Hina got up from her chair next to the Prime Minister’s desk, adjusted her kameez and dupatta before moving to open the door. She stepped out, leaving it slightly ajar. He could hear her say, “He’ll see you now.”
The door immediately filled with the largesse of the speaker’s frame, almost obscuring the wiry leader of the opposition behind him. He stood there, waiting for the Prime Minister to look up from whatever he was reading, but as the minutes passed, his impatience got the better of him.
“Mr. Prime Minister, may we come in?” Tariq Nadeem, Speaker of the National Assembly, asked, each word liberally coated in venomous hatred for the man who occupied the chair he felt belonged to him.
Prime Minister Chaudhry’s head popped up from the memo he was reading, not realizing they were standing there. “Speaker sahib, you need no invitation!” he said, getting up and coming around the desk. “This is our office, not mine alone.” His hand was engulfed by the Speaker’s mammoth mitts. “Please take a seat. Hina, can you join us?”
Hina stepped in, closing the door behind her. She stopped for a moment to ask if anyone would like a beverage, before taking her seat at the small table behind the Premier’s chair. The Prime Minister returned to his desk to gather some notes, glancing at the memo he had been reading. He caught three words before closing it, “Suspect zero identified.” I’ll have to ask about that during the noon meeting.
* * *
Faheem’s mind was playing tricks on him. He kept flashing back to the 4x6 cell in Nowshera where he had first met the men in black. They were nondescript, unidentifiable, and devilishly sadistic. If I knew this was my fate, I would have struggled harder in Nowshera.
The entire helicopter ride was a blur to him, memories of being hung over the side and feeling the ground disappear beneath him still flashing within his troubled psyche. The fear of falling hundreds of feet to his death danced in his head. He could still hear the men’s laughter echoing in his head, followed by their commander’s encouragement, “Again.” And they did it again and again, as he was helpless to fight them, the whole time wondering if this was how he would die.
Why won’t they stop playing this incessant music? The same four tracks repeated over and over since he had been thrown into the box, only stopping for prayer and interrogations, which were controlled by the jailers. Temperatures fluctuated to extremes, further throwing him into a confused state. Was it day or night? Was he in Pakistan or not? His mind was no longer his own, a slave to whatever thought or feeling the jailers wanted to torment him with. He had heard of secret prisons, black sites, like this before and the tactics used in them, but the reality of the experience was too much for him to comprehend.
He recalled the first time an interrogator had entered the concrete box. Dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans, Smith, he called himself, was polite and friendly, bringing him a cup of hot tea along with a bowl of soup. He offered to help get his freedom if he would just cooperate with him, help them understand why he had done what he was accused of, but Faheem still had no idea what he was accused of, and no one would tell him. Smith’s last words before going out the metal door were ominous, “You’re just going to make this harder on yourself the more you resist. They take great pleasure from the ones who resist here.” I am not trying to resist, I just don’t know what you want from me. But that thought, like all of his others, had disappeared in the volume of the blaring music that filled his cage all day.
He had curled himself into a ball in the corner of the cage, trying to get respite from the cold, when four men rushed into the cell. It was a common occurrence during his stay to have men barge in and verbally abuse him. They only struck him occasionally and that when a jailer would momentarily lose control, letting his own anger explode. The other jailers would quickly pull the abuser back from Faheem, almost in a practiced act of preservation. He was almost grateful to his jailers in times like these. Confusion was warping his mind.
During the first days he was imprisoned, a jailer would stand over him as he offered his prayers, speaking on a telephone with his command. The jailer used words like uncooperative, break, torture, rendition and extreme frequently, interrupting his prayers and making him to take significantly longer to complete them. This would anger the jailer, drawing accusations that he was abusing the kindness shown to him and for a period of time the prayer mat would not be provided, nor would he be told that it was time for prayer. He had once asked what time it was so that he could perform the correct prayer, only to be told to pray Qasr, something that had stuck in his mind. How do they know about Qasr? Are they Muslims?
