The code breaker, p.10
The Code Breaker, page 10
part #2 of New Beginnings Series
I sorted through all of the details, trying to find a way to summarize it all.
“Well, first of all, torture is out. For maximum information extraction, physical torture isn’t going to get me reliable information. That doesn’t mean we can’t make the prisoner uncomfortable, of course; there’s a big difference. So I shouldn’t advocate for torture or participate in it, but the reality is, I’ll probably be witness to it. Our allies may use interrogators that don’t have the same… moral sensibilities that we do. It’ll just be something I have to tolerate.”
Fulbright nodded and motioned for me to continue. “Tell me about the arrest and capture phase.”
“When the prisoner is captured, you want to keep him in a state of uncertainty. If he doesn’t know what to expect, that will add to his mental anxiety and make his reactions something we can use against him in later phases. We should also be very consistent and professional. We want the prisoner to realize that we know what we’re doing, are confident, and that we have a firm plan that they’re unaware of. That should also erode some of their confidence.”
“Tell me about the interviews.”
“Depending on the personality of the prisoner, we might try several approaches. We may want to maintain some level of discomfort for the prisoner—maybe a polished chair that has the front legs shorter than the back so he tends to slide off of it. Keeping his mind focused on balancing himself might distract him, and he might let an answer escape that he might not otherwise have given up. Another alternative is to make the prisoner very comfortable. A big lunch, beer, whatever is necessary. This way, he might drop his guard while he’s responding to questions because of his drowsiness. We can even alternate the approaches to add to the prisoner’s confusion.”
Fulbright nodded his approval. “What about confrontations?”
“When we interview a prisoner, we should always keep track of everything they’ve said. Sometimes we can deliberately misquote what they said just to confuse them or make them angry. If they lose their composure, that’s good. We want them to talk. If they’re talking, they’re liable to let out something they meant to keep hidden. And if we can catch them in a lie, that’ll unnerve them, and some of their resistance may begin to crumble.”
The sergeant jabbed his index finger at me. “And don’t forget that even though you might be able to prove he’s a liar, you always want to leave the prisoner a loophole. Some people, when confronted with a lie, will stick to the lie even harder. You need to make sure that you ask questions that let them adjust their stories without any direct admission of lying.”
“Understood. So is the ultimate goal to make them think we’re kind of an ally of theirs?”
“Well, sure, that would be ideal. But inevitably, the prisoner will need to understand the futility of his situation. The only way things can get better for him is by sharing information with us. It’s at that point, when his resistance crumbles and he realizes he has no choice, that’s when you can get the information you’re looking for. You may have to repeat these interviews over and over across a period of weeks. Some people take longer to break.”
The sergeant’s desk phone rang, and he snatched it up. “Fulbright here.”
I sensed the director’s thoughts on the other end of the line. “Is he ready?”
“Yes, sir. He’s got the basics down. The rest he’ll figure out on site.”
“Good. I’ve got his diplomatic credentials set and gotten Walsh to give him a pass on the CST. He’s going to have to pick up what he’s missing on the job. Give him some guidance on our use of embassies and military protocols so he doesn’t screw things up. Send him my way for mission details. Catherine’s got his uniform, passport, and plane tickets.”
“Taken care of, sir.” The sergeant hung up and turned back to me. “It’s time to give you a brief lesson on when and how to salute.”
“Salute? As in military salute?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” The sergeant smiled. “You’re going to be walking around pretending to be an Air Force officer.”
“Any questions about what Catherine gave you?” the director asked.
Catherine had given me a suitcase containing a pressed and folded Air Force uniform including shoes, officer’s hat, and belt, and a gold bar signifying a second lieutenant. She also gave me my plane tickets and a diplomatic passport—both under a different name.
“A few, sir,” I said. “Are we sure the uniform is going to fit? I mean I’d hate to have a last-minute issue.”
“We got all your measurements while you were unconscious, so what you have should be fine. What else you got?”
I held up the passport. “Another name, sir? Is this permanent?”
The director shook his head. “No, that’s only to get you to Cyprus. The quickest way was through a commercial flight, and we don’t want your real name being used in channels that our friends in the former KGB might be watching.”
I appreciated that. Despite the director’s sometimes impatient exterior, he was looking out for my well-being. He was a man I was beginning to trust.
“Thank you, sir. Just one more question: what, exactly, is my mission?”
The director handed me a sealed envelope. “Your mission specifics and contact names are in here. But don’t open it until you get to the US embassy in Nicosia. I’ve arranged for you to make contact with a British MI6 agent who will take you to the black site.”
“Understood, sir. Do I need to use the assumed name with the agent?”
“No, but stick to first names only. There’s absolutely no reason why anyone needs to know more than that. Also, anything you’re carrying, including the envelope, should be kept in the suitcase, which you’ll use as a carry-on. Your diplomatic credentials will allow you to bypass scrutiny at customs for that bag, since you’ll be officially listed as a diplomatic courier with a destination of our embassy in Nicosia. But you probably won’t be in the embassy for more than a day, so pack some comfortable street clothes and wear those once you get to your destination.”
