The Guardian (22 page)

‘A friend.’ It was the best Akhtar could come up with.

The policeman pulled out a small notebook and a pen, and for a moment Akhtar thought that he was going to write him a parking ticket. That would have been a relief, as it likely would have meant
an end to the interaction. He didn’t write a ticket, though.

‘Who is your friend?’

Akhtar’s mind raced. He had not prepared himself for an interrogation. ‘David,’ he said. ‘His name is David.’ It was the first western name that popped into his
head.

‘David what?’

‘I . . .’ Akhtar stumbled for a moment before recovering. ‘I don’t know his last name. That is why I am waiting for him. He lives nearby, and I am hoping to see
him.’

‘Why do you need to see him?’

‘It is because of a woman,’ Akhtar said. It was an easy story. Americans lived in such a sex-driven culture that they believed there was a woman at the core of any obsession.
‘He knows a woman I wish to see.’

The older man frowned. ‘You’re sitting on a street waiting to see a guy about a girl you want to date?’

‘She is a very beautiful woman.’

‘What is her name?’

‘I don’t know. That is why I am waiting for this man.’ For a moment, Akhtar thought that he had pulled it off. He thought the cop was going to let him go.

‘License and registration,’ the police officer said.

‘I’m sorry?’ Akhtar said. He did not understand.

‘I want to see your driver’s license and your registration for the car.’

That presented a problem. Akhtar had a valid international driver’s license, which would suffice. But he knew the registration for the car was in the glove compartment. Right under the
gun. He took his license out of his wallet and handed it to the policeman.

‘Registration, too,’ the man said.

‘It is a rented car,’ Akhtar replied.

‘Registration and rental papers should be in the glove box.’

Akhtar looked over at the glove compartment. It was narrow and shallow; he knew that, because he’d had to work to fit the gun in the tiny space. Looking back at the policeman, he gave a
nervous smile.

‘Is there a problem, sir?’

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ Akhtar replied. ‘This is not right.’

The police officer took a step back and pulled out his gun. ‘Step out of the car, sir,’ he said. ‘Now, please.’

‘I tell you, I have done nothing wrong!’

‘That may be, but I want you out of that car, now.’

Akhtar opened the door and slowly pulled himself out of the driver’s seat.

‘Face the car, hands on the roof, please. Feet behind your hips, shoulder-width apart.’

Akhtar did as he was told. ‘Are you arresting me?’

‘I don’t know. Depends on what you’re hiding in the car.’ He performed a thorough frisk and found nothing. ‘Stay right in that position,’ he ordered. He kept
an eye on Akhtar as he walked around to the passenger side. It was early enough that there were few people on the street, but those who passed by stopped a short way away to watch what was
happening. ‘Move along, people,’ the cop said. No one listened, though, and a small crowd began to grow.

The officer opened the passenger door, reached in and opened the glove compartment. When he saw the gun, he pulled back and looked sharply up at Akhtar. ‘What are you planning to do with
that?’

Patrolman Ayden McMurphy was on the scene five minutes later. Detective Morrell had called in for uniformed support, and McMurphy had been dispatched. Whenever possible,
McMurphy was dispatched when a call came in from Morrell. He was one of the few people in the department who could deal with the crotchety old cop. When the uniformed officer arrived, Morrell
couldn’t help but notice that McMurphy was treating his superior with an odd deference and solemnity. Morrell chose to ignore it, though, and focus on his job.

‘He says it’s not his,’ Morrell told him. The young man was sitting in the back of Morrell’s car, his hands cuffed behind his back. The semi-automatic pistol was in a
plastic evidence bag on the hood. ‘He says he doesn’t know anything about it. It’s a rental car, and he says he never looked in the glove compartment.’

‘Where was his rental agreement?’

‘In the glove compartment.’

‘There you go.’

‘He says someone at the rental place put the agreement in there.’ Morrell looked around the street. There was more foot traffic now, but the small crowd that had gathered before was
gone. People were moving around, too engrossed in their own troubles to concern themselves with the young man in the police car.

