I Do Not Know Why Allah Has Done This

Does there not pass over man a space of time when his life is a blank?

—Koran, Sura 76

The factotum at the liaison facility’s gate received me with his habitual fawning smile. Some days I felt compassion for him. Other days I understood his role, and did not mind it. His manner irritated me this day.

“This guy is a dick,” I said to the young officer accompanying me, once he had taken our passports and gone off to inform Little Guy, Big Guy, and Mr. Muhamad that we had arrived.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Nothing. He’s a dick and he’s stupid, that’s all. I know nothing about him. He’s just a dick.”

The officer looked at me sideways and thought I had made an out-of-character, senseless, arrogant remark. She let the matter drop. I had nothing else to say. We waited in the reception room just inside the facility gate for the okay to proceed to the interrogation building. I walked out to the car for no reason but to get out of the waiting room. Then I walked back because I did not want to be at my car, and stood in the doorway, looking at the quiet trees. The guards inside the guard booth looked at me, unsmiling, through the tinted glass of their window, then returned to their quiet vigil. They pissed me off.

Once inside the interrogation facility Little Guy and I went over what we intended to accomplish in the day’s interrogation. We started our conversation in the holding room and, as was our habit, carried on our conversation in low tones in the dark and dilapidated service hallway. I told him about Headquarters’ cable about sending CAPTUS to a much harsher place.

“My superiors may decide not to send him, if I can—if we can—get him to speak about the areas where he has not done so.”

“Do you think he can? I mean, he does not seem to know some of these things. He has, I think, answered honestly.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I agree. I know. But there are several areas in which, as you know, he has not answered, or has avoided answering. My superiors will not let me allow CAPTUS to avoid answering these questions. And he must answer me now, or we will take him away.”

Little Guy saw no reason to expect CAPTUS would be able to answer differently than he had been doing. But he nodded his head.

“I do not think he can do this. This is harsh. But, well, we will see, if this is what we must do.”

I put my hand on Little Guy’s shoulder. He and I had become friends, within the limits of the bizarre work we did together and the constraints of our profession, which made any socialization at all impossible. I trusted Little Guy as an honest and honorable man, and I believe he considered me so. We both doubted that CAPTUS knew what we accused him of knowing, and felt that CAPTUS was, fundamentally, not an evil man. I could not tell Little Guy of the depth of our agreement on this.

“Okay, let’s go.”

The conditions of this interview were the same as always—chair, windowless room except for the futile transom, the quiet—but I was not my normal understanding self.

We sat down. I looked at CAPTUS and felt pity for him XXXXXXXXXXX XX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX. Was I wrong? Had he misled me? Was he the accomplice to murder that Headquarters—Wilmington and Roger, anyway—believed? No, no, enough. I knew CAPTUS. I knew CAPTUS would be unaware of my thoughts. To him, I was everything now; I was fair, but I was his interrogator. I had no thoughts. I asked questions. I did not believe he could see my inner life or thoughts. But, then, on this, I knew I had briefly engaged in a moment of arrogance. Of course CAPTUS knew me, and had assessed what sort of a man I was. One could do that to some extent in any conversation. The man he saw now, though, was earnest and hard.

“CAPTUS. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX.

“XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX.”

I was speaking as intensely as I have in my life, dreadful even to myself. I could feel my adrenaline. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX

This terrible monologue left everyone motionless.

CAPTUS sat rigid.

Little Guy was distressed, but silent.

Then CAPTUS sat up in his chair, gathering himself. XXXXXXXXXXX X XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX.

CAPTUS, too, had been thinking a great deal about what had happened to him. He had been working out a philosophy of detention, to make sense of having been forcibly rendered, and stuck in a windowless room, with absolutely no human contact . . . for how long? XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXX.

He looked hard at me, as we sat in silence. “XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. . . .” He continued speaking. Then his emotional strength ebbed a little XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX, his shoulders slumped, and he slouched back into his chair. The effort had cost him. But the core of his personality remained the same, he remained a man who sought to preserve his dignity, and he had strengthened himself psychologically to cope with his situation. CAPTUS knew the consequences of his words; CAPTUS’s answer probably meant that his life would become worse, as I had warned.

We both sat there, in our own ways distraught. But I admired him.

I returned to my office after this sobering and draining session, and wrote my reporting cable late into the night. There was nothing to nibble on, so I drank one Diet Coke after another as I wrote, tossing the empty cans across the room into the wastebasket. Several colleagues leaving for the evening poked their heads into my office and asked me to join them for dinner or drinks once I had finished my work. I appreciated their gesture but did not feel like socializing.

“That sounds good. Maybe I’ll join you later.”

One of the officers looked at me as they left: “Ah, Glenn,” she said, not believing me, “he’s a loner.”

Afterward I drove into the commercial section of town, to the medina and markets. I wanted to walk around the alleys, amidst the throngs of people buying socks, or spices, drinking tea, or simply enjoying the noise and heat and motion. But it was late. The streets and alleys were empty, drab, and dirty with the trash of a day’s commotion. The streetlights cast everything in a dim and desolate yellow light. I parked the car and walked for a time, but there was no life and I felt contemptible walking the abandoned alleys alone, when the local residents were in their homes and my colleagues were sitting somewhere laughing over a drink.

I drove back to the hotel and to my seat in the back of the lounge. I have no idea what music the band played that night. Perhaps there was no band. I do not remember. I sat absently watching the young but weary hookers, the slightly desperate businessmen, the vaguely sultry waitress who had accused me of being a spy and who usually liked to linger invitingly at my table, the Latin American band sweating in front of largely empty tables; but everyone stayed away from me, they all looked far away, and I was not really there, even as I sat in my dark corner. But I remember that as I erred through the forsaken medina, a solitary shape, sometimes a stark silhouette, sometimes a shifting shadow, the dark was cold.

Headquarters remained unmoved. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXX. It was obvious to me that what I reported made no difference; the decisions had already been made.

The instruction came several days later, before I had had time to see whether CAPTUS had responded as we hoped XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXX, that CAPTUS would be rendered again—this time to Hotel California. Judgment, nuance, and measure are easily lost, I knew, in the can-do and machismo culture of the DO and I was now living a distilled moment of this dynamic and perspective. The White House had ordered us to do whatever it took to capture, neutralize, or kill al-Qa’ida terrorists. A narrow mind and hard hand had won out.

Headquarters closed its cable with the standard pro forma, polite salutation and a final instruction:

much appreciate c/o sportink’s effort on captus case. c/o will accompany captus to hotel california and continue interview there. regards.

1 The redacted passages describe how I impressed upon CAPTUS how displeased we were, and what was about to happen to him unless he told me everything he knew about al-Qa’ida immediately.