This all seemed fairly straightforward, but one concern had been nagging at me. “Sir, as to the interrogation. Sergeant Fulbright did a great job filling me in on the current methods, but I’m not sure if I’ll actually need to do everything he said. With my abilities, I suspect things might be easier than what he described.”
The director nodded. “I suspect you’re right. Just don’t tell anyone, even your contact, about what you can do. As of right now, there are only a few people who even have a clue about what you can do. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Director Lynch then opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a hand-held device that consisted of a tiny keyboard, a small electronic readout, and a flashing red LED.
He pointed at a small metal line. “Swipe your index finger across the sensor.”
I did as he instructed, and the readout lit up.
NATSAT Confidential Field Communications
-- Encoding session verified --
<< Message Received >>
First Power-on / Self-test
Welcome to operational status, Agent Samuelson.
“This is how you’ll get secure communications from us,” the director explained. “Just slide your finger across the scanner, and once it confirms who you are, any pending messages from us will be displayed.” He pointed at the LED, which was now dark. “When this lights up, there’s a message waiting.” He pressed a button on the side of the device, and a stylus popped out. “You might want to use this stylus on the keyboard, since it’s too small for fingers.”
He handed me the device, and I stored it in my suitcase.
The director then stood, patted me on the shoulder, and led me out of his office. “Welcome to Operations, Jeremiah. I’d wish you luck, but I don’t believe in it. As operators, we make our own luck. I’m confident that you’ll do some amazing things here. Just keep in mind that nobody needs to know the full extent of who you are or what you can do. I can’t stress enough how important that is. Your abilities are an advantage so long as nobody knows about them.”
“Understood, sir.”
A rush of excitement ran through me as I thought about the upcoming mission. I was about to see and experience things that I couldn’t even have imagined just a short while ago.
Being squeezed between two other passengers for an eleven-hour flight was not an enjoyable experience for a man of my size. I didn’t even have the luxury of wearing comfortable clothing for the trip, as my cover required me to wear the Air Force officer’s uniform. So I was greatly relieved when I finally stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac of the Larnaca airport, where a light breeze off the ocean reminded me of South Florida.
I walked with the other passengers to the arrivals building, where two huge lines had already formed at customs—one for citizens of Cyprus, the other for non-citizens. I pulled the passport from my pocket and waited in the non-citizens line.
I didn’t have to wait as long as I’d thought. A customs officials who’d been walking up and down the line glanced at my black passport and motioned for me to step out of the line. “Sir, diplomats can queue on the far side. No need for you to wait.”
I looked in the direction the man pointed. A lone customs official was waiting under a “Diplomats” sign, without a single person in line. With a smile, I eagerly headed over and handed the woman my passport. She slid it under a scanner, then handed it back.
“Welcome to Cyprus, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you. Do you know where I might get a taxi?”
The woman looked up, annoyed at first, then paused. Her thoughts betrayed her as she gave me a warm smile. “Such a handsome young man.”
She pointed toward a sign that indicated, in both English and Greek, the exit to taxis, rental cars, and buses. “The signs will direct you to transportation, sir.”
“Sorry,” I said, “I should have seen that. Thank you.”
I tightened my grip on the suitcase as I stepped out into the island nation of Cyprus. I was greeted by a warm sun, the squawks of seagulls, and people yelling good-natured greetings. Most voices spoke Greek, but I also heard some English and other languages.
I went to the taxi stand and took my place in yet another line. It was then that I heard a voice speaking in Russian. Hearing Russian still set me on edge. I knew that not everyone who spoke Russian was after me, but then again, it was probably safer to be on edge.
Maintaining a calm exterior, I scanned the thoughts of the Russian speaker—only to find that perhaps my fears weren’t entirely foolish. This man wasn’t KGB now, but he had been at one time, years ago, before the fall of the Soviet Union. For now, he and his wife were simply a couple on vacation, and neither of them had any cares about me.
When the next taxi pulled up, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I climbed in and closed the door behind me. “US Embassy in Nicosia, please.”
The cab driver responded with the Greek equivalent of “Okay,” and we pulled away from the curb.
I leaned back in my seat and tried to relax, but my mind kept going back to the KGB. There had to be a way for me to permanently get those guys off my back.
The Prisoner’s Escape
I’d only been in the US embassy long enough to have a room assigned to me and change into civilian clothes when the phone rang.
“Sir,” said a female voice, “this is Radya, one of the embassy staff members. I have a Neville Taylor here to see you. He says he’s expected.”
I opened the sealed envelope the director had given me, and read the handwritten name scrawled on the paper.
“I’ll be right down,” I said.
After hastily repacking my uniform, I grabbed my suitcase and hurried downstairs.
A beautiful dark-skinned woman was waiting for me as I stepped off the elevator. She greeted me with a smile. “Hello, sir, I’m Radya. Your guest asked me to tell you that he’s waiting for you out front in the white Land Rover with the British number plates.”