The jailers had done a masterful job in breaking the confident enforcer. In the concrete box he lived in now, he was no longer demanding answers. He was now a tool to be used however they wanted, a wealth of information that could be tapped to gain actionable intelligence on the activities that led up to the assassination of the Prime Minister and the Peshawar incident.
He heard the key enter the lock on the cell door. His mind raced, as there was a pause before the door was opened. Would this be the jailers abusing me again or would another interrogator calmly sit down at the table to ‘talk’, as they put it. Either way, he would only know once the door was opened. As the bottom of the door grated against the concrete floor, Faheem backed slowly into a corner seeking protection from another potential onslaught, his body cringing with the memories of previous attacks. In the doorway stood a single shadow, outlined by the distant light in the corridor. He paused there, taunting Faheem’s mind with the possibilities that could befall him in the coming minutes.
“Faheem, why don’t you come out of the corner?” the familiar voice said. He saw the shadow turn his head and ask for some hot food to be brought in as he entered, leaving the door slightly ajar. Was it left ajar for a reason or had he just not pulled hard enough to close it? It was uncommon for an interrogator to be alone with him, at least it had not been the practice since he arrived there. Faheem slowly emerged from the corner unsure who the man was, but knew that he had heard the voice somewhere before. His eyes strained to find the shadow in the darkness of the box. The shadow also leveraged this confusion by staying out of the direct light in the center of the cage. Three men entered carrying a portable table and chairs, a facility not afforded to Faheem in previous interrogations, where he had been forced to stand for hours on end. What caused this change in procedure? “Please sit down,” the voice said from the shadows. “They are bringing you some food. I’m sure you could use some extra nourishment.” Faheem strained his eyes, wanting to know who was showering him with this kindness, but the darkness hid the figure’s true identity.
One of the more verbally abusive jailers entered the room with a tray of food in his hands. He walked across slowly, sliding the soles of his shoes against the floor. The noise made Faheem cringe, likening the noise to fingernails on a blackboard. He looked to the man in the shadows, who seemed unfazed by the noise, almost as if it wasn’t really there. Was it there? The jailer placed the tray on the table, waiting a moment for Faheem to sit down. Faheem hesitated, angering the jailer. He came around the table and grabbed Faheem by the neck, forcing him to sit down. He growled in Faheem’s ear, “Show respect to the person who has given you kindness, otherwise he may not do it again.”
“Jones!” the voice called from the corner. “There is no need for that. Let our guest learn to trust our kindness.” Jones glanced in the voice’s direction before exiting and responded with a simple, “Sorry sir. Won’t happen again.” Faheem’s eyes took in the amount and quality of food that had been provided by this new interrogator. Chicken karahi, fresh naan, yogurt, okra and rice were all placed on the tray. There were bottles of Pepsi and mineral water, unopened, to quench his thirst. He didn’t know whether to start eating or thank the interrogator first. The interrogator helped him along with his decision, “Please enjoy your meal. I’ll be back once you’re done.” He left as quietly as he had entered.
Faheem engorg
ed himself on the food before him. He had not been given any real food since he arrived here, causing his stomach become diarrheic from the constant diet of runny daal and undercooked rice. This was a proper meal, much like his wife made for him at home. His mind flashed back to the days of freedom, sitting behind his desk at the FC command with the tins that his wife prepared for him. He enjoyed her cooking, as did the other men under his command, regularly sharing with them in a communal mealtime. Those days were a fleeting memory, as were his wife and children. As he finished eating, he could not help but lick his fingers trying to capture every flavor, unsure when he would have this kind of meal again. The door opened again as he put the bottle of Pepsi down on the tray and Jones entered to collect it. Faheem grasped the bottle of mineral water, fighting with his remaining strength to keep it from Jones’s reach. He stood there laughing at the display, almost like a child clutching a chosen toy in the department store thinking that if he held on long enough, he would be allowed to keep it. Jones reached out and snatched the bottle from him, smirking as he placed it back on the tray, now out of Faheem’s reach.