‘What is it?’ McMurphy asked. Again, Morrell noticed that the patrolman was having difficulty meeting his eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ Morrell said. ‘Something about this doesn’t feel right. What was he here for? And what was he planning on doing with the gun?’

‘You think it’s gang related?’

Morrell shook his head. ‘He’s got an international license. Issued out of Pakistan. Says his name is Mohmad Hadid. I haven’t heard anything about the Crips or the Bloods
recruiting out of the Middle East, have you?’

‘So, what are you thinking?’

‘I don’t know.’ Morrell ran his palm across his face. ‘I guess I’m thinking maybe we’ll get some answers from him down at the station.’

‘You never know,’ McMurphy said.

‘You never do,’ Morrell agreed. There was an awkward silence between the men. McMurphy finally said, ‘I really admire that you’re out here doing the job. I think
it’s a good thing.’

Morrell gave McMurphy a curious look. ‘You’re not goin’ gay on me, are you?’

‘No, I just mean under the circumstances, it probably is the best way to handle things.’

‘What circumstances?’

‘You know, with what happened over at Spudgie’s.’

‘Last night?’ Morrell grunted. ‘It was a mess, but my brother can take care of himself.’

‘Not last night,’ McMurphy said. ‘I mean what they found this morning.’

Morrell’s voice became serious as a feeling of foreboding crept through his chest. ‘What did they find this morning?’

McMurphy gave Morrell a frightened, incredulous look. ‘You haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘I thought you knew. I guess you didn’t go into the station yet this morning, did you? It’s your brother. They found him this morning. I’m sorry, man. I know you
weren’t that close, but still, he was family, right? Apparently Miles Gruden has a little more juice than people thought.’

Morrell stared blankly at McMurphy. ‘I gotta go over there,’ he said. He opened the door and pulled the young man out of his car and pushed him over toward McMurphy. ‘Can you
take this guy down to the station and book him? I’ll deal with him when I get back.’

‘Sure,’ McMurphy said. He grabbed the man by the elbow and picked the gun in the bag off the car. ‘He’ll be waiting for you.’

Morrell hardly heard what the patrol officer was saying. He put his police light on the roof of the car and pulled out at speed. Whatever concern he’d had about the young man with the gun
was gone for the moment. He had warned Nick about possible retaliation, but he’d never thought it would come this fast.

Cianna didn’t sleep. She put her head down on the arm of the sofa at one point, even closed her eyes for a moment, but the images running through her mind were torture,
and she spent most of the night staring at the wall.

Saunders slept like a soldier on patrol, she noted. He sat on a chair next to the phone, and for two hours straight he didn’t move. His eyes were closed, though she thought a few times she
could see a slit through which he might have some vision. Combat veterans learned to capture what sleep they could in stressful situations, but to keep one foot in the conscious world so that they
could react instantly if necessary.

She’d learned the skill herself while on active duty, and she’d perfected it during her time in prison, where constant alertness was necessary for survival. At least in combat
theaters there were bases, which provided an occasional sense of security. There was no such respite in prison; there, the threats were constant.

She thought about her brother as she sat in the silent squalor that had become her life. The dagger he had stolen was on the makeshift coffee table in front of her. She wondered about his
decision to steal it, and wondered whether the uncertainty created by her arrest had led to that decision. He’d depended on her for so long, it must have been devastating when she was taken
away.

‘He’s alive.’

She looked up. Saunders’s eyes were open now, and he was looking at her. She had the sense that he could see through her skin, into her thoughts. It was at once disconcerting and
comforting.

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘The people who are behind this don’t have what they are looking for yet. Until they do, he is worth more to them alive than dead. They’ll call.’

She looked at the phone for a moment, then back at him. ‘Where did you serve before you joined the Agency?’

‘Who said I was in the military?’ he responded. It was the first time she had heard his voice defensive.

‘No one,’ she said. ‘It shows.’

He didn’t answer immediately.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she said. ‘I was bored. That’s all.’

‘Kuwait,’ he said. ‘First Gulf War.’

‘The easy war,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Easy.’

‘I didn’t mean—’ she started. He cut her off, though.

