The Faithful Spy (23 page)

A pile of clothes lay on the floor, a loose shirt and sweatpants with an elastic waistband. He awkwardly pulled on the pants and shirt, and his spirits brightened. They had realized there was no use hurting him. He had survived their test. So he hoped.

He shivered as a cough shook his body. He sat on the cot and tried to think. He felt tired and hungry, slightly feverish. But otherwise okay. They wanted to scare him, these Americans. But he wouldn’t give in. He waited a few more minutes. Then, feeling as though he had no choice, he stood up and tugged at the door. To his shock, it opened.

FAROUK HAD KEPT
them waiting. Which fit his profile, Saul thought. They could see him on the monitors as he sat on the cot scratching his head. He was rattled and getting sick, and the oximeter and pulse monitors showed that he had reacted badly to his time in the hole, although he had slowly brought himself under control. Saul was not surprised. Farouk was a scientist, not a killer like Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. The hole was deeply disconcerting to anyone who wasn’t flat-out psychotic.

But Saul had learned not to underestimate these guys. They were highly motivated. Their faith gave them extra strength. They never broke all at once, not the important ones. They gave up a little, and then they started lying again. Getting everything took time.

Saul was the lead interrogator in Task Force 121, a Delta Force major with a doctorate in psychiatry from Duke. He pushed the limits of the White Book, he knew. Even some other interrogators worried that his methods crossed into…the T-word…a word that he didn’t even like to think to himself. Sometimes, after a particularly draining session, Saul worried too. He didn’t want to look in the mirror one day and see Josef Mengele. He wondered what his parents or his wife would think if they saw what he was doing on CNN.

But Saul had never killed any of his prisoners, or hurt one in a way that wouldn’t heal. He pushed the limits, but if he wasn’t clear on whether a procedure was permitted, he asked Colonel Yates, a military lawyer permanently attached to 121. The questions were never written down; the colonel didn’t want to end up on CNN either. Still, Yates’s mere presence checked the worst impulses of the interrogators. And they closely monitored the prisoners’ health, if only to make sure their techniques were working. The interrogators in 121 had interrogated close to one hundred prisoners, and only one had died, of a huge heart attack that probably would have hit him in any case.

The TF 121 interrogators had other restrictions. They never worked alone, and they took two-month breaks twice a year. Once a year they were interviewed by army psychiatrists and took a long personality test. The rules were supposed to prevent them from developing God complexes—a real risk, Saul knew. Having this much power over another human being, not just the power to kill but the power to hurt, could be intoxicating. Look at the other side, cutting throats on camera. Nothing could be more repulsive. Yet Saul understood the impulse, the sick thrill of making another human being cringe and beg for his life…or beg for death because the pain was too much.

Yes, he was on a slippery slope, and he knew it. But he slipped only far enough to get the information he needed. Saul rarely had moral qualms about his job. In his office he kept a paperweight engraved with a quotation from George Orwell: “People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.” He had broken Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. He had disrupted at least three attacks, saved hundreds of civilians. He didn’t know their names, and they would never know his, but they were still real.

And the men he questioned, the Farouks of the world? They weren’t innocent. They weren’t Iraqi farmers caught in dragnets and taken to Abu Ghraib. They were terrorists, real ones, who knew the risks they had chosen to take. Saul had nothing but contempt for the Amnesty International types who whined that any coercive tactic was unfair. If those weaklings believed that men like Farouk would give up their secrets over tea and crumpets, they were even more naive than he thought.

The real problem was that the tactics that TF 121 had pioneered had spread much too widely, Saul thought. Coercion should be used only when necessary—under close supervision, and on prisoners who could reasonably be expected to have good information. He didn’t understand why twenty-two-year-old corporals from West Virginia who’d never learned basic interrogation techniques were beating up detainees at Abu Ghraib and Guantánamo and Bagram in Afghanistan. Not that anyone at the Pentagon had asked his opinion.

As for the argument that his methods shouldn’t be used because they didn’t work, Saul could only laugh. Of course they worked. They worked too well, in fact, which was why they couldn’t be used in police investigations. After a few weeks with him, most people would admit to anything, even crimes they hadn’t committed, simply to get out. Those forced confessions were almost worthless, because even the questioner couldn’t tell if they were true.

But Saul wasn’t trying to solve crimes. He was trying to stop them. He wanted information about attacks that hadn’t happened yet. The location of hidden bombs. The structure of terrorist cells. The real names and addresses of operatives. Concrete, verifiable information. He didn’t care how often he was lied to, as long as he got the truth at the end. Lies only drew out the pain. Eventually every detainee understood that, and when they did, they gave him what he wanted.

FAROUK WALKED OUT
of his cell and into a larger room that had a table at its center.

Two big men walked into the room. “Sit,” one said in English. Farouk saw no reason to pretend that he didn’t understand. He sat. One man stood behind him, while the other manacled his legs to the chair. Then they brought out a plate of bread, a bowl of hummus, and a glass of orange juice.

Saliva filled Farouk’s mouth. He could never remember being so hungry, not even as a boy when his mother had to make three kilograms of flour last a week. He wondered if the food was safe. One of the men dipped a piece of bread into the hummus and ate. At that Farouk dipped his head toward the table and shoveled food into his mouth with his cuffed hands. The glorious food filled his belly, and he felt a momentary rush of gratitude toward his captors. He stifled the reaction immediately. Don’t thank the
kafirs,
he told himself. That’s what they want.

After he finished, the men cleared away the plates and walked out, leaving Farouk to sit alone. He suddenly felt strangely fatigued. He wanted nothing more than to put his head on the table and sleep, and a few minutes later he did just that.

