Weaver drifted in and out of sleep, napping in the passenger seat until just after 4:00 a.m., when Sanson turned off the main road and drove for two miles down a desolate track. “Wake up. We’re here.” Weaver rubbed his eyes and saw a signpost in English and Arabic. “This area strictly off limits, except to authorized military personnel.” They were in a shallow valley, the first rays of dawn barely tinting the horizon, and the place had an eerie feel. He could make out a vast collection of wooden and corrugated-iron huts surrounded by barbed-wire runs, watchtowers jutting into the darkness. They drove up to the camp’s main entrance barrier and halted. Two armed guards from the sentry hut examined their papers before telephoning the duty officer and allowing them to drive through. They were met outside the main administration building by a tired-looking British major who escorted them into his office. “I believe you’re here to interrogate Berger, sir?” he said to Sanson.