‘It’s okay, you’re right. We got in, we got out. We chased Saddam Hussein and his men right back to the Iraqi border and stopped on the line. Then we stood there and watched as
he slaughtered those in the Iraqi resistance who had helped us gather the information and had laid the groundwork for our victory. We stood there and watched as all the goodwill we had built up
with those who supported freedom in the Middle East was pissed away.’

‘You think we should have gone in?’

He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t a politician or a diplomat. I was a soldier. I didn’t believe in leaving people behind, and I didn’t believe wars could be fought
halfway.’

‘And now?’

‘Now,’ he said slowly. ‘Now, I suppose I’m still a soldier. I still don’t believe in fighting wars halfway.’

The words had barely left his lips when the phone rang.

Akhtar had heard stories of prison. As the Imam of one of the most important mosques in Afghanistan, his father had been an important and influential figure. Prominence in
Afghanistan brings with it great danger, though. Loyalties and political allegiances are mercurial enough that influence can be of dubious advantage. Relatives of his had spent time in the custody
of the various regimes that had drifted through control of Afghanistan, and they had told him what to expect.

The Russians had been cruel, but more out of bureaucratic habit than anything else. After the Russians came the Taliban. Their prisons were by far the most terrifying. Fear had been the only
unifying principle under the Taliban’s rule. The stories of random torture, mutilations and killings without any apparent justification or purpose were widespread. Tongues were often cut out,
and limbs removed, all in professed loyalty to Allah and the Koran. For the vast majority of Afghans, the day the Taliban fled was a day for celebration.

The American military prisons were a riddle. On the one hand, the Americans were institutionally organized and humane. It was clear that there were rules about the treatment of prisoners that
were taken seriously. Those in custody were identified and catalogued and tracked. They were given decent food, and allotted time for prayer. Notwithstanding the order that was imposed by the
Americans, though, rumors of random acts of perverse cruelty spread throughout the prison population. The American military guards came to be seen as smiling serpents, waiting for the right moment
to pick out anyone who let their guard down to torture them in unspeakable ways. That uncertain fear was more debilitating than anything else.

And so, when Akhtar entered the police station in the Back Bay, the fear ate at him. The large black uniformed police officer called McMurphy walked him through the booking process, then snapped
handcuffs on Akhtar and led him down a hallway to a plain room with a mirror on one side, and a wooden table with three chairs in the middle.

‘Sit,’ McMurphy said.

Akhtar did as he was told. He understood this was the place where the beatings would be administered. That was acceptable; there were beatings in every prison. It was the right of the strong to
test their prisoners.

‘You want some coffee?’ the police officer asked.

Akhtar said nothing.

‘Coffee,’ McMurphy repeated. ‘You want some? Or maybe some water?’

Akhtar refused to fall for the ruse.

‘You speak English, right?’

Akhtar looked carefully at the man. Finally, he said, ‘Yes.’

‘Good. That makes all of this easier. Do you want some coffee?’

It was disorienting to have a captor offer simple kindness. ‘Yes,’ Akhtar said. ‘I would drink some coffee.’

McMurphy walked over and stuck his head out the door, calling to someone, ‘Hey, Kenny! You wanna bring me a couple cups of coffee in room four?’ His head came back in, and McMurphy
walked over and sat in the chair opposite Akhtar. The coffee was brought in a moment later.

‘There was a shooting reported in Southie yesterday, just around where you were parked this morning. Did you know that?’

Akhtar shook his head.

‘Three people called it in. We knocked on some doors, but couldn’t find anything. You know anything about this?’

‘No,’ Akhtar responded honestly. He could feel McMurphy probing his eyes, searching for any sign of prevarication. There was none there yet.

‘You understand why we’re asking, right? Shots are reported on that street last night, and then this morning, you’re sitting there in your car, waiting for someone, gun in the
glove compartment. You can see how this looks, right?’

‘I was waiting for a friend,’ Akhtar said quickly. ‘And it is not my gun.’

‘Right, your friend. What was his name again?’

‘David.’

McMurphy’s eyes were probing again, and this time Akhtar felt less confident. Neither man spoke for a few moments, and Akhtar was convinced that the beatings would begin then.