Act of War

CHAPTER 17

Had the safe house garage been soundproofed, Harvath could have carried out the entire interrogation right there. It had a drain in the center of the floor and a utility sink with a long hose connected to a plastic spray nozzle.

Harvath had debated whether to clean Hanjour up. He had soiled himself inside the Storm Case. Leaving a subject in his own filth was a powerful tactic some interrogators employed. It sent a solid message about who was in charge and how much mercy the subject could expect. Harvath, though, had never been a big fan of the tactic.

While he could be brutal when he needed to be, there was a line from Nietzsche that was never far from his consciousness. Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

Harvath had no choice but to battle monsters. It was his job. He did, though, have a choice when it came to how deeply he would let the abyss stare into him. He had no intention of becoming like the monsters he hunted. Besides, a simple act of human kindness could also be a powerful interrogation tool, especially if the subject was already broken.

Feed their dreams and starve their fears was a mantra the Old Man had taught him. Judging by the looks of Khuram Hanjour, all the recruiter was dreaming about right now was gaining his freedom. His biggest fear was being locked back inside the psychologically suffocating confines of the Storm Case.

After wheeling the container inside the ground-floor bathroom, Harvath and Cowles had donned masks, butcher’s aprons, and rubber gloves. They lifted Hanjour out of the case, propped him up in the tub, and turned on the shower.

Once he was as clean as he was going to get, they used trauma scissors to cut away the duct tape. Some strips refused to come loose and Harvath knew they’d be pulling away skin, so he left them on. They could be used later to inflict pain, but he didn’t think that was going to be necessary.

They cut away Hanjour’s soiled khakis and underwear, then put a hood over his head and dragged him out of the bathroom and down to the basement. The cell was at the end of a short cinderblock hall. Cowles removed a set of keys and opened the door. There were portable construction lights, a video camera, and a lone chair. Along the wall behind the chair, a sheet had been hung so that no one would ever be able to reverse-engineer where the video had been shot.

Harvath sat Hanjour down and secured him to the chair. He then nodded to Cowles, who left the room, closing and locking the cell door behind him. Harvath stood at the far corner for a few moments watching Hanjour. Placing the hood over his head had brought about a severe panic attack. Harvath walked over and removed it.

“Take deep breaths,” he told him. “Breathe.”

Harvath walked back over to the wall and watched. The mind was an incredible thing. It could help transport a person to incredible heights or reduce him to unfathomable lows. The range and breadth of personality traits, mental disorders, and capacity for good or evil in human beings was staggering. Harvath had watched interrogators break some of the toughest subjects he had ever seen in half the time it had taken him to break weaker men. Interrogation was an art form, and at its core was an understanding of how the human mind and all of its complicated components worked.

He waited until Hanjour’s breathing had normalized and then turned on the video camera to begin his interrogation. “Khuram, you have something I want. If you give it to me, I’m going to let you live. In fact, I may even set you free. But all of that is going to depend on how well you cooperate.”

Hanjour shook his head. It took him a moment to find his words. “You will never set me free.”

“Why do you think that, Khuram?”

“Your country doesn’t release people like me.”

He had a good point, but Harvath wasn’t going to concede it. “You’d be surprised what kind of an arrangement might be made,” he said. “Of course, you would be working for us, but I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let me finish laying the ground rules. If you lie to me, I will know and I will put you back in the box. If I even think you are lying to me, I’ll put you back in the box. If you give me an unsatisfactory answer at any time, I will put you back in the box. I know everything, Khuram. I just want to hear it in your words. Have I made myself clear?”

Hanjour nodded.

“Is it your wish then not to be put back in the box?”

Hanjour nodded again.

“Say it. Say I don’t want to be put back in the box.”

The man saw the expression on the American’s hard face and knew he was serious. “I do not want to be put back in the box.”

“Say it again,” Harvath ordered.

“I do not want to be put back in the box.”

“Where are you going if you do not cooperate with me?”

