Killfile (18 page)

After she flunked, Kelsey was told she couldn't be trusted for fieldwork. She was referred to an admin position in the NSA. From there she went to work for Sloan.

She looks at me as I'm driving. Maybe ten seconds have passed. She knows I know.

“Why?” I ask.

She snorts. “You know why. You saw, didn't you? I failed. I couldn't do it.”

“That's not what I meant,” I say. “Why did you apply for the CIA?”

That throws her off. She tries to cover with indignation. “Why did you join the army? You think you're the only one who wants to serve his country?”

“I didn't have many other options. I didn't do it out of patriotism, really.”

“I did.”

“I know,” I say.

“Yeah, well, now you know. Good for you.”

She turns away, and I recognize the flavor of the anger coming off her. She's ashamed.

It was the first time in her life she ever failed, she thinks. She was a straight-A overachiever, the captain of her debate team, a killer volleyball player, an honor-roll student and summa cum laude graduate. She was supposed to have a straight golden ticket to whatever she wanted to do in life. She really wanted to be one of the good
guys. She thought it was the right thing to do. And she thought it was cool. She wanted to be a spy.

“You didn't fail,” I tell her.

“Easy for you to say,” she says. “You did it. You did the job. You passed the tests.” She's really pissed. Looking for a fight.

I make a noise. I suppose it sounds like a laugh.

“That's funny?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “They were trying to find out how far you'd go. If you could do the things they were showing you. You couldn't. That's not a failure.”

In that little room, Kelsey discovered that her principles—the same ones that led her to apply for the CIA—wouldn't let her cross some lines. No matter how much she might have wanted to.

It's why she got sick and guilty after I shot OmniVore's goon, even though he tried to kill her. There are some people who cannot stop thinking of another human being as human. No matter what. Kelsey is one of them.

“You should be proud of that,” I say. “Believe me. That's the test that matters, and you didn't fail it.”

She's not entirely sure she believes me. “Oh yeah? How would you know?”

“Because I did.”

I spent a lot
of my time during the War on Terror inside one secret prison or another. Gitmo resembles nothing so much as a very well-run animal shelter, the cells like kennels off spotless white corridors, the prisoners looking out the wired-glass windows in their doors with the same mute hope of strays waiting to be adopted, or the snarls of animals daring you to put them down. Abu Ghraib was like a haunted house, with the ghosts from Saddam's atrocities watching hungrily over our own crimes there.

Those places got all the airtime on CNN, but Bagram was the only place that actually gave me nightmares.

The airfield was built by the Soviets during their own attempt to smack Afghanistan into behaving. When we came stomping into the country, we began using the base and rebuilding it to suit our needs.

And we needed cells more than airplane hangars.

At first, we just made cages out of wire and rounded up the prisoners into them. Then the military realized our temporary solution had been going on for seven years. We needed something more permanent, and started building cells in another building nearby. When it was done, it was renamed—more like rebranded—Parwan Detention Center. But everyone still called it Bagram. There were no bars on the
steel doors that lined the long hallways; just a single slit window that gave a view inside the cinderblock rooms.

There were around 1,700 prisoners there on my last visit. Most of the men were held in bunk room accommodations.

Then there was the Black Jail: the place where we put the prisoners who no longer existed.

This was where they stashed the high-value detainees, the ones who were believed to hold the really big secrets. The ones who received what we liked to call “enhanced interrogation,” since the United States does not torture.

It was not far enough away from the other cells to completely muffle the screams. This was not an accident.

That was where they held Fahran.

B
Y THE TIME
I got to the air base, I was sleepless and edgy and only half drunk, despite my best efforts with a bottle of Wild Turkey. I hated Bagram, and it seemed to hate me right back. The place throbbed like an infected tooth with barely contained pain and rage.

So I admit, I was not at the top of my game when I arrived. Still, it didn't take a psychic to see that the prison staff didn't want me and Cantrell around. As soon as our plane landed, we were treated like prisoners ourselves. They took our bags and marched us, under armed guard, to see the Black Jail's commander.

We were taken into a trailer near the Black Jail, where a man sat with a little window-unit air conditioner laboring mightily behind him. He said to call him Townsend. He was probably Defense Clandestine Service, but it was hard, in those days, to find anyone willing to give his real name. The jail was nominally run by the Pentagon, but Department of Homeland Security, CIA, ICE, Secret Service, FBI,
ONI, MI6, Mossad, ISR, OSI, and a half dozen other agencies wandered through the cells at any given time. Plenty of people willing to give orders, but very few who wanted their names attached if it turned into another Abu Ghraib. It could be terminal for a bright young officer's career. The bureaucracy was like protective layers of Kevlar, deflecting any attempt at accountability.

