Eric Maddox: Mission: Black List #1

Jeff, who had done most of the interrogations before I came, had used the mansion’s guesthouse for questioning detainees. It was there that we took the bodyguard. The place was well suited for the task at hand. It had four bedrooms, the largest of which had a couple of couches, some plastic folding chairs, and a piece of plywood propped on ration boxes to serve as a table. The windows were also covered with plywood but what really made it ideal was the air-conditioning. Considering the long hours spent in there, and the intensity of the work being done, air-conditioning was essential to cope with the 120-degree heat.

“So how do you want to handle this?” Jeff was being polite by asking me first, but I knew the meaning behind his words: You’re the interrogator. This is where you earn your keep.

“I’m flexible. I figured I’d just start. Any time you want to jump in is fine with me. Maybe we can take a break every hour or so, to give the terp a rest and evaluate where we’re at.”

Jeff agreed. I knew I needed him in there with me. First, he knew more about the situation on the ground than I did. But equally important was the fact that I wanted to be able to gain his trust in my ability to interrogate. Not that I exactly trusted myself. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

But this really wasn’t about proving anything to him, or to anyone else. I had to be totally focused on getting information, information the task force could use. As of that moment I had no idea what this handcuffed man with a bag on his head might be able to tell me, or if he’d tell me anything at all. I was looking for something. I just had no idea what it was.

I could feel Jeff and Adam’s eyes on me as I sat down and removed the bag from the prisoner’s head. I took a deep breath. Those few minutes I’d spent last night in the chaos and confusion of the raid were just a warm-up. Now I needed to earn my keep.

The prisoner’s name was Rafi Idham Ibrahim Al-Hasan Al-Tikriti. Rafi was the name his parent’s gave him; Idham was his father; Ibrahim was his grandfather; Al-Hasan was his tribe and Al-Tikriti identified his hometown. His name alone provided some useful information.

The rest would be up to me. And I wanted to find out as much as I could. I was new to the job, new to the country, new to the war. To me Rafi was more than a detainee; he was a walking encyclopedia. He could tell me what it was like to be an Iraqi, a Muslim, a Sunni. He could describe the world of a bodyguard and take me inside their inner circle. I needed to hear it all. But most of all, I needed to learn what it meant to be an interrogator. This was my chance for some on-the-job training.

From the beginning I had my doubts about my prisoner. He was a former lieutenant colonel in the Iraqi army, but he looked like he was more familiar with taking orders than giving them. Hunched and frail, he acted polite and eager to please, ready to tell me anything he thought I wanted to hear. As time went on and I gained more experience interrogating, I would learn the detainees with balls were actually the best subjects. They didn’t just tell you what they thought you wanted to hear. Instead they’d test and challenge you in a game of wits to see who would prevail. When you went toe to toe with them, at least you had the chance to catch them in a lie. The weak and passive ones were only interested in placating you and staying out of trouble. You had to move past their fear and submission to even have a chance of getting at the truth. For the moment, all Rafi wanted us to know was how happy he was to be fully cooperating with the liberators of his country.

“How do you feed your family, Rafi?” I asked him once I’d gotten the preliminaries out of the way—mostly routine questions about his background. He answered with a longwinded story about how he had retired from the military, had gone into farming and was then drafted back into service in the run-up to the war. It was all pretty vague, but I preferred it that way, even though it took hours to get through. I wanted to know what he was most afraid to tell us.

“What did you do when you left the military?” I asked.

He went on to disavow any knowledge or connection to the regime. “I only worked at the palace,” he insisted.

“Not where, Rafi. What? What did you do?”

“Hamaya,” he muttered. It was the Arabic word for “bodyguard.” After several hours going around in circles we were finally getting somewhere.

“Whose bodyguard?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Rafi glanced around the room, like he was looking for a way out.

“Whose bodyguard!” I repeated loudly.

Rafi flinched. “I was the lowest bodyguard for the president,” he whispered.

“Say ‘Saddam,’ asshole!” Adam shouted. “He’s not the president anymore.” Adam was proving his worth as a terp. He sensed the purpose behind my tactics and actually seemed to be getting angry along with me.

I let a moment pass in silence. I wanted Rafi to think about where this was going. “We know you were Saddam’s bodyguard,” I said at last. “I just wanted to see how long you were going to avoid telling me.”

“I was not avoiding you, mister,” he insisted. “I was ashamed that they made me come back.”

“What was your job in the army, before the war?”

“I am a retired lieutenant colonel.”

“I didn’t ask for your rank,” I barked, inches from his face. “I asked what your fucking job was!”

“Hamaya.” His voice was barely audible.

“So you were ashamed to come back to take a job you’d already done for twenty years?” I asked with maximum sarcasm.

“I was the lowest bodyguard,” he repeated helplessly.

“How is it that you were a lieutenant colonel and still just an insignificant bodyguard?”

“I was related to Saddam. He gave me the rank.”

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Rafi realized he’d made a serious mistake. This was the one fact he definitely didn’t want us to know.

“How are you related to Saddam?” I asked, dropping my voice and looking him in the eye.

“My grandfather took care of him,” he answered very slowly and carefully. “My father was close to him.”

“I want to know how you are related.”

“Mister, there is no blood between us.”

For the first time Jeff spoke up, telling Rafi clearly how he was sick of his pathetic groveling attitude, his lies and even his annoying personality. Jeff’s deep-set eyes were flashing and his jaw was clenched. It was the first time I’d seen his temper flare, but it wouldn’t be the last.

Over the next hour we both worked on the prisoner until we had gotten all the details of his family tree. By that time, it was clear that Rafi was closer to Saddam than we could have expected. He was, in fact, a nephew once removed. His father, Rafi told me, was Saddam’s oldest and dearest stepbrother, and Rafi’s dad was like a father to Saddam.

“But I hate Saddam,” Rafi insisted. “I will kill him myself. Thank you, mister, for saving my country. Together we will make a powerful team to bring down the regime.”

“Bring down the regime?” I repeated, “You are the regime, Rafi. You’re Saddam’s nephew and one of his bodyguards. Do you know what that means?”

“But I hate—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Jeff shouted.

In any interrogation, one of the primary purposes is to establish guilt. In a war like the one we were fighting, when the enemy was everywhere and nowhere, that could prove extremely difficult. It was more than convincing yourself that the person you were questioning was a bad guy. You had to convince him of the fact. By revealing his close connection to Saddam, Rafi had also revealed that he had been trying to deceive us every chance he had. “We got you, Rafi,” I continued. “We’ve got enough to put you in prison for the rest of your life.”