For interrogations to succeed, detainees had to feel — not just understand but feel—that they were beaten, Karp thought. They had to wake up every day knowing that their captors controlled every choice they made. Only then would they tell the truth.
In the years immediately after 9/11, Karp’s view had been standard at the agency and the Pentagon. But now Langley and the army had — officially, anyway — backed away from using force or coercion on detainees. At Guantánamo, the FBI’s hands-off model was the default. The Feds argued that rough tactics were illegal, made prosecutions impossible, and didn’t work anyway. Ill treatment made detainees more resistant, not less. The way to get information was to build relationships with prisoners and reward them for help.
In the FBI model, a dishonest detainee was subject to steady questioning that made him layer lie upon lie on his answers. Eventually, his story collapsed of its own weight. At that point, the agents demanded the truth, and the detainee — knowing that he’d been beaten — gave in. The technique was a classic investigative strategy that detectives in the United States had used for generations.
To which Karp could only say, What planet are you on? He had never seen a prisoner who minded being caught in a lie. Arabs and Afghans, especially, loved to tell tales. Catch them lying, break down their stories, and they apologized, smiled, and started all over again.
And only a few detainees could be bribed, in Karp’s experience. Most jihadis sneered at offers of books, or better food, or extra time to exercise. Nor were they frightened by the threat that they’d spend their lives in prison, especially not at Guantánamo, where they lived among fellow Muslims. No, they needed to know they would be punished for lying, or refusing to talk. They needed to feel fear. They needed to be broken. Then they would tell the truth. Sometimes.
Anyone who thought that the FBI’s tactics would work against jihadis needed to look at American prisons, which were filled with criminals who had accepted long jail terms instead of testifying against friends or relatives in return for shorter sentences. Stop snitching. Hell, Barry Bonds’s trainer had gone to jail instead of admitting what he knew about Bonds’s steroid use. And the guy had won. Eventually, the Feds had let him out. Which was fine, as far as Karp was concerned. Steroid use wasn’t a capital crime.
But if the trainer kept his mouth shut for no better reason than to protect Barry Bonds, nobody should be surprised when religious fanatics weren’t helpful to their interrogators. When Karp pointed out these inconvenient facts to his counterparts at the FBI, and asked, “So, what do we do with the seventy percent of the jihadis who flat-out refuse to talk?” their answer was, “We lock ’em up and keep working.”
That argument had carried the day, more or less. Coercive interrogations had once been discussed at the highest levels of the Pentagon, Langley, and the White House. No longer. The secret charter that 673 had received from the President said only that the members of the unit couldn’t be prosecuted. The charter said nothing about why such an exemption might be necessary. The people in charge still wanted the information that 673 could provide, but they no longer wanted to know how 673 was getting it. Karp understood. September 11 had faded. Most Americans had forgotten Osama bin Laden existed.
But the threat hadn’t changed, Karp thought. Just because Al Qaeda hadn’t pulled off an attack on American soil since 2001 didn’t mean it had stopped trying. And Pakistan was more volatile than ever. If it fell to an Islamist coup, Al Qaeda would have a nuclear bomb within its grasp. Karp sometimes thought that his mission was to make himself the most hated man in America, because he’d be hated only as long as the threat seemed unreal.
So, Karp counted himself lucky to be at the Midnight House, where he could operate the way he needed to. The top guys at the agency, the army, they knew the truth. Even if they would no longer admit it. They knew the United States needed one prison where its interrogators wouldn’t have lawyers or the Red Cross watching them.
KARP STEPPED close to Mohammed, stood over him.
“Mohammed.”
“Who are you?” Mohammed said in Pashto. “Why do you bother me?”
Karp picked him up, shoved him against the rough wall of the cell. Mohammed’s muscles twitched, and Karp wished the kid would fight him a little, come back to earth. But he didn’t. His black eyes were dull, his breath bitter, as though something inside him was rotting. He had left Poland, gone somewhere Karp couldn’t reach.
“You know who I am,” Karp said. “What’s my name? Look at me. Tell me my name.”
“You say your name is Jim. But I know that’s not your name.”
Indeed, Karp used “Jim” as his alias with detainees.
“Why do you say that?”
“The others, they tell me.”
Karp controlled his surprise. No one else in 673 spoke Pashto. And no one should have told Mohammed about the aliases, anyway, though most prisoners guessed.
“Who? ”
“The ones that come when you go. They talk to me. They tell me you stand up too straight.”
“Stand too straight? What are you talking about?”
Karp let him go. Mohammed slumped down the wall. When he reached the floor, he raised his head, locked eyes with Karp. He seemed to be back in the cell, at least temporarily.
“Are you a dancer?”Karp said.
Mohammed shook his head.
“You know what I’m asking, Mohammed?”
“No.”
“A dancer, that’s someone who says whatever comes into his mind, doesn’t tell me the truth.”
“I tell the truth, sir. Always.”
“What’s my name?”
“Ishmael.”
“Ishmael.”
“You’re a prophet. Like me.”
“You’re right,” Karp said. “I’m a prophet. And I predict pain for you, you keep this up.” He reached for Mohammed—
“JIM.”
Karp turned to see Rachel Callar outside the cell.
“I need to talk to you.”
Karp seemed about to argue but instead turned and walked out, locking the cell. She led him into the empty unlocked cell next to Mohammed’s.
“Doctor,” Karp said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You need to be careful with him.”
“How’s that again?”
“He’s in trouble, Ken. He’s got an axis-one disorder, and it’s getting worse.”
As she’d expected, Karp had no idea what she meant, though she knew he would sooner submit to a night in the punishment box than admit his ignorance.
“Axis one. Schizophrenia, major depression with psychotic symptoms. Severe mental illness. The way he sits in the corner, talking to himself. The way he won’t take care of himself. He’s coming unglued.”
“How would you know? You don’t speak Pashto.”
“I’ve picked up a little, the last year. Anyway, it’s obvious.”
“He could be faking.”
“He’s not smart enough.”
“I’ve seen more of these guys than you.”
“And I’ve seen more schizophrenics than you.”
“Congratulations.”
Callar shook her head. Blowing up at Karp wouldn’t serve her. Doctors in general and psychiatrists in particular were supposed to stay serene. I’ve seen everything, and nothing fazes me. She’d mastered the drill in residency. She’d even kept her cool in the emergency room one Thanksgiving night when a drunk sat up in his cot and projectile-vomited a mix of liquor-store rum and soup-kitchen turkey in her face.