Kennedy shot him a concerned look.
Rob Ridley, the deputy director of the Clandestine Service, saw the alarm on her face and said, “It’s not that.” Ridley knew she was thinking an evacuation had been ordered. Since 9/11 it was not uncommon for high-ranking government officials to be taken out of the city at the first whisper of trouble. In recent years it had slowed down, but that was now balanced against fresh intel that pointed to something big. “That thing…it just started.”
“What thing?”
Ridley’s eyes darted around the room. “The thing over in Afghanistan.”
“Oh, that thing.”
“Yeah, that thing. I don’t think you want to have a conversation about it in this building.”
Kennedy looked around the Department of Justice conference room while she thought of Rapp and Nash. She checked her watch. The time would be about right. She knew what they were up to. She’d signed off on it herself. She motioned for Ridley to lead the way and politely ignored several of the other attendees who wanted to have a word with her.
As they reached the elevators her thoughts returned to a feeling that had been nagging her. Someone at Langley was leaking highly classified information. Accusations were appearing in the press that were far too close to the truth. The Intelligence Committees were becoming increasingly antagonistic, and now she had to deal with this hungry deputy attorney general who was trying to make a name for himself. A sense of foreboding crept over her, like a looming storm on a humid summer day.
CHAPTER 9
BAGRAM AIR BASE, AFGHANISTAN
RAPP sat on the edge of the metal table, looked down at the bound terrorist, and asked, “Is it seventy-two or seventy-seven?”
Abu Haggani lifted his head cautiously and stared at Rapp, confusion in his eyes.
“Virgins,” Rapp said. “Seventy-two or seventy-seven. How many do you guys get when you go to paradise?”
Haggani muttered something under his breath and looked away.
“I’m not giving you crap,” Rapp persisted. “I’ve read the Koran several times and that’s one of those facts I can never keep straight.
Not that it matters much. I mean what’s the difference…seventy-two versus seventy-seven? It seems a little like overkill, don’t you think?”
Rapp paused to see if Haggani would respond. He didn’t, so Rapp pressed on. “Have you ever read the Koran, Abu?”
Haggani fixed Rapp with a hard stare and in Dari said, “I know what you are trying to do.”
“What’s that?”
“You are trying to provoke me. We know about your methods. We have undergone training to defeat your tricks.”
Rapp knew it was true. Most of their once secret interrogation programs had been blown wide open. Many of their methods had been dissected by politicians and the press alike. Terrorists had been released and had run back to Afghanistan and other parts, where they were thoroughly debriefed by the very organizations they denied belonging to. The whole mess drove Rapp insane, but there was only so much he could control.
Rapp clenched his left fist and then flexed his fingers. “Abu, I am not trying to provoke you…at least not yet. I’m not one of the talkers. I don’t have the patience they do…like my friend who was in here earlier. He’s next door talking to Mohammad, and we both know how that is going to play out. Mohammad is going to sell you and the rest of your friends down the river. You will eventually, as well, but it will take more time, and of course it will be significantly more uncomfortable.”
“You will never break me,” Haggani said with pride.
Rapp let out a long sigh. He’d seen this kind of bravado before. Once things got physical, it wouldn’t last long. “Abu, torturing guys and breaking them down is not something I look forward to, although your case is a little different. I think you’re such a despicable fuck that I might actually enjoy our little session.”
“You do not scare me.”
“Well, I should.” Rapp laughed. “I scare myself sometimes. You see…I’m not like the guys you’ve been talking to this week. I have a real conviction about this little war we’re fighting and I’m pretty intolerant of people who don’t have the stomach to do what it takes to win this thing. Add to that the fact that I pretty much don’t give a shit what people in Washington think of me and it makes me your biggest nightmare.”
Haggani shook his head and snorted. “Empty threats.”
Rapp reached out and put a hand on a galvanized metal box sitting on the other side of the table. Something inside stirred. The box shook and there was a scraping noise. “I’ve only used what’s in this box one other time, and let’s just say the guy I used it on was a hell of a lot tougher than you. He lasted less than thirty seconds.” Rapp was lying. He’d never used this particular method, but there was no sense in telling Haggani.
The terrorist looked anxiously at the box and, with a false bravado, said, “I have rights. You are not allowed to treat me like this.”
Rapp saw an opening. Maybe Haggani wasn’t as tough as they thought. Rapp thought of Nash, the way he would draw prisoners into a debate. How he would press them with logic, use the words of the Koran to undermine their weak arguments. Nash’s strategy was straightforward: get them talking. It didn’t matter what they talked about, it just mattered that you established a pattern. Gave yourself a chance to watch the subject, study his habits, and learn as much about him as possible. The tough questions would come later. Rapp had none of Nash’s patience, however. But still there was a part of him that was intrigued by Haggani’s request for proper treatment. He thought of one of Nash’s favorite questions, looked at the terrorist and asked, “Abu, do you think I should show you compassion? That I should respect your rights as a human?”
“Yes,” he answered with absolute sincerity.
“And how would you treat me if I had been captured on the battlefield and brought to one of your caves?”
