Free 500 Days by Kurt Eichenwald

On that day, he had been driving a loaner because his truck was in the shop, and the inspection turned up a few items that weren’t his, including a map. It was a black-and-white photocopy, only slightly better than hand-drawn, and it depicted Tunney’s Pasture, an area in Ottawa developed exclusively for federal government buildings. A few of the facilities were labeled with names like H&W VIRUS LABS, ELDORADO NUCLEAR LTD , and ATOMIC ENERGY OF CANADA . The agents had interrogated El-Maati extensively about the map, demanding to know why he was carrying it. He could only reply that the paper wasn’t his.
    The border confrontation had left El-Maati jittery for weeks, despite the efforts of his supervisors at Highland to assure him of their support. The company had investigated and concluded that one of the truck’s previous drivers had picked up the map while on a delivery in Ottawa. Ann Armstrong, a manager at Highland, had given El-Maati a letter stating that he had reported the incident to his superiors and that he should be commended for his professionalism in dealing with the matter. But he still felt too frightened to keep crossing the border. Better, El-Maati decided, to give up transporting items thousands of miles and drive shorter—if less profitable—routes in Canada.
    Then came the terrorist attack that morning in the United States. Shortly after he returned his keys, he saw the news of the second plane crash on a television in the drivers’ lounge. The sight had made El-Maati nauseated, and hewanted to vomit. His emotional turmoil continued all the way back home as he grappled with the images of death that he had just witnessed.
    Now, at his apartment, he was ready to sit down and take a moment to gather his thoughts. Before he could, a knock came at the door. Odd, since no one had buzzed from downstairs to be allowed into the building.
    El-Maati answered. Two men in suits stood in the hallway. Both flipped open leather cases, showing their identification. They were with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service—CSIS.
    One of the men identified himself as Adrian White. “We need to speak with you,” he said.
    “Okay,” El-Maati replied.
    “Can we come in?”
    El-Maati shook his head. “No. Let’s talk outside.”
    He turned toward his mother and saw terror in her face. Then he left, leading the men to the elevator.
    Back in the apartment, his mother reached for the phone and called El-Maati’s father. “Some people came and took Ahmad!” she said.
    •  •  •  
    Downstairs, El-Maati and the two agents crossed the street and sat on a bench. White explained that, given the attacks in the United States, CSIS was visiting people whose names had come up in the past—known as a “knock-and-talk” in the intelligence service.
    “We heard about the map and what happened at the border,” White said. “Tell us about the map.”
    The map! How could he get them to understand that he didn’t know anything about it?
    El-Maati brought out the letter written by Ann Armstrong. He always carried it in his shirt pocket for moments like this.
    The two agents read the letter, then gave it back.
    “Okay,” White said, “let’s talk about your background and about your travels.”
    El-Maati suggested that they continue the conversation at a coffee shop in a nearby plaza. The three men walked there and sat at a table on a patio.
    The questions were boilerplate—where was El-Maati born, where had he gone to school, what had he studied. He answered for a while, but grew increasingly worried.
    “Look, I want to have a lawyer present to make sure nothing I’m saying getsmisinterpreted,” he said. “So we can continue this same conversation any way you like and anywhere you like, but with a lawyer present so I can preserve my rights.”
    White looked annoyed. “We’re not a court here. You don’t need a lawyer.”
    El-Maati insisted. White mentioned that CSIS knew that he was trying to sponsor a