SNAP! THE LIGHTS
shone brightly as Farouk tried to shake the mustiness from his head. A new man stood over him. Someone else shook him from behind. Why had he fallen asleep? And for how long? The hummus must have been laced with something. He was a fool. He wiped at a line of drool trickling from his mouth.

“Wake up,” the man said. He was tall, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He set a thick folder on the table. Farouk shook himself desperately. He needed to be clearheaded.

The man sat across from Farouk and took a pack of Marlboros from his jacket. “Cigarette?”

“No,” Farouk said, though he badly wanted one.

The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. What’s your name?”

“Hussein. What’s yours?”

“My name doesn’t matter. And I think you’re lying to me. What’s your name?”

“Hussein. Hussein Ali,” Farouk said. “I’m a farmer from Basra. This is all a mistake.”

“You’re not even Iraqi. Don’t insult me.” The nameless man smiled a small cold smile. “For the last time. What’s your name?”

“I told you,” Farouk said as sincerely as he could. “Hussein.”

“Do you want to go back in the hole?”

Not that, Farouk thought. Please not that. He swallowed hard and tried to keep his composure as his interrogator tapped a Marlboro from the pack on the table.

“Do you want to go back in the hole? Yes or no?”

“Of course not,” Farouk said. “But my name is Hussein.” As long as he stayed calm he could outsmart this American.

NOW, SAUL TOLD
himself. Show this bastard who’s in charge. He opened the folder. “Your name is Farouk Khan,” he said. “You were born in Peshawar, Pakistan, in 1954. You attended the University of Delft in the Netherlands as an exchange student. You received a bachelor’s degree in physics, and then an advanced degree. Upon your return to Pakistan, you were hired by the government.”

Farouk had been foolish to carry a Pakistani passport, even one with a fake name, Saul thought. Pakistani intelligence had identified him and revealed his past to Task Force 121, though only in the vaguest terms. The Pakistanis didn’t talk much about their nuclear weapons program, not even to America. But the Pakistani silence didn’t matter. Once the CIA knew Farouk’s real name, the agency dug up enough information for a psychological profile of him. The goal was to make Farouk believe they knew everything about him and that lying would be a waste of time. To their subjects, the best interrogators appeared all-seeing as well as all-powerful.

FAROUK’S HEAD SNAPPED
back as the man read. He had to fight to keep from retching. How could the American know all this?

“My name is Hussein,” he said desperately.

The man with the goatee stopped reading, stood, and slapped Farouk across the face. Farouk yelped, from the shock as much as the pain. To be slapped like a woman was intolerable. Yet Farouk somehow knew he deserved the punishment for lying so foolishly.

“Don’t be stupid. Your name is Farouk Khan. You lost your government job in 2000. Would you like to tell me why?”

Farouk said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” the man said. “I already know.” He stepped back and lit his cigarette. “You are 174 centimeters tall and you weigh 105 kilos.” Five foot eight and 231 pounds. “You have a resting heart rate of approximately ninety beats per minute. Your blood pressure is 170 over 110. You are in poor health, and you have reacted badly to the stress you have faced so far. The minimal stress.”

“Allahu akbar,”
Farouk murmured to himself. His blood seemed to have left his body. He could not control his shivering.

The nameless interrogator took a deep drag on his Marlboro. “Yes, God is great,” he said. “But God has nothing to do with this.” He leaned over Farouk, holding his cigarette close to the prisoner’s face. “Farouk, you’re a smart man. An educated man,” he said. “You know the United States has a prison camp at Guantánamo Bay.” He waited.

“Yes,” Farouk rasped.

“And it is no secret that detainees in Guantánamo are treated well. They receive three meals a day. They pray freely. You may even have heard that they have lawyers, yes?”

“Yes.”

“But you are not going to Guantánamo.”

The nameless man slid the burning end of his cigarette toward Farouk’s eye.

“No.” Farouk shrank back in his chair, blinking furiously, trying to look at anything but the burning ember two inches away.

“I’m glad you agree. No. You are not going to Guantánamo.” The man took a last drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out against the table and flicked it away. “I don’t want to hurt you, Farouk,” he said. “But you need to tell me the truth. And you will. You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”

Farouk found his voice. “There are rules,” he said. “You can’t.”

But even as he said it he knew he was wrong.

“I’ll tell you something I probably shouldn’t,” the American said. “There is one rule. I’m not supposed to kill you. Not on purpose, anyway.”

Then he smiled. The expression on his lips scared Farouk more than anything that had happened yet. This man was a devil, a devil in human form. Please, Farouk almost said. I’ll give you everything. I’ll tell you about Khadri. I’ll tell you about the box I got from Dmitri. I’ll even tell you the biggest secret of all, where that box is now. Just leave me alone. Then Farouk reminded himself that he must not fear. But maybe he could give this man a little. Anything to make that smile disappear.

“Farouk, are you listening?”

Farouk nodded. He hated himself for answering the man but his will seemed to have melted away.

“I’m not supposed to kill you. But I am allowed to make you wish you were dead.”

The American walked out. Even before he closed the door, Farouk felt the hood coming down over his head.

“No,” Farouk said. “Please. Ask me something. I’ll tell you.” His voice became a shout. “I’ll tell you! Please!”

But the room went dark, and Farouk knew that the hole awaited.

THE NEXT FEW
weeks were much the same. As the interrogations continued, Farouk’s experiences in confinement became even more terrifying; he was shot up with adrenaline until his heart raced so fast that he believed it would explode. He was slipped LSD and left to chase his mind around the silent room. When he tried to sleep he was hit and kicked by men he could not see.

Meanwhile, Saul lengthened the stretches that Farouk spent outside of solitary confinement, in order to make the contrast between the hole and the world even sharper. Saul wanted Farouk to learn that Saul could save or destroy him, could turn day to night, white to black.