Methane Breathers

Only those who are the true authors of their acts,
which they are free to perform or not perform,
can be praised or blamed for what they do.

—Isaiah Berlin, Against the Current

Man cannot so far know the connection of causes and events, as that he may venture to do wrong in order to do right.

—Samuel Johnson, Rasselas, XXXIV.30

The runway glistened in the cold, damp fog. Distant lights glared as halos in the black. A few isolated men, small dark shapes, stood off on the perimeter, where the dim light was overwhelmed by the night. The nearest building was several hundred yards away. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX. Muhamad chatted in low tones with Little Guy and Big Guy, about thirty yards away. Josh slapped his hands together to stay warm. He and I were working together again. He had the lead this night, as I had had when we worked together on the elegant walk-in case. He XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX had arranged for us to use their runway XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. He was focused, calm, and professional. It was 2 a.m. We were waiting for our “black” plane to arrive for CAPTUS’s second rendition, which would take him and me to Hotel California.

Earlier that night, Josh and I had driven out from my hotel, following directions that liaison had provided, through progressively deserted and ultimately dark and empty country roads, stopping at a nondescript, isolated gate in a chain-link fence. We turned off our car and its lights. There were no other roads, or people, just large scrub bushes fading into the night. The only light came from several buildings hundreds of yards away, inside the facility. Josh and I stood about in the darkness for ten minutes, waiting and largely silent. We checked our watches under our coat sleeves from time to time. I turned up my collar and hunched my shoulders against the cold. At the appointed hour, our contact drove up on the other side of the fence, his tires making sharp crinkling noises in the gravel.

Muhamad gestured us into an ornate but slightly dilapidated waiting room in one of the buildings, underlit by bare, wan bulbs, and unheated. It was freezing. We all kept our coats on. Its scruffy decay reminded me of an Arab version of waiting rooms in which I had spent time in Simferopol, in the Crimea, or outside of Kiev. We all sat awkwardly beside each other on a single long, hard sofa, running the length of the wall. Oriental rugs and a low tea table completed the furniture. Several of Muhamad’s colleagues arrived a few minutes later and Muhamad introduced us. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX . They were our hosts this night, and puffed themselves up to us in friendly but stilted formality. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX . We shook hands all around, smiled thinly at each other, and sat back on the long sofa to drink over-sweetened tea, served from a long-stemmed burnished copper teapot. We had little to say to one another. They did not know what we were doing or who we were and we had nothing to tell them. After a polite interval of staring mutely at ornate wall motifs, all of us with our hands on our knees, I excused myself, returning to pace slowly up and down the runway, in the dark. Josh joined me a couple of minutes later, also relieved to be quit of the tea room, and we stood silent on the tarmac, looking at and feeling the night. It was impossible not to think of the final, fog-filled airport scene in Casablanca; the resemblance was remarkable, but I did not mention this. I thought it would sound artificial and inappropriately light, given what we were doing.

Muhamad somehow found me well off from the nearest building or man, walking alone with my thoughts. He handed me a small packet, with a satisfied look.

“XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX.” I slid the thin packet into the inside pocket of my jacket. 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 .

“So now I can disappear.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

I’m already half disappeared, I thought. Muhamad returned to his car and stood there with a couple of XXXXXXXXX officers. I walked to the end of the runway, to stare at nothing. My breath steamed when I exhaled, and I put my hands in my pockets.

A small convoy of three or four vehicles emerged from the darkness at the opposite end of the airport from that which Josh and I had entered. It was CAPTUS, escorted by security from the host intelligence service. I was about one hundred yards away from where they stopped. I could see CAPTUS bundled out of the middle vehicle—XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX, underdressed for the cold, a little hunched over. It struck me that in all the months I had been working the case I had never seen CAPTUS walk before. The security men shuffled him into a building adjacent to the one where I had taken tea with the XXXXXXXX officers. I stared for a moment at the door that had closed after CAPTUS. I felt badly for him.

