CIA PARAMILITARY TRAINING 75smoke-filled interrogation room. As we made our way through the hall, the
guards lifted my hood and forced me to look at a colleague of mine who had
been given food and a blanket for her cooperation. They also made sure I
looked inside another room where my friend “Jack” had been hog-tied face-
down on the floor and was being beaten by angry, menacing guards.
My escorts shoved me into the stark interrogation room right next to
the room where Jack was being abused. This was to be my second inter-
rogation session since my arrival at the camp. The room was furnished
with a small, rustic wooden table, a desk lamp, and two sturdy chairs. A
uniformed, mustached interrogator sat on one side of the table, and I was
shoved down in the empty chair opposite him. It felt wonderful to sit in
a chair instead of on the damp, uneven concrete floor of my cramped
cell. A Styrofoam cup full of dirty water and half-cooked rice sat on the
small table between me and my interrogator, a Cuban military officer who
somehow knew I spoke Spanish. A slack-jawed armed guard stood behind
the Cuban, his AK at the ready.
“What’s your name?” he asked calmly, in Spanish, between puffs on
his cigar.
“David Martino,” I lied. The alias matched the fake documents they’d
confiscated at the time of my capture. And, just as importantly, it matched
the name I’d provided during the first interrogation.
“What’s your mission?” he asked, just as he had about twenty-four
hours earlier. He was hoping I’d change my story from the last interroga-
tion session. He wanted to catch me in a lie.
I was briefly distracted by the anguished screams of my buddy Jack
in the room next door. The guards had apparently lost patience with his
uncooperative attitude and were doing their best to make his life miser-
able. My athletic colleague with a dry sense of humor seemed intent on
provoking them. No matter how much discomfort it caused him.
“What’s your fucking name?” Jack’s interrogator shrieked at him, for
the third time.
“I don’t remember, sir,” was Jack’s plaintive reply.
Jesus, Jack, tell him your fucking name!
“What’s your mother’s name?” was the futile follow-up question.
“It’s coming to me, sir,” Jack replied with fake earnestness. “If you
could just give me a few more minutes, I’m pretty sure I’ll remember.”