the wall in front of them.
“Watch this,” Bobby says. He presses a button, and the video rolls.
My camera is looking from above the flat-screen TV down at Abu Ali’s face. For the first twenty seconds, his face is a mask. It shows no emotion at all. Suddenly, he bends over double, as if someone has just kicked him in the stomach. He’s facing the floor, and I can see spatters on the concrete. Tears. He’s sobbing.
Bobby shuts the video off, closes the laptop, and says, “That’s what happens to people who support suicide bombers.” He turns and sees Abu Ali’s condition. “What’s the matter?”
Abu Ali says nothing. He sobs silently. After a minute, he sits back up in his chair. His cheeks are slick with tears; his eyes are haunted and full of loathing. Gone is the mask. The transformation startles Bobby.
“Abu Ali? What is it?”
No response. The two sit in silence. The tears keep pouring down Abu Ali’s face. A minute passes. Then two. I notice Abu Ali isn’t looking at Bobby at all anymore. He sets his gaze on the floor and doesn’t budge it.
“Abu Ali, talk to me,” Bobby says.
Finally, in a broken voice, Abu Ali says, “That was my friend’s house.”
I feel a stab of compassion for him. Bobby seems to as well. We made him watch his own friend’s death—one thathe orchestrated by giving us the safe house’s location in the first place.
Bobby tries to rally. “Abu Ali, you don’t know that your friend was there.”
“He was there.”
“How can you know that?”
“He owns the white car. When it is parked there, he is home.”
He bends over again, clutching his hands to his face. A despairing moan escapes him.
Bobby plays his last card. “This doesn’t have to happen, Abu Ali. If you tell us who you work for and who else is in your network, we can go and pick them up like we did with you and Zaydan. They won’t have to die like this. You can save the rest of them. Work with me.”
Abu Ali sits up straight and wipes the final tears from his eyes.
“Never.”
It is futile. I can see by Abu Ali’s expression that he’s done. Bobby senses it, too, and pleads with him. Abu Ali won’t even look at him. He doesn’t utter another word.
I pull off the headphones and head for the ’gator pit. My stomach churns. We should not have done this to Abu Ali, but Bobby didn’t know the significance of the video. Abu Ali is doomed, and now, in the days before he hangs, he will live with the knowledge that he betrayed his friend.
I have to remind myself that he is the enemy. He blessed suicide bombers, men who kill women and children in crowded markets in order to further engulf Iraq in this chaos and violence. Yet I cannot help but feel sorry for him. His life is over, ruined by the decisions he’s made ever since theBadr Corps came knocking at his door. And although I don’t sympathize with his tactics, I can understand his desire to defend himself and his family.
Bobby and I meet by our desks.
“Oh my God,” he says as he sees me. “Did you see that?”
“Yeah. Sometimes when you roll the dice, you lose big.”
“I feel like shit.”
“No, don’t worry about it. Who would have thought he would give up a house that his friend still lived in?”
Bobby agrees with me, but I see in his face that he’s hit the wall.
“You need to get some sleep.”
He nods absently. “He shut down. He won’t give anyone anything else.”
“Well,” I say, “at least we still have the other house.”
PART II
COMING INTO FOCUS
Limitations on the use of methods identified herein as expressly prohibited should not be confused with psychological ploys, verbal trickery, or other nonviolent or noncoercive ruses used by the interrogator in the successful interrogation of hesitant or uncooperative sources.
—A RMY M ANUAL F IELD M ANUAL 34–52,
I NTELLIGENCE I NTERROGATION
Seven
FRACTURES
EARLY APRIL, 2006
F OR THE PAST two weeks we’ve spun our wheels. What little intel
“Watch this,” Bobby says. He presses a button, and the video rolls.
My camera is looking from above the flat-screen TV down at Abu Ali’s face. For the first twenty seconds, his face is a mask. It shows no emotion at all. Suddenly, he bends over double, as if someone has just kicked him in the stomach. He’s facing the floor, and I can see spatters on the concrete. Tears. He’s sobbing.
Bobby shuts the video off, closes the laptop, and says, “That’s what happens to people who support suicide bombers.” He turns and sees Abu Ali’s condition. “What’s the matter?”
Abu Ali says nothing. He sobs silently. After a minute, he sits back up in his chair. His cheeks are slick with tears; his eyes are haunted and full of loathing. Gone is the mask. The transformation startles Bobby.
“Abu Ali? What is it?”
No response. The two sit in silence. The tears keep pouring down Abu Ali’s face. A minute passes. Then two. I notice Abu Ali isn’t looking at Bobby at all anymore. He sets his gaze on the floor and doesn’t budge it.
“Abu Ali, talk to me,” Bobby says.
Finally, in a broken voice, Abu Ali says, “That was my friend’s house.”
I feel a stab of compassion for him. Bobby seems to as well. We made him watch his own friend’s death—one thathe orchestrated by giving us the safe house’s location in the first place.
Bobby tries to rally. “Abu Ali, you don’t know that your friend was there.”
“He was there.”
“How can you know that?”
“He owns the white car. When it is parked there, he is home.”
He bends over again, clutching his hands to his face. A despairing moan escapes him.
Bobby plays his last card. “This doesn’t have to happen, Abu Ali. If you tell us who you work for and who else is in your network, we can go and pick them up like we did with you and Zaydan. They won’t have to die like this. You can save the rest of them. Work with me.”
Abu Ali sits up straight and wipes the final tears from his eyes.
“Never.”
It is futile. I can see by Abu Ali’s expression that he’s done. Bobby senses it, too, and pleads with him. Abu Ali won’t even look at him. He doesn’t utter another word.
I pull off the headphones and head for the ’gator pit. My stomach churns. We should not have done this to Abu Ali, but Bobby didn’t know the significance of the video. Abu Ali is doomed, and now, in the days before he hangs, he will live with the knowledge that he betrayed his friend.
I have to remind myself that he is the enemy. He blessed suicide bombers, men who kill women and children in crowded markets in order to further engulf Iraq in this chaos and violence. Yet I cannot help but feel sorry for him. His life is over, ruined by the decisions he’s made ever since theBadr Corps came knocking at his door. And although I don’t sympathize with his tactics, I can understand his desire to defend himself and his family.
Bobby and I meet by our desks.
“Oh my God,” he says as he sees me. “Did you see that?”
“Yeah. Sometimes when you roll the dice, you lose big.”
“I feel like shit.”
“No, don’t worry about it. Who would have thought he would give up a house that his friend still lived in?”
Bobby agrees with me, but I see in his face that he’s hit the wall.
“You need to get some sleep.”
He nods absently. “He shut down. He won’t give anyone anything else.”
“Well,” I say, “at least we still have the other house.”
PART II
COMING INTO FOCUS
Limitations on the use of methods identified herein as expressly prohibited should not be confused with psychological ploys, verbal trickery, or other nonviolent or noncoercive ruses used by the interrogator in the successful interrogation of hesitant or uncooperative sources.
—A RMY M ANUAL F IELD M ANUAL 34–52,
I NTELLIGENCE I NTERROGATION
Seven
FRACTURES
EARLY APRIL, 2006
F OR THE PAST two weeks we’ve spun our wheels. What little intel
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