The Prisoner's Wife (28 page)

Which was nearly a week ago.

 

32

U.S. MILITARY JAIL, PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN, 1 JUNE 2004

In a newly built boutique jail on the edge of Peshawar's market, Darius Osmani sat shackled to a shiny metal chair manufactured in Rome, Georgia. Otherwise naked, he was head-bagged and wore two conjoined baby's diapers from which twin electric cables ran to a small portable console some feet away. From overuse, the cable insulation was in places worn down to copper wire.

The room, belowground and damp, was lit by a single high-white fluorescent strip light. At the door, Hassan Tarkani spoke to a very young pink-skinned man in a white coat sprayed delicately with blood.

Looking around the room, the man in the white coat said, “Video off?”

Hassan nodded.

The intern said, “No terp?”

“Hey,” said Hassan, “this hajji talks better English than you do.” He glanced back at the detainee. “Speak to me. I'm interested. Tell me why you think he needs a doctor?”

Both men turned to look at the prisoner.

The intern—who had trained as a psychiatrist in Atlanta—shrugged. “It's not what I think. It's what the Company thinks. You know the procedure. Detainee dies, they don't like it. They say you're doing it wrong.”

Hassan said, “I see that. Tough getting intel off a body bag. But take a look there. Just look at him. Is this guy fit, or is he not?”

“Well,” the doctor said, “I don't know. I mean, he's bleeding. Mouth, ear—broken cheekbone—that's something, you know—Red Cross might notice.”

Hassan shook his head. “No way, José. Red Cross, forget. They go to the main jail. Not aware that we exist.”

“Please,” said the doctor. “This is Peshawar. There are no secrets.” He moved to the prisoner's side and took his wrist to check a pulse. The prisoner struck out blindly, although—his wrist being shackled—he did no harm.

“At least,” the intern said to Hassan, “he has a pulse.”

The trainee spent moments checking the prisoner's heartbeat. Beneath his head bag, the man made a sound that might have been rage or might have been distress.

The doctor said to Hassan, “Try and keep him that way, will you? I mean, breathing.”

“Why is it,” Hassan asked, smiling, “I keep hearing that line?”

*   *   *

An hour later, Darius sat in another, slightly larger, room. Here, the floor was tiled, the chair unpainted and wooden. He was now completely naked except that he wore a brassiere made for a very large woman, had panties with hearts on his head, and was blindfolded. Except for his ankles, the prisoner was now unshackled. He bled a little from one ear. As the intern had noted, it did seem as if one cheekbone might be broken.

This room had a small barred window, shaded with a torn blind, which had once been cream. In another chair—this one lined with plastic leather—sat Calvin McCord. He reached out a hand to touch the prisoner's arm. Darius jumped as far back as the chair allowed.

“It's okay,” Calvin said. He spoke gently. “It's okay. Relax. No one's going to hurt you.”

Though he disliked the whole process of interrogation, it was, he believed, a necessary evil. For his country, to save American lives, Calvin would do worse things than this.

Darius, feeling the agent's touch, turned blindly to his left. His fingers clenched and loosened. He tried, behind his back, to unsnap the bra but could not manage the clasp. He said nothing.

“Two things you should understand,” Calvin said. “You love your country. I love my country. Difference is, my country's winning. Yours is losing. You follow me? Maybe you should think about what side you're on.”

Calvin waited. The prisoner shifted in his chair, said nothing.

“Tell me, Darius. Tell me, is there something I can do for you? Talk to me. Is there some way I can help?”

Darius turned his blind head, seeking the voice. “Do you,” he asked, “do you really, sir—do you mean that? Can you stop the electricity? The drowning?”

“Sure,” Calvin said. “I can do that. I can do both those things. You just have to ask.”

Wincing, the prisoner touched his face. “I need medical treatment.”

“Come on,” Calvin said. “Don't give me that. We have a doc. He's seen you.”

“The doctor looks at me. He takes my pulse. He checks that the other man has not killed me. This is not treatment.”

“Now, now,” Calvin said. “Be fair. We're not expecting gratitude, but a thank-you would be nice.”

