There was a small hole in the center of his forehead, and blood was spreading outward from the back of his skull, creating a small pond. Eric informed me, "He was rooming with that guy," and pointed at an older man at the end of the line of living prisoners.
The dead man's eyes were frozen open with that look of somebody without a care in the world--at least, not this world. If this was Ali bin Pacha, we had a big problem.
Checking the next block, I asked Eric, "You're sure nobody escaped out the other entrance?"
"This is all of them."
I next walked down the line of six prisoners, pausing briefly in front of each one, and as I did, I directed the beam of my flashlight at their faces. The reaction of freshly detained prisoners can be very revealing. Here we had six men who probably went to sleep feeling completely secure in a city populated by their fellow jihadists, and were rudely awakened by strange American men pointing guns in their faces.
What should follow are a few moments of disorientation, confusion, and fear. At least this is what you hope, because it is also axiomatic that, during this brief period, prisoners are most likely to talk, to divulge valuable information, or to do something incredibly desperate, and often stupid.
And indeed, four of the faces revealed exactly the range of emotions an optimist would hope for. Fright, anxiety, confusion, even hopelessness.
This was definitely not the case, however, with the second guy from the end, who was heavyset and muscular, about six foot two, with a broad face that glared back at me with an expression of anger and scorn. Hardy Hardass. Also, there was a fanatical glow in his eyes, which is never a good sign. So here was one guy to keep an eye on.
The last man in the line was a little older than the others, who all looked to be in their early to mid-twenties. His face was long and thin, and I held the light on it for a long moment, and noted it was crisscrossed with scars, and that one of his eyeballs was milky white. A fairly handsome man, though the scars and eyeball, in this light, looked eerie, and you knew he was no stranger to violence.
He was grinning at me the same way a pretty girl smiles at the cop who has just pulled her over for speeding, confident she is smarter, wilier, and should all else fail, has big enough boobs to fix the problem. I studied his face, and he studied me back with a lurid nonchalance. Joe T. Cool, and here, I thought, was the guy to keep a close eye on.
But these were not trained soldiers, nor did they have a code of conduct for these situations, or even a modicum of training regarding how to handle themselves. If we were lucky, this was bin Pacha and his bodyguards; with less luck, here were six suicide bombers who didn't give a rat's ass whether they lived or died; only whether we lived or died.
As I moved down the line, Bian was looking over my shoulder and also studying their faces. I had the sense she was processing their deportment and making snap assessments, which, in these situations, you have to do. To Eric, I said, "You and your men take a break downstairs."
He mentioned, "You know we can't transport six prisoners out of here."
"How many?"
"One."
I regarded him a moment. "Two," he said. "That's it."
In any interrogation, it always helps to have a few prisoners to play off each other. Two was fine.
He pointed a finger at his watch. "Ten minutes. I hope you have a magic key to find your guy."
"And you're using up precious time."
He said, "Well . . . one other thing. They were searched. But you'd better keep a weapon on them, unless you'd rather we slap cuffs on them first."
Bian shook her head. I wasn't sure why, nor did I particularly agree, but this wasn't the time or situation to argue. Prisoners look for weaknesses or division in their captors, and this was not the occasion to encourage silly misjudgments.
Besides, this interrogation was her gig, and as she had assured me several times, she had considerable experience with this. A little late, I realized that I had failed to ask whether those were successful experiences.
Anyway, the six prisoners were following our exchange with considerable care and attentiveness, their eyes moving between our faces as