We continued to wait. I saw Little Guy standing under the small overhanging roof of the waiting room building, smoking a cigarette. Josh went to speak to a couple of our interlocutors, then caught up with me.

“It’s coming. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX. Ten, fifteen minutes.” This was our black plane. I went to our car and got my bag. The distant men on the perimeter moved off the runway. I could just glimpse that they were armed. We moved off the runway, too. Everyone in sight disappeared into the darkness, to attend to unknown tasks.

Shortly, an aircraft appeared out of the sky, very low, very close, and very XXXXX, and landed with XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX a XXXXXX XXXX, rolling gently to a stop not more than seventy-five yards from me. I had not seen or heard anything until the very last seconds before it landed.

Doors opened. Men emerged and fanned out in bustling, silent, efficient activity around the plane. They were intimidating. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX 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 XXXXX. A lone black-clad ninja figure came out last. He wore a balaclava, covering his entire face except for his eyes. His jumpsuit was blousoned inside heavy boots, and he carried an M-4. He strode toward the waiting room building and was met halfway by one of the locals.

“Methane breathers,” I murmured.

“What fucks,” Josh said.

I glanced at him, my brows knit. “What?” He did not answer.

He walked over to the lone ninja and the local official and talked for a moment. He gestured for me to join them. He and the ninja walked toward me, leaving the local behind. We met halfway between us on the runway, about forty yards from the plane. Bright light came out of the plane’s doors.

To my surprise, the ninja was a woman. Up close, she was petite, fine-boned, with long, dark hair. Incongruous. We shook hands. Josh and the woman were engaged in a testy exchange, which she interrupted to greet me.

“You’re the one going with the detainee?

“Yes.”

“We’ll leave XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX [soon].”

She was all business.

Josh and the woman returned to their argument.

“It’s protocol,” she said. “This is how we do it.”

“I don’t care if it’s protocol. It’s unnecessary and we’re insulting the XXXXX.1 I would be. Why don’t you adjust to circumstances? There’s no danger here. I’ve worked all this out with the XXXXX.” Josh was controlled, but direct. The woman took offense. I was bewildered but growing alarmed. What was going on?

“Can’t do it. It’s protocol. These are our orders. This is how we do it. The station has nothing to do with this.” This woman was not budging.

“Who are you?” Josh asked. “I deal with these guys every day. You don’t need to do this stuff.”

“I am running this operation. It’s protocol, designed for everyone’s safety. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX . There’s no discussion about it. I don’t care where we are. I run the rendition. As soon as we’re done with the physical XXXXXXXXXXX XX, we’re gone.”

She looked at me. “Put your bag in the plane.”

She ended the conversation abruptly and walked toward the building where CAPTUS was being held, and where several of her ninjas had entered while we spoke.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Josh was contemptuous.

“She’s a Headquarters fuck. These guys are clowns. She wouldn’t know how to drop her pants and take a shit out here if she didn’t have her ‘protocol’ to follow. Her field experience is—these people aren’t field officers. They aren’t using their heads. They don’t know what they’re doing. This is supposed to be a black operation. That’s the whole point. That’s why we arranged it as we did. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX. But it’s not normal with kung fu masters hopping around XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX.”

I understood Josh’s irritation now. They had given no thought to adjusting tradecraft to circumstances. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX. Bureaucracy at work again—Check That Cable.

“That’s why we asked, and I arranged,” he said, “for everything to be routine, and for our presence to be invisible and nonexistent. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX. That is not alerting. That’s why—no one here knows what we’re doing or who we are XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX. Ninjas jump out, while a couple of Americans stand around waiting with some guy in chains? That’s just how not to draw attention. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX. That’s just perfect. You can bet now that all these guys here will see something pretty unusual has gone on. I wonder if someone might figure something out? XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX. These clowns should have landed, XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX have you and CAPTUS get on XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX with no hint of what’s going on.”