“Thank you.”
I walked out of the embassy’s front entrance, and there, just beyond the embassy’s protective concrete wall, stood a white SUV. As I approached, the passenger door opened and a thin, brown-haired man leaned over from the driver’s side.
“Jeremiah?”
I nodded.
“Hiya mate, I’m Neville. Get your bum in the car. We’ve got a bloody long drive ahead of us.”
The “bloody long drive” turned out to be over some of the rockiest terrain I’d ever been on. I had to hang onto my seatbelt with one hand and the car’s dashboard with the other to keep from being bounced all over the place. We’d left all signs of civilization behind, and it was unclear to me if we were even on a road. The occasional patches of thick green underbrush could easily have hidden an unseen cliff.
“You look like a young bloke,” Neville said as he drove. “How long have you been an operator?”
“Truthfully, this is my first assignment. How long have you been with your outfit?”
“I first got hired in the early noughties.”
“The naughties?” I asked.
“Noughties? You know, zero?”
I shook my head, confused.
“Oh for heavens’ sake, the two thousands. You Americans are just the dimmest folks around when it comes to proper English.”
Despite the stereotype of Brits having good manners, Neville was apparently a bit of a curmudgeon. I scanned his thoughts, and found that his frustration was due largely to having had very little success with his prisoner. He’d been hoping for some hard-nosed assistance from the American agent, and now that he’d seen how young I was, he’d decided I was unlikely to be of any real use.
“How much farther to our target?” I asked.
“Xyliatos is only another fifteen minutes. Ride too bumpy for you?”
My stomach flip-flopped as the car flew down an embankment. “Do many people use this… road?”
“Ha, not so much. Xyliatos is a bit isolated, but that’s kind of the point now, isn’t it? We can’t have people knowing too much about what we’re up to.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“We’re keeping the prisoner safe in a cave carved out of the mountain overlooking the village.” He looked over at me. “Better hang on, mate, this next one is a stomach-lurcher.”
I barely had time to react before the SUV went right over the edge of a steep-walled ravine. For a moment I thought we would start flipping end over end, but Neville deftly threaded us through the boulders and trees, and when we reached the bottom, he turned the wheel sharply left.
“My God, I hate that path,” he said.
I tried to loosen the death grip I had on my seatbelt. “Then why the hell use it?”
“Because the only other way in and out of the village is to follow this ravine for another hour and a half in the opposite direction. But if we go this way…” Neville pointed up ahead. “You see? We’re already here.”
Sure enough, the ravine opened into a valley surrounded by mountains on all sides. Close by, a few farmers were working some fields next to a grove of orange trees, and farther away were the white walls of a few buildings.
“Is that the whole village?” I asked.
“It’s not exactly London or New York, but for the hundred and fifty people who live here, it’s home.” He pointed at the slope on the opposite side of the valley. “See those two little buildings up there? That’s where you and I will be bunking.”
“Is it just you here?” I asked.
“Nah, we have a few SAS chaps charged with keeping our guy where he is and preventing any trouble.”
SAS, as I’d learned, was the British equivalent of our military’s Special Forces.
When we arrived at our destination, Neville gave me a wink. “I bet you’re ready to meet the prisoner. Headquarters told me that you might have some unconventional approaches to getting him to talk. I can’t wait to see what that might be. So far, he’s been a real silent bloke.”
As I climbed from the car, I also wondered what my “unconventional approach” would be.
The two buildings looked even smaller up close—basically campground bunkhouses without any windows—and between them was what I could only guess was an outhouse. Sure enough, as we approached, the door to the outhouse opened and a soldier stepped out, zipping up his pants.
Neville yelled at him. “Carlton, if you’re done pointing Percy at the porcelain, I’ve got someone for you to meet.”
“Can you believe villagers like the ones down below carved these caves out of the mountain using medieval stonemason’s tools?” Neville said. “I can’t imagine how much work it would require even with modern equipment.”
I pointed at the one-way glass set in the wall of the prisoner’s cell. “Clearly this wasn’t made with medieval tools.”
Neville shook his head. “No, we added a few things. The glass is unbreakable, by the way. And soundproof. Except for the one-way speaker.” He pointed at the speaker set just to the right of the glass. “We wouldn’t want to miss it if he ever actually said anything.”
I studied the prisoner, Waleed Ashkani, through the glass. He was in his thirties, about five foot six, with a thick dark beard and a vivid scar running diagonally from his right eyebrow to the left side of his chin. Neville had explained that the man was a Yemeni linked to the deaths of hundreds of innocent lives. It had been pure luck that had led the British agents to pick him up in Saudi Arabia and smuggle him to this island nation.
At the moment, he was praying, prostrating himself toward Mecca. I reached out to his mind, and found it totally focused on his supplications. At the moment, his only thoughts involved extolling his love of God while also acknowledging God’s might.
