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It was a line he had heard an Afghan use on a British paratrooper they had captured one night during a battle. He had learned much that evening watching the Afghani methodically wear the man down. He had always assumed there was a real skill to torture, but he’d had no appreciation for it until he’d seen it firsthand. There were several truisms. The first was that everyone broke. No matter how tough they were, eventually they cracked. The only time that wasn’t true was if the subject was overstressed and died prematurely of a heart attack. The other truism was that you could get anyone to say anything. In this instance Karim thought that was the more important lesson to keep in mind. The subject was fit and looked to be under thirty. His heart would be able to handle a great deal of pain.
He did not want to start out asking the man if he worked for the CIA, because eventually he would admit to it only to stop the pain. He needed to get him to flatly admit who he worked for. No leading questions.
“I have found in these situations it is best to show the subject that I am serious.” Karim looked up at Aabad, who was standing behind the man, and said, “Hold him tightly around the chest.” Karim grabbed the man’s right foot and placed the tip of the knife under the nail of the big toe. Looking into the frightened eyes of the man, he said, “I can make this one toe last for hours.”
The man began to fight. Karim held the foot firmly and jammed the tip of the knife under the nail bed. The man went stiff with pain and his eyes rolled back into his head. Fifteen seconds later he stopped fighting them and his breathing became labored.
“Take off the gag,” Karim ordered Aabad. After it was removed he asked the man, “Your name, please. The one you used when you were a Ranger.”
“Tony…Tony Jones.”
Karim smiled. “I don’t believe you, but we will check.” He stood and grabbed a mobile phone from a shelf, and he dialed a number and then gave the person on the other end the name.
“Put the gag back on,” Karim ordered.
“No,” the man screamed. “You haven’t even found out if I’m lying to you.”
“I know you are lying.” Karim smiled.
“No, I’m not,” the man pleaded.
“Really…tell me then why you were trying to get into the storage room across the hall.”
“I…” the man stammered, “was looking around…that’s all. I swear. It’s my job to know what’s going on around here.”
Karim nodded for Aabad to put the gag back on. The man struggled and fought him every step of the way. When it was secure, Karim stuck the tip of the knife back under the nail and slid it back and forth. The man bucked and writhed in pain. Karim waited for it to pass and then asked him, “Who do you work for?”
With the gag off the man sputtered, “I’m a carpenter. I work for myself.” He craned his head around and said, “Aabad, please tell him. You know me.”
“He doesn’t know you,” Karim laughed. “No one here really knows you, do they?”
“That is not true.”
“Yes it is.” Karim held up the knife. A drop of the man’s blood ran down the silver blade. “I will ask you one more time, who you work for. If you lie to me the toe comes off. Now…who do you work for?”
The man’s eyes were filled with fear. “I told you who I work for. I work for myself. I don’t know why you’re doing this.”
Karim gave the signal and the gag was slipped back on. It took all their combined strength to hold him down this time. Karim sat on the man’s legs and when he had him reasonably still he pressed down on the big toe of the right foot. The man jerked and the cut was imperfect, the blade slicing through most of the big toe as well as the one next to it. The man
’s screams were muffled by the gag, but he was writhing in pain. Karim waited for him to lie still for a moment, and then he quickly cut the remaining tendons on the big toe. Things continued like this for thirty more minutes and two more toes, until the man, sobbing uncontrollably, uttered the acronym that Karim had been looking for.
“The CIA.”
It was a strange victory. He had broken him, but he had also confirmed their worst fears. “Who is your handler?” Karim asked, his mouth only a few inches from the man’s ear. The gag was off. The man no longer had the energy to fight. He hesitated, so Karim jammed the tip of the knife into one of the stumps on the right foot. The man started to scream, but Aabad was right there with a towel. He stuffed it in the man’s face and waited for him to stop.
“Who is your handler?” Karim repeated.
“Mike…” the man’s voice trailed off.
“Mike who?” Karim asked while grabbing him by the shoulders.
“Mike Nash.”
Karim let him go. It was a name he knew. Al-Qaeda had key sources inside both Saudi Intelligence and Pakistani Intelligence. As part of his plan, Karim had asked for the flowchart of American counterterrorism operations. He wanted to know who he was up against and how they would respond to his attacks. He also wanted the ability to turn the hunter into the hunted.
“Mike Nash,” Karim said to the man. “Former U.S. Marine, married, four children, lives in Arlington or Alexandria, I can’t remember which one. Is that the same Mike Nash you work for?” The man did not answer. “The same Mike Nash who reports to Mitch Rapp?” he asked in a lighthearted voice.
The man looked up at him with confused eyes and said, “Who are you?”
