said everyone is okay. The bomb did not hurt your family. They were inside the apartment when it exploded. They’re scared, but okay.”

“Allah be praised! Allah be praised!” Zaydan bursts out.

Bobby sits down in front of Zaydan, “They’re okay my friend.”

“Thank you. Thank you for doing this for me, my friend.”

“No problem. We’re here to do whatever we can for you.”

Zaydan isn’t finished. He grows effusive, “I am so thankful for what you have done. Bless you.”

“Zaydan, there are a lot of dead Sunnis at the checkpoint. They are your neighbors. The marines who protect your family—some of them are also dead.”

“God’s will.”

“No,” Bobby lowers his voice and softens it. “Next time it could be your wife or your daughter. Help us end this violence. Give us something.”

Zaydan lets out a long sigh.

“We’re not here to harm Iraqis,” Bobby continues. “You know that. We want to find the foreigners who have come here and caused all this violence.”

Zaydan doesn’t react, but I can tell he’s hanging on Bobby’s words.

“Look, Abu Ali told us about a farmhouse. One used by suicide bombers.”

“Show me the house.” Zaydan says.

Maybe he’s going to play.

Bobby turns to the laptop and brings up the satellite maps on the flat-screen TV. He walks Zaydan down the highway from Baghdad to Abu Ghraib and then over the bridge and south into Yusufiyah, but stops short of the farmhouse that Abu Ali gave us.

“Keep going south,” Zaydan says.

Bobby scrolls the map to the south. We all watch the thin trail of orange dirt below the cursor as the map continues to move.

“There,” Zaydan says. “That house next to the road.”

It is the same one Abu Ali noted. Either that place is significant, or they’ve all been told to give that house up should they be captured.

“What is this house?” Bobby asks.

“They have meetings there,” Zaydan says.

Bobby decides to press. “Zaydan, this is extremely helpful. Thank you.”

“I am grateful to you, my friend. My family is everything.”

“Then help us keep them safe. Give us the name of your boss.”

Zaydan shakes his head firmly. “I cannot. If I were to do that…” He falters.

Hadir waits for him to finish. When he doesn’t, he shrugs at Bobby.

“Zaydan? We’ve offered you an olive branch of friendship here.”

“I know. I cannot tell you more.”

I don’t think he’s loyal to Al Qaida. He’s afraid of whomever he works for, and we won’t be able to quell that fear.

Bobby senses this, too. “Okay, Zaydan. Just know that we’ll always reach out to you, buddy, no matter what you do.”

“Thank you, my friend, thank you.”

We end the interrogation. Zaydan goes back to his holding cell. He’ll be transferred to Abu Ghraib tonight. He’ll eventually be tried in court and, because of his role in aiding
suicide bombings, he’ll get the death sentence and hang. If he’s really lucky, he’ll only get life in one of Iraq’s Shia-run prisons, which is the same as death.

As Bobby and I walk back to the ’gator pit, I ask, “That’s amazing that you realized the bomber hit Zaydan’s compound.”

“Yeah, it struck me after I left.”

“How’d you get the marine commander on the phone so quickly?”

Bobby stops in mid-stride. He turns to me with a wicked half-smile and says, “I didn’t.”

I’m confused. “What do you mean?”

“There was no one on the other end of the line. Fucking phone doesn’t even work.”