London Bridges - James Patterson [38]
I encouraged the translator to engage the terrorist suspect in small talk about his hometown and then his difficult transition to life in New York, the Devil’s den. I asked that he slip in that I was a fairly good man and one of the few FBI agents who wasn’t inherently evil. “Tell him I read the Koran. Beautiful book.”
In the meantime, I sat and tried to model the terrorist’s behavior, to mimic it, without being too obvious. He sat forward in his chair. So did I. If I could become the first American he would learn to trust, even a little, he might let something slip.
It didn’t work too well at first, but he did answer a few questions about his city of origin; he maintained that he came to America on a student visa, but I knew he didn’t have a passport. He also didn’t know the location of any universities in New York, not even NYU.
Finally, I got up and stomped angrily out of the room. I went to see the second suspect and repeated the same process with him.
Then I returned to the skinny youth. I carried in a stack of reports and threw them on the floor. There was a loud whack, and he actually jumped.
“Tell him he lied to me!” I yelled at the translator. “Tell him I trusted him. Tell him the FBI and CIA aren’t filled with fools, whatever he’s been told in his country. Just keep talking to him. Yelling is even better. Don’t let him talk until he has something to tell us. Then yell over whatever he has to say. Tell him he’s going to die and then we’ll track down his entire family in Saudi Arabia!”
For the next couple of hours, I kept going back and forth between the two rooms. My years as a therapist made me fairly good at reading people, especially in a disturbed state. I picked out a third terrorist, the remaining woman, and added her to the mix. CIA officers were questioning the subjects every time I left a room. No torture, but it was a constant barrage.
In the FBI training sessions at Quantico, they talk about their principles of interrogation as the RPMs: rationalization, projection, and minimization. I rationalized like crazy: “You’re a good person, Ahmed. Your beliefs are true ones. I wish I had your strong faith.” I projected blame: “It isn’t your fault. You’re just a young guy. The United States government can be evil at times. Sometimes I think we need to be punished myself.” I minimized consequences: “So far, you’ve committed no actual crimes here in America. Our weak laws and judicial system can protect you.” And I got down to business: “Tell me about the Englishman. We know that his name is Geoffrey Shafer. He’s called the Weasel. He was here yesterday. We have videotapes, photographs, audiotapes. We know he was here. Where is he now? He’s the one we really want.”
I kept at it, repeating my pitch again and again. “What did the Englishman want you to do? He’s the guilty one, not you or your friends. We already know this. Just fill in a few blanks for us. You’ll be able to go home.”
Then I repeated the same questions about the Wolf.
Nothing worked with any of the terrorists, though, not even the young ones. They were tough; more disciplined and more experienced than they looked; smart and clearly very motivated.
Why not? They believed in something. Maybe there’s something to be learned from that, too.
Chapter 51
THE NEXT TERRORIST I chose was older, ruddily good-looking, with a thick mustache and white, nearly perfect teeth. He spoke English and told me, with some pride, that he had studied at Berkeley and Oxford.
“Biochemistry and electrical engineering. Does that surprise you?” His name was Ahmed el-Masry, and he was number eight on Homeland Security’s hit list.
He was very willing to talk about Geoffrey Shafer.
“Yes, the Englishman came here. You are right about this, of course. Video- and audiotapes don’t usually lie. He claimed to have something important