What Papers?

One thing only I know, and that is that I know nothing.

—Socrates

I came progressively to believe that what Headquarters considered CAPTUS’s willful obfuscation or lying was due to a clash of cultural perspectives. His mind functioned differently than a Westerner’s. He did not reason linearly, or conceive the world in terms of subject, verb, object. There was no shortest line between two points. No question or subject had a straightforward answer. I thought of the English essays my brother showed me from the high school English classes he taught. Many of them were incoherent, yet they were from my own world. CAPTUS’s mind was as illogical as theirs, and he was not from my world. We were in Plato’s cave, I spoke of figures of men, and at his best CAPTUS described wavering shadows.

As the days went by, CAPTUS visibly relaxed with me. He was careful with each of his answers, for which I did not blame him. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX what he imagined to be American power, knowledge, and sophistication. XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX. From a distance, back in Headquarters, many saw this to be disingenuous. I came to see this differently. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X .

My team and I made the trip out to the interrogation facility. I jockeyed at jammed intersections with motorcycles whose roars hurt my ears. None of us ever spoke too much on the drives. Eventually I turned onto a small, nondescript side road. It was hard to locate, and several times I drove past it unaware, only recognizing my error dusty miles later.

The trees were always pleasant and shaded on this little country lane, and I could feel the cooler air and breeze and hear the leaves rustle peacefully through my open window as I drove. But I always had the impression we were approaching what the locals knew to be a place of taboo and fear, and that they stayed away lest they saw someone or something forbidden and dangerous, and so found themselves pulled into darkness. Never once did I see any other cars or humans on this road.

“There’s no one around,” one of my teammates said the first time she drove with me there, as we descended into a copse of deeper woods.

“Yeah. Pretty, though,” I replied, keeping my thoughts to myself. I always worked to be even-tempered, or pleasant, or to allow myself to become angry, but only when I wished to show it. Usually I succeeded. This was not detachment, as many thought; it was an effort—more often futile than successful—to control what was happening to me, and to protect myself. She kept looking out the window, perhaps unconvinced. I hoped that she was unconvinced.

We drove up to a gate, the attendants looking down impassively at me from inside their booth as I rolled to a stop beside them.

The guards were always taciturn. Once I told them, as I had to every day, that I was there to meet with “Mr. Muhamad,”2 they passed me through to a spare, quiet waiting room. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX . XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX. It had a small transom, open to create an air current with the door on the other side of the room. Sometimes, for something to do while we waited, I stood in the door to look at the trees.

No car but mine that I saw entered or exited the compound during all the months I went there.

The factotum eventually received word that our hosts were ready to receive us. He escorted us to our next stop, disappearing as quickly as his pleasantness had been pro forma. This man was not a phony; he was simply dim and could manage to enact only a couple forms of learned behavior. I always imagined him sitting silent, stoic, motionless, and thoughtless until we arrived, whereupon he stirred, smiled his rote smile, and set to his task, and that he returned to passivity as soon as he had fulfilled his commission with us.

The door issued into an empty, dark service hallway. The only light came from a sole transom a couple dozen yards down the hallway. I was always blinded at first, passing from the day into the dark. My liaison counterparts met us standing just inside, silently shaking hands, at first only shadows to my vision: the chief, who wore ill-fitting, cheap polyester suits, whose looks were hard and ruthless, and who would leave us after shaking our hands; the thuggish officer with a craggy face who was usually in good humor, who enjoyed his work, and who in his simple mind revealed no apparent scruples, qualms, or thoughts beyond a willingness to do what his partner, or I, suggested. I was happy that he and I rarely spoke. We would have had almost nothing to say to each other. The third, more intense and quick-minded officer was the counterpart I interacted with most of the time, more refined than the other. He always smoked intensely during our rare breaks, his hands and eyes restless.

We only ever knew the name of the boss, Mr. Muhamad. The COS and he had regular business together and I spoke with him from time to time when I had to arrange something with our host service. The officers with whom I worked would not tell me their names, so that for my whole time working the interrogation my team referred to them simply as “Big Guy” and “Little Guy.” No one is anyone’s friend in intelligence. Countries may have shared interests concerning specific issues and may work together, but no country, and certainly no intelligence service, ever has any friend. There is only each country’s national interest, and each service’s and officer’s specific orders.