There was silence for a moment. Darius cupped his hands over his genitals, hiding them. Calvin noted that this was the first time the prisoner had registered his nakedness.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to help you,” Calvin said. He went behind the prisoner to unfasten his brassiere. He said, more to himself than to the detainee, “I really wish they wouldn't do this shit. Such kid stuff.” He took the panties with hearts from the prisoner's head. “It's, like, give and take, Darius—we can help each other. I understand you, brother. Those guys back there, giving you a hard time, they have no spiritual dimension. The bad dude downstairs—the one who hurts you—what can I tell you? He's a Paki. Uncivilized. Myself, you might not think so, but I'm a Catholic. You may be a Muslim—”

“I am Muslim.”

“Okay. You are a Muslim. Okay, right. Like I say, we have religion in common, you and me. We both believe in a transcendent God. A force for good. I understand your anger. I feel your pain. You believe that we—I mean, people like me, Americans—we're killing Muslims. You think we're doing it in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in Lebanon, Palestine—we're helping do it in Chechnya—we did it in Iran, a little help-out from our friends in Iraq, and you think, what can I, Darius, what can
I
do to stop it? Of course you do. I understand. Hell, if I was a Muslim, I might feel that way. You have no tanks, you have no bombers, you have no fighter planes. You think all you can do is kill Americans. You turn our airplanes into weapons.”

The prisoner said, “No, sir. Not me. No. I condemn that.”

“It's okay, Darius,” Calvin said. “Don't be defensive. I mean, what choice do you have?”

“But that is not how I feel,” the prisoner said. The wounds to his face made speaking difficult. “I have—I had, before you took me—I had many choices. I am an academic. I spoke out. I never wished to kill.”

“Don't get me wrong,” Calvin said. Again, he touched the prisoner's arm, lightly, confidingly. “Not all Muslims are terrorists. I appreciate that. You have children?”

The prisoner was having trouble breathing. “You know the answer, sir. I do not.”

“But you have a girlfriend—”

“—a wife.”

“Ah,” said Calvin, “no. Not a wife. You see, we check on things like this, Darius. Let's call her a girlfriend. I met her in England. And Morocco, come to think of it. Damn, I thought, this puss looks good enough to eat with a spoon. I'll bet ten bucks she comes on like the Easter bunny. Sooner or later, what do you know, she's forgotten to take her pill—bang, you got a pickaninny in the oven. Now, Darius, believe me, when you guys have this rugrat—”

The prisoner nursed his damaged cheek. He said, “Rugrat?”

“Kiddie. Small person. You have this kid, you're going to see things differently. Happened to me. I get to be a father, all of sudden I think, hey, I love this boy. Makes you value human life, Darius, having family. You won't want crazy hajjis wandering around with nukes.” His voice changed. “Who
were
those guys, going to pick up the warheads?”

“I told you,” the prisoner said, “I told you, sir, I do not know. And let me say, sir, I don't have to wait for children to value human life. Sir, I have always valued human life.”

Calvin's tone was reproachful now. “Don't do this to me, Darius. We know you found those papers in Kandahar. In Abbasi's office.” He paused. “You do know he's dead, right?”

Darius shook his head.

“Killed himself. Jumped off of a roof, poor bastard. Now, what I'm saying, I know how you felt, you found those Abbasi papers. You read them, all of a sudden, you know where the nukes are—you think, thank God, thank Allah, here's a chance for the perfect storm. Revenge on those infidel Christians killing my fellow Muslims. Of course you'd think that. You'd use the knowledge you had. You were the only one who could read those papers. You could understand them. Here's your big break. Chance to grab a nuke. Small device, sure, but big enough for what you wanted. Big enough for New York, say. You took the chance. I understand that. I see where you're coming from. In your place, maybe—maybe I would've done the same.”

He stood close beside the prisoner. Sensing his presence, Darius cringed. Calvin removed the man's blindfold. Sighted, the prisoner seemed more acutely aware of his nakedness.

“How do you know what I found in Kandahar?”

“We know most things about you,” said Calvin. “We know what makes you tick. What we don't know is what you told Dr. Khan. We don't know where the nukes went. We don't know how they got to where they went. That's how you can help us.”

The prisoner's hands tightened over his scrotum. He shook his head no.