“Pick your battles,” he said, turning to leave. The interrogator walked in before Jones left the box and took the water bottle from the tray, handing it back to Faheem. Jones shrugged indifference as he exited, leaving the door ajar again.
“They like to torment the detainees,” the voice said. “It’s like they’re cats playing with a mouse they’ve caught. If we let them, they would kill it.” He paused to let the words sink into Faheem’s torn psyche before continuing, “We control which mice get saved and which get eaten.” The words echoed in Faheem’s head. This was all a game to them. In the end, they are going to kill me. The man who had been a shadow and voice for the length of their interactions sat at the table and Faheem recognized him immediately. This was the son of a bitch who had collected me from Nowshera. The one that had allowed the others to manhandle me and the same man that had encouraged them to hang me over the edge of the helicopter. He is sadistic, why is being so kind suddenly?
The Major watched as Faheem pulled back from the table in recognition. He sat down. Pulling a cigarette pack from his pocket, he took one for himself and then offered a cigarette to Faheem. “Please sit down,” he said calmly. “I don’t understand why you’re so scared of me. It’s not like we dropped you from the helicopter,” he said with a smile. This did nothing to calm Faheem’s mind.
“We’d like your assistance in gathering some information,” the Major said, speaking slower and at a measured pace. “The more cooperative you are, the more benefits you will get. The less you are… well… you know what happens when you don’t cooperate,” he said with an malevolent smirk. “Are you willing to assist us?”
Faheem’s mind thought quickly of the demands that he wanted to make in return for his assistance. The music? A bed? The Major read the body language, knowing well what was going through the prisoner’s mind. “Before you ask for anything, you need to give us something,” he said. “Think of this like an auction. The more valuable the thing you give us, the more valuable the thing we give you in return.” He watched Faheem’s expressions closely, trying to see if the statement had registered in his tormented mind. It took a few minutes, but Faheem returned to the table and sat. “Am I to assume that means we understand each other?” the Major asked. Faheem nodded his head in agreement.
“Let’s start with something simple to help you get comfortable,” the Major said. “How long have you been using your posting in the Frontier Corps to pass information back to terrorists?” Horror washed over Faheem’s face; he immediately understood that his world had collapsed around him. The answer to this one question would be a death sentence for him.
“I don’t pass information to terrorists,” Faheem said, voice trembling. “I am not a terrorist. I am a Commander in the Frontier Corps.”
“See, there you have started with a lie,” the Major said calmly. “You were a Commander. We made sure that the Brigadier issued your termination as soon as you were picked up by the army,” he said pulling the signed order from his leather portfolio. He paused to let Faheem read the charges and grounds for termination. The words jumped off the page, insubordination, collaborating with the enemy, espionage. Two of these are punishable under the military criminal code with death. Faheem slid the paper back to the Major, shaking his head.
“You have no proof of any of these charges,” Faheem stammered defiantly. “I will stand before a military tribunal and prove my innocence.”
“You think that you were picked up because there’s no proof?” the Major said, laughing. “If there was no proof, you wouldn’t be here. We brought you here to give you a chance to admit to what you’ve done and help us capture those responsible.” He stopped laughing suddenly, leaning across the table, closing the distance between himself and Faheem. “Don’t fool yourself into believing that you will ever leave this place until you give us what we want,” he said with a cold, unemotional tone that unhinged Faheem’s mind.
“Let me ask you again… and this time, think about your answer carefully,” the Major said. “How long have you been passing information to terrorists?”
Faheem thought hard about the question, weighing the options before he answered. “I don’t pass information to terrorists,” Faheem repeated a second time.