I came to like Little Guy a good deal. It was he and I who virtually lived with CAPTUS, who XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X. He was patient with CAPTUS—sometimes more than I—and he was patient with me.

The holding room in which we met with our hosts was disheveled: a couple sofas around a coffee table, dirty ashtrays, and empty peanut and chip bags lying on the table, an overflowing trash can, unemptied for days. The place became progressively grungy over the weeks. Stale cigarette odors, faded pistachio walls, and the general mess wilted the spirit; at least they did mine. Little Guy and I left my teammates in the holding room to go meet CAPTUS.

CAPTUS sat, as always, in his salmon jumpsuit as we entered, hands in his lap. The tan walls were bare and had not been painted in decades. A single ceiling light lit the room. A single transom high up on one wall, cracked open but well out of reach, hinted of the outside world. The glass was opaque, though, so CAPTUS could see nothing but his cell and his interrogators. The room was always stuffy, the air stale, the transom useless, an empty evocation of relief.

CAPTUS answered with his typical narrative incoherence, combined with precision on some details. As usual, I wondered as CAPTUS spoke whether his brain was that disordered, or if he was dicking Little Guy and me around.

I put my notepad down on the floor.

“Look, CAPTUS. Listen.”

I leaned back in my chair. I dropped my conversational tone and spoke forcefully. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX.

I could feel that my pulse had risen, and my breathing. I had become angry. CAPTUS saw my intensity, blinked a couple of times, and looked down at his hands. He became anxious. He absently fretted with the cuffs of his jumpsuit.

CAPTUS replied to each question, but he replied in general terms. Then he stopped, bewildered.

He told me that the information I sought was in his papers, which we had seized when we rendered him. All I had to do was look in his papers for the answers.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX..

Well, this was news to me. What papers? I attempted to mask to CAPTUS that I had been unaware that we possessed his personal papers until he told me so himself. Wouldn’t that have been nice to know? I thought to myself as he spoke, confounded and annoyed at the absurdity that he knew more about our rendition operation than I did. But I looked at CAPTUS with an expressionless face.

I did not mention my irritation to my colleagues when I left. As team leader, I did not want to come across as an angry cynic. Better to project calmness and confidence. They also had been unaware that we held CAPTUS’s documents. I figured that Big Guy was too slow to perceive the little moment. But I thought I—we—had been made to look a fool to CAPTUS and to Little Guy. Little Guy noted my discomfiture even if CAPTUS might not have. We, not CAPTUS, were supposed to hold all the cards. We were supposed to know what we were doing, not waste our liaison partners’ time.

I always liked smelling the fresh, flower-laden air when I stepped out into the fading light. I always liked leaving the XXXXXXXXXXX compound, driving back up the deserted wooded lane, seeing the first headlights and pedestrians on the highway, being surrounded by the neon and noise of the city, and finally finding once again my brightly lit, cramped, and cluttered office, and the dirty carpeting of the station. I liked if my officemate, or someone else, was there so we could trade good-natured insults.

That evening I cabled to our station in the country where CAPTUS had been seized to request that they send me CAPTUS’s papers by immediate courier.

Back at the hotel, as usual I sat alone in the back of the lounge, listening for a long time to locals sing karaoke to the house band, which consisted of classically trained Latin American musicians, incongruously making their living by playing pop tunes in a Middle Eastern hotel lounge to hookers, drunken businessmen, and tourists. The two hookers who always worked the lounge had no business this night, so their good humor was unfeigned. I watched them as they sat and chatted together below me, by the band, smoking endless chains of cigarettes, their hands performing slow, delicate arabesques to the music. Later, back in my room, I lay on my bed, the air conditioner high up on the wall blowing cold air over me, and stared at music videos, silent, stoic, motionless, and thoughtless until almost 3 in the morning, when, at last, I fell asleep.

1 The redacted passages above describe in generic terms how CAPTUS thought, how various levels of the CIA assessed his answers and manner, and how we often disagreed among ourselves. There is no legitimate justification to redact the passages, unless the CIA has decided that saying CAPTUS’s ignorance of current events and that differences of opinion constitute intelligence “methods.” The public, however, already might suspect CIA officers usually are not monolithic blockheads and do have internal debates. As with so many redactions in this text, the Agency has overstepped its bounds and made itself a fool.

2 Of course, a pseudonym. Almost every name in the book is a pseudonym.