Haggani ignored the question. “Your senators who I met with promised me that I would be treated with dignity. They gave me their word.”
“They are politicians. They say what makes them feel good and then they move on.”
Haggani shook his head in firm disagreement. “We have access to the Internet. To satellites. We have followed the debate in your country over the treatment of prisoners. Those senators meant what they said to me.”
“You go ahead and believe that, Abu, but I have no intention of treating you with dignity. You think of yourself as a holy warrior, but you are nothing more than a butcher. A mass murderer.”
“You know nothing of my ways.”
“Is that so? Let’s talk about the schools.”
“What schools?”
“The ones you blew up. The ones filled with little children.” Rapp expected one of several reactions from Haggani, but not the one he got.
Haggani smiled proudly. “We know how to sacrifice. We are not afraid to martyr ourselves for Allah.”
The anger came quickly. It started to rise up and Rapp stuffed it back down. Said, “You haven’t martyred yourself, tough guy, and I doubt you gave those kids a choice in the matter.”
He held his chin high and said, “I am not afraid.”
“You’re not afraid to send little kids to their death. That makes you a coward and a butcher, and if you had read the Koran you would know that.”
“What do you know of the Koran?” Haggani roared back.
Rapp grinned. “Apparently more than you…since I’ve actually read it.”
“I have it memorized.”
“Bullshit. You know as well as I do that you were taught the suras by some twisted Wahhabi cleric who told you only what he wanted you to know. Kill all the Jews. Kill the infidels. Cover your wives and daughters. Beat them if they disrespect you. The West is evil. We are just and good, blah…blah…fucking blah. I am so sick of the hate you pieces of shit teach each other and your children.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know All
ah,” Rapp screamed, “is going to send your ass to hell for killing His children!”
“You have no right being in my country. You are infidels and Allah will punish you and your nation for this war.”
“You ever think maybe it’s the other way around?” Rapp brought his face within inches of Haggani’s. “That God is punishing your nation for how you have twisted and misused the words of the prophet? America hasn’t been at war. We’ve suffered the one attack. Your nation has been at war for almost forty years. Over a million people have died. Allah is mad as hell with you sick fucks. He’s been punishing you and he’s going to keep punishing you.”
Haggani unleashed a gob of spit, hitting Rapp square in the face.
Rapp didn’t bother to wipe away the spit. He didn’t bother to grab the stun gun. His head reared back and then snapped forward; the hardest part of his forehead striking Haggani on the soft bridge of the nose. It was like a hammer hitting a banana. Haggani’s nose flattened and blood began oozing from his nostrils.
Rapp stood and circled the prisoner. He looked at the blood and the misshapen nose. He knew Nash would flip, but he didn’t care. He was sick of all the bullshit. “You’re not getting any virgins,” Rapp barked at Haggani. He thought of Nash’s words; how he used their religion to dismantle their twisted ways. “Djinn,” Rapp uttered, the one word that seemed to drive the ones like Haggani nuts. “You are a Djinn, and you don’t even know it. You know the Koran forbids suicide and yet you have convinced dozens and dozens of Allah’s children to throw their lives away. You have killed thousands of Allah’s followers. The seventh sura, Abu, do you remember?” Rapp switched to Arabic and began reciting the verse from the Koran, “Many, moreover, of the Djinn and men we have created for hell. Hearts have they with which they understand not, and eyes with which they see not, and ears have they with which they hearken not. They are like brutes: Yea, they go more astray: these are the heedless.”
Rapp switched back to Dari. “That is you, Abu. You believed those twisted Wahhabi clerics, and now you will have to answer to Allah. Before the sun rises I am going to kill you.” Rapp paused, grabbed Haggani by the chin, and forced him to look him in the eye. “That’s right, I am going to kill you, and unless you repent you’re getting on an express elevator to hell.”
CHAPTER 10
NASH entered the interrogation room and set a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter on the table. The cigarettes had started out as a device; something for him to do during the long pauses that inevitably punctuated the interrogation sessions. Many of the prisoners eventually partook, and it helped build a sense of fellowship that Nash was more than happy to exploit. Unfortunately, it was now much more than a device. After six years, he was using them on a daily basis, sneaking one or two, here and there. His wife had caught on and wasn’t happy—both for his health and for the message it might send their teenage daughter should she find out. He tried his best to limit his smoking to these overseas jaunts, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate his job from his personal life. The stress, he had to admit, was getting to him.
Nash picked up the pack and offered a cigarette to al-Haq. The Afghani took one eagerly. Nash held the flame a foot in front of the terrorist. Al-Haq hesitated and then leaned forward. Little things mattered in these sessions. Getting a man to take a cigarette was good but getting him to lean across the table and meet you halfway was even better. Nash lit his own cigarette, sat back, crossed his legs, and exhaled a big cloud of smoke.
“I would like to make a deal,” al-Haq said in a businesslike tone.
Nash hid his surprise—studied him for a few seconds. Thought to himself, This one is different. In all the time I’ve been doing this, not one of them has started the conversation, much less announced that they were ready to deal. “Let’s hear it.”