Townsend was pissed. He covered it well—you didn't get that far in the Pentagon without learning to hide your feelings—but it steamed off him like vapor.

“We appreciate you coming to facilitate the interrogation,” Townsend said. “But we don't really wish to compromise our efforts at this point with any outside personnel. We are questioning the prisoner and gaining valuable intelligence.”

What he was saying, in translation: get the hell out of here. This was his ticket to fortune and glory, and more important, a way out of the country. He didn't want to share.

I didn't blame him. I didn't want to be in Afghanistan either, and I'd spent a lot less time in the country than he had.

Cantrell tried to play mediator. He put an extra layer of shitkicker in his voice, scratched his head, and said, “Well now, if what you were doing was working, we wouldn't be here, would we?”

Townsend's eyes narrowed. “We'll break him. Eventually,” he said.

That should have been the end of it. I should have walked away right there.

But I couldn't. Probably it was just stubbornness. I hated it when
anyone thought that I was lying or faking. Guys like Townsend were so full of contempt for me that I loved it every time I got to prove them wrong.

Cantrell gave me a look. I didn't have to read him to know he wanted us to have a piece of this. He wanted to keep getting calls like the one that brought us here. He needed a market for our services so he could keep drawing on his no-bid Pentagon contract. If Townsend was an obstacle to that, my orders were to get him out of the way.

I scanned Townsend, looking for something I could use. Nothing classified, but something convincing.

I found it almost instantly.

“Hey,” I said, as if out of nowhere. “Refresh my memory. What's the punishment for violating Article 134?”

Townsend wasn't made of stone. His mouth twitched and his eyes went wide for a second. He closed it down fast, but his head was spinning with panic.

“Come on, man,” I said, smiling. “It was more than one time.”

Article 134 is the U.S. Military Uniform Code of Justice section forbidding fraternization between enlisted personnel and a higher-ranking officer. It's the rule that says officers can't screw their subordinates. Or, as anyone who's spent longer than five minutes in uniform knows, the most violated rule in the military. Especially when there are officers like Townsend who don't get home for almost a year at a time.

The female soldier's image popped into Townsend's head, hair damp with sweat, uniform wadded in a ball on the floor. Her name and rank went along with it.

“Maybe we should ask Corporal Karen McCowan. She probably knows.”

Townsend hissed something foul at me under his breath. “You
think that's clever? You think I'm scared of your act? I've played poker with guys at Binion's who read minds better than you. Everybody's got something to hide,” he said. “Like you and those pills you keep in your dopp kit.”

It bothered me that he had people rummaging through my bag, but I could hardly complain about an invasion of privacy.

I tried to shrug it off. “Medicine,” I told him. “Taken under the care and advice of a physician.”

“You're a goddamn junkie,” he shot back.

“Now that's a little harsh.”

It went on for a while like that, but we finally began talking honestly. Cantrell negotiated another questioning session, this time with me present. Townsend's people would have a chance to prove that Fahran knew bin Laden's location, and I would have a chance to confirm it. We'd all go away with a chunk of the credit.

Townsend agreed. The word

kept echoing through his brain, but he agreed.

W
E SET UP
inside what they called the special interrogation room. It was me and Cantrell, a couple of MPs to manage the prisoner, the camp doctor to monitor his health, and Townsend's lead interrogator, a corn-fed engine block of a guy named Hatcher.

Nobody was happy to be in there. The MPs were nervous, for obvious reasons. The officers didn't serve any time after Abu Ghraib, but the MPs did.

The camp doctor was young, barely out of med school, where he was not exactly at the top of his class. It's hard to find quality physicians when the job description includes keeping people alive while they're being tortured. He was supposed to check the vitals of everyone who
went into the Black Jail's interrogation rooms. A brief dip in his head told me he thought signing up for government service was a good way to get out of his student loans. He regretted that decision roughly every four seconds.

Hatcher—not his real name, of course—was angry. He didn't want me looking over his shoulder. Partially because he didn't want to share any credit and partially because he thought I was a fraud. He wasn't a sadist, or a particularly vicious guy, underneath his training. He didn't like his job, or dislike it. He was simply convinced that it was necessary. As far as he was concerned, he was doing the right thing. He wanted to get bin Laden, by any means necessary.

