London Bridges

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 he wanted to talk to us about.”
    “And did he?”
    El-Masry frowned deeply. “No, not really. We thought he might be one of your agents.”
    “So why did he come here?” I asked. “Why did you consent to see him?”
    El-Masry shrugged off my question. “Curiosity. He said that he had access to tactical nuclear explosive devices.”
    I winced, and my heart started to beat a whole lot faster. Nuclear devices in the metropolitan New York area? “Did he have the weapons?”
    “We agreed to talk with him. We believed he meant suitcase nuclear bombs. Suitcase nukes. Difficult to obtain, but not impossible. As you may know, the Soviet Union built them during the Cold War. No one knows how many, or what happened to them. The Russian Mafiya has tried to sell them in recent years, or so it’s rumored. I wouldn’t actually know. I came here to be a professor, you see. To look for employment.”
    A shudder passed through me. Unlike conventional warheads, suitcase nukes were designed to go off at ground level. They were about the size of a large valise and could easily be operated by an infantryman.
    They could also be concealed just about anywhere, even carried on foot around New York, Washington, London, Frankfurt.
    “So, did he have access to suitcase nukes?” I asked el-Masry.
    He shrugged. “We are just students and teachers. In truth, why should we care about nuclear weapons?”
    I thought that I understood what he was doing now—bargaining for himself and his people.
    “Why did one of your
students
kill herself diving from a window?” I asked.
    El-Masry’s eyes narrowed in pain. “She was afraid all the time she was in New York. She was an orphan, her parents killed in an unjust war by Americans.”
    I nodded slowly as if I understood and sympathized with what he was telling me. “All right,