“I have information…very valuable information that I think your government would be willing to pay for.”
“Pay for?” Nash said in a voice that lacked any emotion even though he was fighting to suppress his excitement.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think they would be willing to pay for it?”
“I think considering the political climate in your country it would be much easier to make a business deal with me.”
They study us more than we think, Nash thought. Al-Haq was right about the leaders in Washington, but Nash wasn’t willing to admit it. At least not yet. Instead he said, “Why would I give you cash when I can have General Dostum squeeze the information out of you?”
Al-Haq took a pull off his cigarette and answered, “For many reasons, but most importantly, the information I have for you is very time-sensitive. If I am forced to endure the humiliation and pain that will no doubt be employed by the general, I am likely to be less than forthright. Eventually, you will get most of what you want, but it might be too late.”
“And why should I believe you?” Nash watched as al-Haq considered the question. He got the sense that the man was contemplating how much he should divulge.
“You picked up a cell in Mauretania seven weeks ago.”
Nash’s face gave away nothing. They had in fact intercepted an al-Qaeda cell in Mauretania with the help of the French. It had been kept very quiet. Not a single mention of it had been reported in the press. Most of the men had been thoroughly debriefed, but there were a few holdouts, including the cell’s leader. Nash looked al-Haq calmly in the eye and said, “Go on.”
“There was a second cell.”
Nash nodded.
“Intercepted in Hong Kong. We think by the British.”
Nash was intimately familiar with the incident. It was in fact the British who had picked up the group. He’d spent the week before last in London being briefed by his counterpart at MI6. The cell was composed mostly of Pakistanis who spoke very good English. “I am familiar with the situation.”
“Well, there is a third group.”
“I’m listening,” Nash said calmly, even though he wasn’t calm. His worst fears were being confirmed.
“I need assurances.”
“We can work that out.”
Al-Haq exhaled a cloud of smoke and laughed. “I am going to need more than the word of a professional spy.”
“What would satisfy you?”
“I have a lawyer in Bern. I will need a letter from your president guaranteeing me the following…”
Before he could list his demands, Nash cut him off. “That’s not going to happen. There is no way the president is going to get anywhere near something that even remotely makes him look like he is negotiating with a terrorist.”
“The letter will only be used if you fail to follow through on your part of the bargain.”
“It’s a nonstarter, Mohammad.”
Al-Haq ignored him. “There is a two-million-dollar reward for my arrest. I want that money for turning myself in, and I want a new identity. If we can agree on that, and a few more things, I will cooperate fully with you. I will tell you everything I know, but you must report…” His voice faded.
“Report what?”
“That I am dead.”
Nash understood immediately. He wanted to protect his family. Nash stuffed his cigarette in his mouth to hide his deep satisfaction. He was staring at what amounted to their first high-level defection. This could be huge, he thought to himself. Nash leaned forward and pointed his cigarette at al-Haq. “Mohammad, I think I can make this work, but the agreement will have to be between the director of the CIA and you. If I get any politicians involved, they’ll screw it up.”
Al-Haq thought about it for a long moment and in a voice filled with doubt and anxiety said, “I need assurances.”
“I will get you assurances. I know I can get you the money, but this is the type of thing that has to be handled in the dark. There is no other way.”
Al-Haq didn’t like what he was hearing. He had no faith in this man or the organization he represented. He shook his head, his face showing h
is discomfort.
“Mohammad, if you want to go public, there’s a way I can sell this,” Nash said in a reasonable tone. “The president would love nothing more than to announce that you’ve defected. Have you stand up in front of the cameras and repudiate al-Qaeda and the Taliban, but if you do that your family is going to be slaughtered.”
The words hit al-Haq like a knife in the side. After a moment he said, “I do not want that.”
“Then the only option is to do this in the dark. In fact we might even want to announce that you’ve been killed.”
“That would be very convenient for you.”
“I think it is a mutually beneficial solution.”
“But can I trust you?”
“You’d better.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to be forced to turn you over to General Dostum. I might not get the information out of you as quickly as I’d like, but ultimately, you’ll give me what I want.”
Al-Haq fidgeted in his chair. His eyes darted from one wall to the next and then back to Nash. “There is not much time.”
“What do you mean?”
“The third cell…” Al-Haq’s voice trailed off.
“What about the third cell?” Nash asked while trying to stay calm.
“No.” Al-Haq stabbed his cigarette in the ashtray and put it out. “I need assurances.”
Nash scrambled to think of something. “If I got the director of the CIA on the phone would it help?”
Al-Haq nodded. “What about the money?”
“We could wire the money to your attorney first thing in the morning.” Nash watched him closely, could tell he was on the fence. Nash put out his own cigarette. “You’re going to have to trust me, though. I’ll get the director on the phone, but you are going to have to give me more than just the fact that there is a third cell.”
“I know the man who is leading the cell. I know several others in the group. I know where they have been training, and what American city they will attack, and when they will strike.” Al-Haq folded his arms and looked across the table with confidence.