What Sins Might One Not Commit?

Pericles: Indeed, I am more afraid of our own blunders than of the enemy’s devices.

—Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, I.V.143

The situation was deteriorating. Each concrete operational step I tried to take proved impossible for reasons beyond my control. I disliked those I could take. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX . This, of course, frustrated and irritated me, and XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX in response. But this, too, was no surprise. The KUBARK interrogation manual, and my own experience, had anticipated this and discussed it openly: “Many psychologists consider [that] . . . prolonged constraint or exertion, sustained deprivation of food or sleep, etc., often become . . . counterproductive . . . the subject may become apathetic and withdraw into himself.” I had correctly anticipated the evolution of the case, and each operational setback—but Cassandra had derived no satisfaction from her prophesies, and I little from my sardonic asides or efforts to have us all act sensibly.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX.

“XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX.”

Frankly, I continued to admire CAPTUS’s character in these circumstances.

And yet, he lied. I asked him about individuals I knew he knew. He denied knowing them. I asked him about events I considered uncontroversial and “safe” for him, in which I knew he had been involved. He claimed not to know anything about them. I became very angry with him, despite myself.

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I was furious. CAPTUS sat, silent and sullen.

I left him and returned to the chief’s office. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX . I glowered. I was angry at CAPTUS. I felt badly for CAPTUS. I was angry at the entire situation. And yet, perversely, the issue I had raised was not fundamental.

“Not so good, huh?” the chief said. His attempts to be helpful deepened my anger. I refused everything he proposed, controlling myself.

The whole operation had become sordid. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. Almost everything we were doing to him was wrong. It was stupid, self-defeating, demeaning, and operationally useless to give no choice whatsoever to a person being interrogated, or whom one was trying to manipulate, or whose cooperation one sought. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX . I was living the cautions of the KUBARK manual once again: Use of coercive measures, and pain, had the following consequences: “In general, direct physical brutality creates only resentment, hostility, and further defiance.” Worse still, I was angry at myself; the circumstances affected me, too. The “dark side, if you will,” enveloped and changed everyone involved in it.

No man willingly will lose his soul. For what is the soul but some shred of free will, hope, and dignity? In its psychological and operational obtuseness Headquarters had wanted to humiliate him, to dislocate him psychologically, in the belief that this would break him and cause him to tell all that he knew.

Even terrorists, even killers, define themselves by honor. Fear, honor, interest motivate men. The enhanced interrogation techniques, Hotel California; these played upon fear, and interest. This could be useful. They directly assaulted any man’s honor, though, making it more likely that the individual would resist. “It is better to live like a hawk for one day than like a hen all your life,” says a Kurdish proverb. We feel this, too, in America. But those driving the CAPTUS case, and the clumsiness of an institution in making decisions that require nuance, considered that terrorists had no honor, deserved none, and could be coerced to surrender what we took them not to have, and what gave meaning to their lives. I found moral clarity in ambiguity, and danger in certainty; Headquarters found this incomprehensible, or dangerous, or weak.

I had been right to establish rapport and to engage with CAPTUS as a man, instead of simply approaching him with a checklist of questions for him to answer. I cannot state forcefully enough how crucial it is in an interrogation, when developing an asset—when establishing any textured and worthy human relation—to sustain and foster the other person’s honor, sense of personal independence and control, integrity, and trust. To commit such a delicate, dangerous act as selling out his associates, betraying his oaths . . . or committing treason, an individual must come to depend upon and believe in a case officer as deeply as he has ever believed anything.

Dignity shorn, trust undone, and relationship perverted, the person being interrogated (or convinced to commit treason) has nothing with which to protect his pride and sense of self. Even a terrorist must retain some piece of himself, must in some way still be a man, for him to be potentially a useful interlocutor, or source of trustworthy information. Some men become abject, are totally destroyed, and surrender totally, but they are few. Most require far more subtle and decent treatment. It is both inhumane and operationally harmful to oblige a prisoner to choose between moral debasement and betrayal. An interrogator can and must develop a relationship with his prisoner, imbalanced as it will be. Perversely, interrogation and treason, like love, rest upon personal bonds and trust.

Will any man openly accept that he is become Judas? And yet, given a fig leaf, what sins might one not commit?

Parker was at the wheel as we returned to the compound after the latest interrogation session. He was in a boisterous, good mood. I did not have much to say, looking out as we stormed and bashed along, the landscape changing with our motion, benign or ominous depending on how I chose to look at it. He drove much too fast, knocking us in back all over the seat, banging our heads off the roof, and slamming against the doors, as he rammed through deep potholes, our vehicle lurching, yawing, and rearing.

“I like to hear Glenn grunt ‘uhh!’ and say ‘Jesus Christ!’ as we go over the holes,” he laughed.

“I think Parker is compensating for some low testosterone levels,” I said to the officer sitting beside me as we bounced and jangled along.

“What?” Parker said.

“I said,” I shouted, to be heard over the rattle and engine roar, and holding onto the back of the front seat as the 4x4 threw me around, “I—think—you—are—a—fucker!”

1 This passage describes a specific exchange when I lost my temper because CAPTUS’s behavior made it impossible to move forward, to address questions, or possibly to help him.