And on a professional level, he was a little embarrassed that he had not been able to make the subject talk yet.

But he had the solution to that. An inclined bench had been brought into the room, along with a five-gallon bucket and a basin. There was a box of plastic bags sitting on the floor, the same kind you'd use to line an office trash can.

Time for the waterboarding.

S
OMETHING
I
OUGHT
to admit right now: I'd been in interrogation sessions before and watched them devolve into outright torture. It happened more than anyone would admit. I was usually tied in close to the subject's brain stem while they were having the shit kicked out of them. It hurt. I always got a piece of their punishment.

One of the few people I could stand to hang out with when I did government work was a shrink. He oversaw interrogations, and it was in this capacity that we met, when he was one of my trainers. We weren't friends, exactly, but we ended up spending time together off duty. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good person. He once personally blinded a detainee in one eye when he felt the man
was holding back. But his thoughts had a calm order to them that made him tolerable to be around, and he had a wide range of knowledge, both from theory and practice, about how the human mind worked. I learned a lot from him.

He told me it was possible to do terrible things to other people, despite listening to them beg for mercy, because of the fail-safes that evolution and civilization have built into the human mind over the past ten thousand years or so. We take a series of steps to wall ourselves off from the consequences of our actions.

The first, and most important, is dehumanization. We decide, consciously and unconsciously, that our enemy is not actually human, that they've chosen a path that reduces them to the level of animals or vermin or robots.
It's their own fault. They don't feel pain the way we do. They're not like us.
And so on. Once we do that, it's pretty easy to justify any other actions in the name of the greater good.

This is how we can continue to think of ourselves as good people even after we put a scalpel into the right eye of a young man from Lahore suspected of being part of an al-Qaeda sleeper cell.

I could never manage that trick. My talent wouldn't allow it. Some of the people we dealt with were unquestionably evil, but I always had a hard time seeing them as inhuman.

Even the man who'd gleefully beheaded a captured U.S. contractor. He smiled as he brought the machete down, felt light-headed with joy when the shock of impact ran up his arm. I knew. I could feel it all, in his memory. I knew he was one of the bad guys, no question. But he still pictured his infant son in his arms as he looked for the strength to resist our questions.

He broke, in the end. Everybody breaks.

No matter what I knew about the prisoners, I couldn't shut down my empathy, as much as I wanted to. So I blamed the prisoners for that, on top of everything else. Just one more thing I had to deal with,
along with the bad food and lousy accommodations and stifling heat and freezing cold. I had to carry their pain too.

I complained about it to Cantrell once.

He listened to me carefully, then smiled. “Well, sheeeeit,” he said, turning it into a five-syllable word. “Nothing in this world's free, son.”

I learned to live with it.

T
HEY BROUGHT THE
prisoner—Fahran—with a black blindfold covering the top half of his head. The MPs carried him, feet off the floor, without difficulty. He looked like he weighed maybe a hundred pounds. They stripped off the blindfold so he could see what was next. He started moaning in fear. He was bruised and shaking and utterly broken. He was in pain and terrified and convinced his god had abandoned him, left him to the demons. He stank of piss and sweat and fear and there was snot crusted into the wisps of mustache he'd tried to grow to prove he was a man.

He was seventeen, according to his paperwork, but looked about twelve. It was easy to see why he'd been called a
bacha
.

I looked at Cantrell. He was thinking the same thing: This was the hard-ass who had resisted all the questioning so far?

They strapped him down and inclined the bench over the basin. Then Hatcher got to work.

The thing is, waterboarding doesn't look like much. It doesn't seem that terrible from outside. Hatcher was almost gentle as he put the plastic bag over the lower half of Fahran's face. He poured water from a bottle over the plastic for less than ten seconds. It's like a magic trick. One moment you're pouring water in a guy's face, the next he's promising to kill his own mother if you'll only stop. I imagine it makes normal humans feel like they can do what I do.

Despite that, and what some overpaid talk-show hacks would have you believe, waterboarding is torture.

Inside Fahran's head, bombs were going off. He could feel the water on his face, in his nose. He couldn't breathe. He sucked desperately for air and got only the taste of cellophane. He tried to break free, but he was strapped down securely. Every reflex in his body told him he was drowning. He devolved into an animal in mere instants, thrashing and desperate. He was sure he was dying.