A minute or two later we walked over to where CAPTUS was being held. One of the ninjas was a doctor, who greeted us just as they were finishing up and taking a hooded and shackled CAPTUS onboard the plane XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXX. The doctor, Josh, and I followed. He was good-natured, if a bit hurried and wary of his surroundings. He explained that he had conducted a physical examination of CAPTUS, including a proctologic probe, to verify that the detainee was in good health, and posed no threat to the rendition squad. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X, again so that he posed no threat to the team.

“You XXXXXXXXXXX my guy?!” I asked, taking on the spirit of Josh’s irritation. Josh snorted.

The doctor’s face was covered with his black knit face mask, but he seemed less intransigent or officious than the woman had been and took my incredulous flippancy in good spirit.

“Sometimes these guys hide stuff there, that’s all. Bombs, who knows what. Some of these guys are awful. We have to know before we get him on a plane where lives can be at stake if there’s a screwup.”2

XXXXXXX CAPTUS was onboard. We had reached the side of the plane. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX. Everything had happened very fast. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX. Little Guy and Big Guy approached from under the portico of the waiting room building. I thanked them for their help and shook hands. “Choukran, choukran,” I said, placing my hand on my heart. The exchange took only seconds. Two more people I would never see again. I noticed that the nearest people and vehicles were already a couple hundred yards off.

I turned to Josh.

“Josh.”

His face looked hard and etched with fatigue. He was laboring to suppress his anger. We shook gloved hands.

“Okay.”

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX.

I boarded the plane, followed by the petite ninja woman, the last one in, who did not shake hands or speak with anyone. The lights in the cabin were blinding after the darkness outside. She secured the door and leaned into the cockpit. “Go,” she said. The plane’s engines immediately revved and we taxied down the runway.

I slid down the aisle and found a seat behind the wing. No one spoke—I gathered that part of the “protocol” was to maintain silence at all times. Everyone pointedly ignored me. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX . I watched the few lights in the darkness below recede quickly behind us and drew the shade.

About twenty minutes into the air I walked back to check on CAPTUS. He was motionless. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X. The ninjas were not welcoming. They drew a separator across the aisle. The cabin was filled with the roar of the engines. XXXX XXXXXXXXX. I returned to my seat, pulled a blanket over my head, and slept fitfully for what seemed a long time.3

1 Josh mentioned the nationality of our hosts.

2 Several public documents are relevant: The KUBARK manual, which I found to be so much a foundational document for rendition, detention, and interrogation practices, instructs: “Subject is given a thorough medical examination, including all body cavities, by the facility doctor.” The Council of Europe’s Investigation into the CIA’s rendition practices, issued summer 2009, asserts that “some accounts speak of a foreign object being forcibly inserted into the man’s anus; some accounts speak more specifically of a tranquiliser or suppository being administered per rectum.” Also, according to the “Background Paper on CIA’s Combined Use of Interrogation Techniques,” dated December 30, 2004, which sketches rendition and interrogation techniques for HVT al-Qa’ida detainees, and released to the ACLU under a Freedom of Information Act lawsuit, “a predictable set of events occur. . . . An HVD is flown to a black site [now acknowledged publicly to have included sites in Afghanistan]. . . . A medical examination is conducted prior to the flight. . . . Upon arrival at the destination airfield the HVD is moved to the Black Site . . . using appropriate security procedures. . . . The HVD is subjected to administrative procedures and medical assessment . . . the procedures are . . . precise, quiet, and almost clinical. . . . Procedures include:
a. the HVD’s head and face are shaved.
b. A series of photographs are taken of the HVD while nude to document the physical condition of the HVD upon arrival.
c. A Medical Officer interviews the HVD and a medical evaluation is conducted to assess the physical condition of the HVD. The medical officer also determines if there are any contraindications to the use of interrogation techniques.”

3 According to the Background Paper on CIA’s Combined Use of Interrogation Techniques: “during the flight, the detainee is securely shackled and is deprived of sight and sound through the use of blindfolds, earmuffs, and hoods. There is no interaction with the HVD during this rendition. . . . The procedures he is subjected to are precise, quiet, and almost clinical.”