in al-Qaeda.”
“I think you’re right. I’ll speak to him at Gitmo and see what I make of him.”
Also found in Hamdan’s car were two SAM-7 missile launchers, along with cards detailing numerical codes used internally to refer to al-Qaeda members, entities, locations, and specific tactical words: bin Laden was 4; Zawahiri, 22; Saif al-Adel, 11; and KSM, 10. The military command was 33; the al-Banshiri camp, 31; bin Laden’s bodyguards, 47. Number 77 referred to families; 115, to chemicals; 129, to an ambush; 100, to a tank; 67, to food. Different locations at which fighters were based also had numbers: 108, for example, meant “in town.”
When I arrived back at Guantanamo I requested access to Bahlul from the military, but the interrogators who had been handling him refused. He had been put in a restricted-access location, as he was deemed to be cooperating. The military interrogators explained that he had told them everything he knew, and that any questioning “by you guys from the FBI” was “unnecessary.”
I talked to General Dunlavey about the phone book and the fingerprints. “I believe he’s been lying to the interrogators.” He agreed to grant me access, and I was given Bahlul’s file. I saw that he had been in Gitmo for almost eight months and had been telling the same story consistently: he had been in Afghanistan teaching the Quran and knew nothing about al-Qaeda. It was the cover story that the rest of the dirty thirty had given. Otherwise, the file revealed little about Bahlul.
I was sure that during the previous eight months Bahlul had learned how standard military interrogations worked. I wanted to deliver the message that this interrogation was different, and I wanted him to arrive at different conclusions concerning who I was, why I was there, and what I knew.
The first thing I did was change the interrogation setting. Bahlul had been questioned in a standard room and kept cuffed. We took him to a room designed to look like a small living room, which we furnished with couches, a carpet, a coffee table, and pictures. Matt, the CIA chief, helped us obtain the location and set it up.
When Bahlul was brought into the room, I was sitting on a chair next to the coffee table, waiting for him. He was wearing an inmate’s orange jumpsuit, and both his arms and legs were shackled, but he had a confident, bored look, as if to say, Here’s yet another interrogator who I’m going to have to run through the same issues with. Once he was unshackled, he sat down on the couch, across the coffee table.
I asked him how he was being treated. “Acceptable.” He went on to say that, while there were some instances where the Quran was desecrated “at the beginning,” he felt that they had been dealt with. “Overall, the treatment has been good, and as Muslims, we have to acknowledge justice.”
We started talking to Bahlul about his family and the place he was from in Yemen. I had spent a good deal of time in Yemen investigating the USS
Next I asked him what had made him go to Afghanistan. He gave what appeared to be his stock answer, that he had gone to help people learn the Quran. He said that he had no interest in al-Qaeda or jihad, and that he had gone solely for religious reasons. He also insisted that he hadn’t met any Arabs fighters there, and that he had spent all his time with poor Afghanis who needed religious instruction. We discussed his impressions of the country.
“What do you think of Osama bin Laden’s fatwa to expel the infidel Americans from Muslim lands?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in that fatwa, and there are religious scholars in Saudi Arabia who ruled that America’s presence was not an occupation but legitimate assistance, as it had been requested by the king of Saudi Arabia.”
I played devil’s advocate and gave al-Qaeda’s justifications for jihad in response. He countered them and we had a debate. That Bahlul was so familiar with arguments that countered al-Qaeda’s arguments was a sign that he was familiar with al-Qaeda’s arguments as well. When I kept responding with more of al-Qaeda’s arguments, he continued to respond with religious ideas that contradicted them, but slowly his arguments got weaker and he seemed less sure of himself. It was clear to me that he was repeating things that he had been practicing to say if captured, not saying things he passionately believed in.
“Where is your family now?” I asked, switching topics. “Have you heard from them recently?”
“I don’t know, but I hope that they made it home safely.” I asked this to see whether he had taken his family with him to Afghanistan, following bin Laden’s declaration that it was a religious duty for devout Muslims. The indication that they had been in Afghanistan was a sign that he was likely a member of al-Qaeda. Why else would people take their families to a war zone?
After a while I stopped taking notes, even though I was still asking questions and he continued to answer them. I also began to look disinterested, and at one point I even closed my notebook, put my hand on my head, and yawned. Bahlul looked puzzled—he was used to military interrogators writing down everything he said.
“Tell me again, why did you go to Afghanistan?” I asked.
“I came to teach the Quran, as I told you,” he said. I gave him a big smile. “Why are you smiling?”
“The problem with you guys is that you didn’t come up with better stories. If you and the friends you were captured with were smart, you would have divided yourselves up, saying numbers one to fifteen were studying the Quran, while numbers sixteen to thirty were teaching it. Saying you all are teaching the Quran is just stupid.” Bahlul said nothing, but a smirk crossed his face.
I returned to talking about Islam, but I still wasn’t taking any notes. At a certain point Bahlul could no longer contain himself and asked me sharply: “What?”
“What?” I asked back.
“Why aren’t you taking notes anymore?”
“Did I do anything but respect you here?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “You did respect me.”
“I did. I came here and dealt with you respectfully as one human being to another. But when you are not honest with me, I take that as sign of disrespect.”
“But I’m telling you the truth,” he protested.
“Please, please don’t go down that route. You don’t know what I know. I know who you are. I came here especially to speak to you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Look, you may consider yourself an important soldier in the war against the infidels, but as you sit here and give arguments that contradict what you swore you’d give your life for, you make me wonder how much you really believe in your cause. My question to you is: Do you really believe in these things?” Bahlul was silent. “If you do truly believe these things,” I continued, “then your jihad is not over yet. It is your duty to continue advocating what you were fighting for.
“I have a deal for you,” I continued. “It is time for noon prayers. We should stop and you should go and pray. And when you pray I need you to do an
When he returned, he sat back down in his place on the couch, but this time I sat down next to him. He clasped his hands together between his knees and stared down at the table. “Taqabal Allah,” I said—May God receive your prayers: a common saying among Muslims after prayer.
“Minna wa minkum,” he replied: May God accept them from us and you. Then neither of us said anything for a minute.
“Would you like a cookie?” I said, breaking the silence. On the coffee table in front of us I had put some tea and a plate of cookies.
“Thank you,” he said, removing a cookie from the plate. He took a bite and then said slowly, “I am Anas al- Mekki. I am
I had heard the name Anas al-Mekki many times, in different investigations, and knew he was indeed important. “Would you like some tea?” I replied.
Bahlul coughed up some of the cookie that was still in his mouth. “I told you my position in al-Qaeda and you ask whether I’d like some tea?” He looked at me in disbelief.
“Well, I already knew that,” I told him. “It didn’t surprise me. As I told you, you don’t know what I know. But