“Now, Darius,” Calvin said, “do yourself a favor. You talk to me—a man with sympathy for Muslim folk—or you go back to the bad boys downstairs. Knuckledraggers, we call them. Unkind, but true. I tell you this, my friend. They're likely to get grouchy, those boys, when they hear you're being difficult. When they get grouchy, you know, they're likely to smack you around—and they shouldn't do it, but you likely got that old electric wire up your ass, plus one of those pit bull dogs with all the teeth—dog's just waiting to get his mouth around that big old dick you got there. I tell you this, Darius—once they get a good bite, those dogs, damn hard to make 'em let go. Might have to put off those kids.” Calvin shuddered. “Myself, I'd hate that. I'm truly allergic to dogs. Always have been. Specially anyplace close to my cock.” He sighed. “It's a real question, my friend. Are you going to do yourself a favor and talk to me? Or do you want to go back there—talk to the boys downstairs?”

The prisoner wept. Calvin saw that he was shaking now, and urinating in small spasmodic spurts. The urine smelled rank. For some reason, Calvin found, it often did, after a long interrogation. He'd need to have the whole damn place disinfected. Just as well the floor was tiled. In itself, though, pissing was a good sign. If Calvin was any judge of character, the wretched business was nearly done. This sorry-ass hajji needed no more pressure. He was about to talk.

“I know,” Calvin told the prisoner. “It's a bitch. If I could stop those thugs doing what they do, believe me, I would, but I don't run this place. I'm just a cog in the wheel. They're out of control, those guys downstairs. They think up things—they do things—I truly do not wish to know about.”

“Tell me what you want,” the prisoner said. “Just tell me. Whatever it is, I will do it.”

“Well, my friend,” Calvin said, “first thing I want you to do is read this bit of paper. Read it out loud. Here's what it says. ‘My name is Darius Osmani. I am thirty-nine years old and a Muslim fundamentalist, working with al Qaeda. During the months of April through June of 2004, I was well treated in the jails where I was held. I was not questioned by Americans. I was not subject to any kind of ill treatment.'”

“You want me to read that?”

“You bet your life,” Calvin said. “We have your voiceprint. If we keep you a little longer, another year or so, say, you'll maybe need to read it again.” He was setting up a tape recorder. “Give me a minute, get this damn thing running. After that, you read the boilerplate, nice loud voice. You identify yourself. Then we help each other, you and me. Starting with you telling me everything, and I mean everything, I want to know about Dr. Khan and the nukes.”

 

33

PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN, 3 JUNE 2004

In the lobby of the Grand Comfort Hotel, Shawn searched his pockets for his satellite phone, wondering if it could be packed with his still-missing baggage. Then he recalled the porter who had, for a moment, grabbed him at the airport, a hand inside his jacket. Thinking back, that must have been when the damn thing went south. What use was training, if you fell for a move like that?

He wasted time speaking to the plump receptionist, reporting the phone missing, then fought his way into the street, through moving crowds of robed and bearded men. He was searching for a back-alley gun shop he'd used a few years ago, at a time when he wanted an untraceable weapon to kill the man who murdered Rafe Ramirez.

Wading through this human sea took Shawn back to childhood outings to the coast of Alabama, struggling neck-deep through the sea-wrack of an incoming tide. Here, in the back streets of Peshawar, he made slow progress, turning eventually down a narrow half-remembered passage, where the crowd thinned. Toward the end of the alley, two Pakistani men perched on three-legged stools, close to a wall hung with patterned rugs. They watched him. These men were ageless: They could have been in their dotage, but Shawn knew, from earlier dealings, they were shrewd in business and perhaps no older than he. Though for them, he thought, in this town, and this trade, reaching the age of fifty might be a real achievement.

It was, Martha would have said, no country for old men.

Above the businessmen hung a weathered sign, painted in green and purple. It read
PESHAWAR ARMY SUPPLIES (PVT)
. Shawn made a pistol gesture with thumb and forefinger. One of the old men rose stiffly from his stool. He held aside a beaded curtain hung over an open doorway, then followed Shawn down two steps and into a shadowed and suddenly cool weapon store. The walls were hung with weapons. A single blowfly circled the room.