Rules of Deception

12

The compound was called Al-Azabar and it belonged to the Palestine branch of Far Falestin, a division of Syrian military intelligence. Philip Palumbo stepped inside the building and winced at the odor of ammonia permeating the main hall. It was not his first visit, not even his tenth, but the eye-watering smell and barren surroundings still got to him. Concrete floor. Concrete walls. Pictures of President Bashir Al-Assad (referred to by his countrymen as “the doctor” because of his training as an ophthalmologist) and his late father, the strongman Hafez Al-Assad, were the only decorations in sight. A desk manned by a lone officer occupied the center of the room. A German shepherd slept at his feet. Seeing Palumbo, the officer stood from the desk and saluted. “Welcome back, sir.”

Palumbo swept past him without answering. For the record, he was not present. If pressed, evidence could be produced to prove he’d never stepped foot on Syrian soil.

Philip Palumbo headed up the Special Removal Unit of the CIA. On paper, the Special Removal Unit belonged to the Counterterrorist Command Center. In truth, the SRU functioned as an autonomous unit, and Palumbo reported directly to the deputy director of operations, Admiral James Lafever, the second-ranking man in the Agency.

Palumbo’s job was simple enough. Locate suspected terrorists and abduct them for interrogation. To this end, he disposed of a fleet of three corporate jets, a team of operatives poised to travel to all four corners of the map with an hour’s notice, and the unwritten dispensation of Admiral Lafever, and behind him, the president of the United States, to do whatever needed to be done. There was only one caveat: Don’t get caught. It was a double-edged sword, to be sure.

The plane had touched down in Damascus at 1:55 p.m. local time. His first act was to transfer custody of the prisoner to the Syrian authorities. The papers he had signed in triplicate made Prisoner 88891Z a ward of the Syrian penal system. Somewhere over the Mediterranean, Walid Gassan had ceased to exist. He had been officially “disappeared.”

A trim, businesslike officer in a starched olive uniform emerged from a brightly lit corridor. His name was Colonel Majid Malouf-or “Colonel Mike,” as he insisted on being called-and he would be handling the interrogation. Colonel Mike was an unattractive man, his face haggard, his cheeks and neck violently pockmarked. He greeted the American with a kiss on each cheek, a hug, and a handshake as powerful as a bear trap. The two men retreated to Colonel Mike’s office where Palumbo spent an hour going over the details of the case, concentrating on the holes they needed Gassan to fill.

The Syrian lit a cigarette and studied his notes. “What’s the time frame?”

“We think the threat is imminent,” said Palumbo. “Days maybe. A couple of weeks at the most.”

“A rush job, then.”

“I’m afraid so.”

The Syrian picked a loose shard of tobacco from his tongue. “Will we have time to bring in any relatives?”

A proven interrogation technique involved producing a suspect’s mother or sister. The mere threat of physical harm to either was usually sufficient to secure a full confession.

“No way,” said Palumbo. “We need something actionable now.”

The Syrian shrugged. “Understood, my friend.”

Officially, Syria still figured on the United States’ list of state sponsors of terrorism. Though it had not been directly linked to any terrorist operations since 1986 and it actively forbade any domestic groups from launching attacks from its own soil or attacks targeting Westerners, it was known to provide “passive support” to various hard-line groups calling for Palestinian independence. Islamic Jihad based their headquarters in Damascus, and both Hamas and the leftist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine kept offices in the city.

Despite this, and Syria’s abysmal record of human rights, the American government viewed the Syrians as partners in the war on terror. After 9/11, the Syrian president had shared intelligence regarding the whereabouts of certain Al-Qaeda operatives with the United States and had condemned the attacks. During the Iraq war, the Syrian military had worked to staunch the cross-border flow of insurgents into Iraq. A secular dictatorship, Syria wanted no part of the Islamic fundamentalist revolution sweeping the Arab world. Extremism was not tolerated.

The interrogation cell was a narrow, dank room with a barred window high on the wall and a drain in the center of the floor. A guard led the prisoner into the room. A moment later, a second guard dragged in a schoolboy’s wooden desk, the kind with the chair and writing table attached to one another. Gassan was made to sit down. One of the guards removed the black hood covering his head.

“So, Mr. Gassan,” began Colonel Mike, speaking Arabic. “Welcome to Damascus. If you cooperate and answer our questions, your stay will be brief and we will transfer you back to the custody of our American friends. Do you understand?”

Gassan made no reply.

“Would you like a cigarette? Some water? Anything at all?”

“Go fuck yourself,” muttered Gassan, but his bravado was ruined by the nervous glances he threw over his shoulders.

Colonel Mike gave a signal and the guards fell on Gassan. One wrenched his left arm behind his back, while the other extended the right arm, landing a knee on his forearm and flattening his palm on the table. The fingers twitched as if stimulated with an electric current.

“I am an American citizen,” shouted Gassan as he writhed and struggled. “I have rights. You are to free me at once. I wish to call a lawyer. I demand to be repatriated.”

Colonel Mike took a pearl-handled penknife from his breast pocket and freed the blade. Carefully, he separated Gassan’s pinky from the other fingers, slipping a wine cork in the hollow to prevent it from moving.

“I demand to see the ambassador! You have no authority! I am an American citizen. You have no right-”

Colonel Mike laid the blade at the base of the finger and severed the digit as if he were chopping a carrot. Gassan screamed, then screamed louder when Colonel Mike applied a bandage moistened with disinfectant to the stump.

Palumbo looked on, showing no emotion.

“Now then, my friend,” said Colonel Mike, lowering himself on his haunches so he was face to face with Gassan. “On January tenth, you were in Leipzig, Germany. You met with Dimitri Shevchenko, an arms dealer who was in possession of fifty kilos of plastic explosives. Ah, you are surprised! Don’t be, my friend. We know what we’re talking about. Your colleagues in Germany have been most generous with their information. It is pointless to keep your silence. So much aggravation. So much pain. You know what they say. ‘In the end, you will talk anyway.’ Come, habibi, let us be civilized.”

Gassan grimaced, his eyes locked on his ruined hand.

Colonel Mike sighed and went on. “You paid Shevchenko ten thousand dollars and transferred three boxes containing the trophies into a white Volkswagen van. This much we know. You will tell us the rest. Namely, to whom you delivered the explosives, and what they plan to do with them. I can promise that you will not leave before giving us this information. And if you think you can lie, I must add that we will wait to learn if it is true. Let us begin. Tell us about the explosives. To whom did you deliver them?”

Palumbo studied his shoes. It was at this point that they discovered a man’s mettle.

Gassan spat in his interrogator’s face.

A fighter, then.

Palumbo left the room. It was time to get some coffee. It was going to be a long night.