The Major gathered his papers without hesitation and got up from the table. He stopped at the door, turning around to look at Faheem. “Don’t say we didn’t try to help you.” As he turned back to the door, Jones met him. “Do we have him?” he asked Jones.
Jones shot a sadistic smile at Faheem before answering, “We picked him up from school this morning.” Who did they pick up from school? Who is this other one? Faheem’s face froze in horror when his twelve-year-old son, Amjad, was brought around the corner and into his sight. Faheem lurched from the table, trying to get to the door and save his son from the tormentor that had hold of him, but was restrained by the iron shackles the held him to the floor and table.
“Amjad!” he yelled. “Let him go. He has nothing to do with this!”
The Major turned around and looked at Faheem, “Nothing to do with what? Tell me now or forget him forever!” Faheem understood the tone in the Major’s voice. He was the authority and would do what he wanted, if he didn’t get the information that he wanted.
“Please don’t hurt him. He’s just a child,” Faheem sobbed uncontrollably, tears running down his face as he thought of his son having to suffer this torment. “Please let him go…” Faheem begged.
“The solution is in your hands, Faheem,” the Major said. “Answer the question. Decide who lives and who dies.” Faheem continued to sob, bringing a familiar sadistic smile to Jones’ face, as he slammed the door between the two of them.
“Wait! Please wait!” Faheem screamed at the closed door, unsure if they could hear him or not. He could, however, hear Jones screaming at his son, followed by a hard bang against the door. “I did it!” he screamed at the door, rattling the irons that held his hands to the table. “I told them everything that the Army was planning! I…” The door swung open again, revealing blood on the floor outside it. Faheem’s mind raced into overdrive. Where was Amjad? What had they done to him?
“Where is my son?” Faheem demanded of the interrogator. “What have you done to him?”
“Your son?” the man said with a grin. “You put your life before his and now you ask about his well-being?”
“Please just tell me where he is,” Faheem pleaded. “I told you that I helped them…”
“That’s not enough,” the interrogator replied. “You were given a chance to cooperate by choice. You chose not to. Now, you will get information when we get what we want,” he said leaning against the edge of the table and pushing it into Faheem’s chest. “What did you tell them?”
Chapter 16
The phone rang in the residence, echoing through the empty, dark hallways. The ringing stopped by the fi
fth bell, leaving him to assume that the caller had given up or one of the duty operators had answered. The Prime Minister rolled over in his bed, slipping his arm around Ayla, his wife of thirty years. He had just started to drift off to sleep again when there was a knock at the door. Ahsan Chaudhry had not enjoyed a full night’s sleep for the past three weeks, dependent on quick naps when his schedule would allow. It had all started with the three words in a memo, suspect zero identified, and had increased with each security briefing. He gave his wife a gentle kiss on the cheek as he pulled away, laying flat on his side of the bed. The knock came again, this time slightly harder. The security detail knew they couldn’t barge into his private quarters unless it was a matter of imminent national security. This didn’t seem to meet that requirement, but Chaudhry knew that his sleep for the night was over.
The Premier rose from the bed and sat on the side, feet searching for his slippers on the cold floor below. Finding them, he stood and pulled on his robe. Ayla stirred in the bed, her hand searching for her husband. “Go back to sleep janni,” he said. “It’s state business again.” Her eyes opened for a moment, glancing at the shadow standing at the foot of the bed.
“What time is it?” Ayla asked, rolling over to check the clock on her bedside table.
“It’s early,” Chaudhry replied, looking at the Rolex on his left wrist. “Too early,” he whispered, noting the time. Three a.m.? This better be important.
Chaudhry stumbled to the door, still half asleep, rubbing the sleep from the corner of his eyes. “This better be life and death,” he said as he neared the closed door. Opening the door, he found a young man in uniform standing outside. He looked nervous as the PM opened the door. His eyes caught the figure still sleeping in bed behind the Premier, but immediately diverted his attention back to the Premier standing in his robe, with a scowl on his face.
Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Page 22