“Back in the box,” stammered Hanjour, his voice trembling.

“And who will put you there?”

“You will.”

Harvath watched the recruiter’s face. He was establishing a baseline in order to be able to read his microexpressions and catch whether, at any point, he was lying.

When Harvath was ready, he asked, “Who is Ahmad Yaqub?”

“Ahmad Yaqub?”

Harvath exploded off the wall. “That is not an acceptable response. That’s a delaying tactic. For that, you’re going back in the box.”

Harvath walked over to the door, pounded on it, and yelled, “Bring me the box.”

Hanjour began shaking. “Please,” he implored him. “No box.”

“You’re doing it to yourself, Khuram. I told you what would happen if you didn’t cooperate.”

“I will cooperate. Please.”

“Who is Ahmad Yaqub?” Harvath demanded.

“I do not know this man,” said Hanjour.

There was an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his left eye.

“What is your name?” Harvath demanded.

“My name?”

“Yes. What is your name?”

“Khuram Hanjour.”

No twitch.

“Who is Ahmad Yaqub?”

“I have told you. I do not know this man.”

There it was again, the tell. Hanjour was lying.

Cowles entered with the Storm Case, placed it on the floor, and then exited the cell. Immediately, Hanjour began breathing faster. Just seeing the case was enough to trigger a panic attack.

Harvath walked over to the chair and pointed at the case. “I’m sure it felt like an eternity for you inside there. It wasn’t. You weren’t in there that long at all. This time, though, you will be. I have all the time in the world. I can lock you in that box and come back later tonight, tomorrow, or I can leave you in there for days.

“You’ll feel like you’re going to die, like you can’t breathe, but I’m not going to let you die, Khuram. I am going to keep you alive so that your fear grinds down every nerve, every fiber in your body. You’re going to go insane, but before you do, I promise, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

Harvath dragged the case right next to his prisoner and opened the lid. The odor was horrible. It smelled not only of urine and feces, but of sweat and one hundred percent pure fear.

He moved behind Hanjour to unsecure him from the chair and the man said, “Please, no. Please.”

Harvath ignored him and reached for the first restraint.

“Ahmad Yaqub is a mujahideen from Saudi Arabia,” Hanjour blurted out. “He is a member of Al Qaeda.”

Harvath stopped what he was doing and slowly circled back in front of the recruiter. “How long have you known him?”

Hanjour paused to consider his response, but it appeared a legitimate attempt to recollect the exact information. “Five years.”

No twitch.

“Where is Ahmad Yaqub based?” Harvath asked. “Where does he live?”

“Waziristan.”

No twitch. Hanjour was telling him the truth.

“When was the last time you both communicated?”

Hanjour thought and then replied. “Sometime in the last six months.”

“He paid you to recruit a team of men.”

Hanjour nodded.

“No nodding,” Harvath ordered. “Answer me.”

“Yes. He hired me to recruit a team of men.”

“For what purpose?”

“I don’t know.”

Harvath kicked the man’s chair, hard. “For what purpose?”

“I don’t know,” Hanjour repeated. The outburst had startled him, but he didn’t appear to be lying.

“He asked for engineers. Six students.”

That was a new piece of information. “Students?”

“Yes, Ahmad Yaqub wanted engineering students,” said Hanjour.

“Why?”

“Because it was easier to get them U.S. visas.”

Harvath knew Levy was watching the feed of the interrogation in a room upstairs. He didn’t need to look into the camera to tell her what to do; she would already be on a secure link back to Langley.

“Did you get the visas yourself?”

“Yes. I got the visas,” Hanjour replied.

“What were their names?”

“I don’t remember.”

There it was, the twitch.

“You’re lying to me,” said Harvath. Pulling the hood from his back pocket, he prepared to pull it over the man’s head and Hanjour began stammering again.

The recruiter rattled off a list of six names. Harvath listened and then made him do it again.

It appeared that Hanjour was telling the truth. Harvath, though, knew there was only one way to be absolutely sure.