by Eve Rabi
“I’m Megan, what’s your name?”
For a moment, he appears startled by my question. Then he gives my wound his full attention.
Mmm. “Shall I guess?”
He focuses even harder on my wound.
“Ali Baba?” Oops! I thought out loud there.
“What?!”
Now that’s no way to win friends and influence people.
“Guess I’m gonna have to christen you myself, Angel-man. Won’t be pleasant, I’m warning you.”
“Angel-man?” His look could be interpreted as amused, or just sneering.
“Told ya so.”
A hint of a smile flitters across his lips.
“Well?”
“My name’s not important. Keep calling me that, though.”
“Mmm.”
I study him. Clean shaven, around six feet two, faded denim jeans, blue T-shirt, untidy hair, no turban, no visible weapon, no personality.
He looks up and I quickly look away. He looks down and I continue. Reeboks, Rolex, a thin gold chain around his neck. Rolex? Insurgents must be getting good money these days.
A hint of a Canadian accent. Hard to tell when his answers are mainly monosyllabic. Somehow, he doesn’t seem to fit in here.
“Can I take a bath?”
“No.”
“Please? I have dried blood all over me and it’s so … so uncomfortable.”
“You want to be comfortable?”
“Well, yeah. It’s hot.” Hot is not the word. It’s about 120 degrees and there is no breeze.
“You come to war, to fight, to kill … and … you want to be … comfortable?”
“Post-war. I came to help.”
“You came to help? Is that a fact?” He finishes the wound dressing and stands up. “Save that for the interrogation that’s coming up. Should be interesting.” He leaves the room.
Interrogation? Who’s going to interrogate me? Will they torture me? I cringe at the thought of that.
I need to get the hell out of here. In desperation, I scout around. No furniture except a mattress on the bare floor. A naked light bulb on the ceiling provides harsh lighting. The only window in the room is barricaded with steel bars. Although the door is wooden, a solid metal security gate keeps me in. No holes on the ground and none on the wall, so I can forget tunnelling out of here Shawshank-Redemption style.
I lie back on my mattress and stare grimly at the ceiling. I’m going to need more than a file in a cake to blow this joint. Shit!
***
“Follow me,” Angel-man says.
“To … where?”
When his head jerks to look at me, I quickly stand up and shuffle behind him. As we walk down the long corridor, I get a better view of my cage. It’s actually an old farm house that has been modified to hold infidels like me.
Steel bars on all doors and windows. Heavy, tattered drapes allow little light in. The place is musty, and there is an absence of life outside. No moving cars or trains or even the faint sounds of gunshots, which is common in Iraq these days.
We’re probably on the outskirts of Baghdad. With escape in mind, I case the joint, making mental notes – the angles of the house, the exits, entrances, the bunch of keys hanging on a hook on the wall...
Three armed militants play cards on a makeshift table supported by three oil drums. Two are armed with Kalashnikovs, while the third has an M249 SAW.
I look longingly at the SAW – a Squad Automatic Weapon. At 2000 rounds per minute, it would saw through anybody it hit. Lethal. Flash it around and you’ve got crowd control. One glimpse of it and you’ve got a swarm of hostile Iraqis on their knees.
Angel-man stops at a closed door and jerks his head towards it.
With one finger, I push the door open. It’s a bathroom. Not the little toilet I’ve been using, but a proper, useable bathroom. Holy crap! I smile.
Angel-man flings a small bundle of clothes at me. I’m too slow catching it and it falls to the ground.
“Sorry,” he says and stoops to pick it up.
“Thanks.” I examine the bundle. An old gray but clean towel, a long black skirt, and a red long-sleeve tunic. Clean clothes after fourteen days in my filthy Army-issue gear. Awesome!
Excited, I reach over and turn the faucet on. Warm water. My smile grows bigger! I slowly rub my hands together under the flowing water. Beautiful, just beautiful! Something I took for granted. To lose this awful stench of congealed blood I’ve been carrying around is going to be great.
I push the bathroom door shut.
Angel-man pushes back.
“What?”
“Stays open.”
I stare at him. “What?! You kidding me?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Then … I mean, how do I shower with you looking on?”
He shrugs and jerks his head towards the armed men playing cards. “Want to take it up with them?”
I look at the men and purse my lips.
He’s bluffing. Has to be. Pissed off, I call his bluff. “Forget it.” I hand the towel and clothes back to him. I wait for him to feel bad and have a change of heart and eventually say, “Oh, all right, you can close the darn door.”
To my disbelief, he shrugs and starts walking away. What a prick!
Sullenly, I trudge behind him, pissed off with him and myself. As I walk, I imagine warm water cascading down my parched skin and washing away layers of grime and caked blood, cleansing my matted hair, making me feel like a human being again, and I buckle. “Okay fine!”
He stops and slowly turns around. “You’re wasting my time, American woman.”
In a huff, I turn and walk back to the bathroom. Leaving the door slightly ajar, I strip down to my bra and panties and get under the shower. When I look past the door, Angel-man is staring outside the tiny passage window, looking a trillion miles away. Relieved he’s not perving me, I relax. How good would it be if I had some almond and honey shampoo? Some citrus shower gel with those little blue beads that exfoliate and soften. A naturally scented loofah, some grapefruit and pomegranate body –
The shower floor rises and hits me in the face.
Angel-man is immediately beside me.
“This was a bad idea. Let’s go.”
“No, please!” I say. “I need to … to wash my …”
“You’ve washed enough.”
“Please!” I do my best to stand up, but my legs have turned to Jell-O. “Help … me … wash my hair. I need your help. Please!”
“What? I … me? You want me to ...?” He sighs. “O … kay …”
He washes my hair while I sit on the shower floor and will the ground to stop spinning.
His watch is getting wet and his clothes are getting soaked, but he doesn’t seem to mind. When the water runs clean, he dries me with the towel and helps me up.
Feeling refreshed in spite of my fall, I’m thrilled to have rid myself of the awful stench, and I don’t even care that he saw me semi-naked.
“Thanks,” I say as he steers me back to my room.
No answer.
Chapter Three
My door is unlocked; however, the iron gate outside my door is always locked. Every time someone leaves my room, I listen in case they’ve forgotten to lock the gate. A POW can hope, can’t she? When I’m really bored and I have the energy, I stand at my door and look around at … nothing. Most times, Angel-man sits nearby and reads the newspaper or a magazine. Since he’s never armed, I flirt with the idea of overpowering him and escaping. Soon.
I’m fast asleep when I hear beautiful singing. “Amazing grace …” I open my eyes and the singing has stopped.
Strange. Could have sworn it was real. Ah well, probably just a dream. Fuck! I’m going nuts here.
Then I hear it again. I spring to my feet and bolt to the gate, straining to listen. But to my disappointment, there is a torrent of abuse in Arabic, followed by silence. Someone had been singing in English. It was no dream.
&nb
sp; Excitement surges through me. Who could it be?
Twenty-four hours later, I hear it again, and this time, it’s clear. No dream, no maybes. A man’s melancholy voice. “I once was lost …”
“Who is that?” I blurt, my voice shrill and high-pitched. “This is Sergeant Megan Saunders. Who are you? You American? Talk to me!”
Silence.
“Hello? Answer me! Please? Please! Please …”
“Saunders?” The voice is weary. “Trust Fund?”
“Eh …yes!” God, I hate that name, but today it’s music to my battered ears. “Yes! Trust Fund Saunders! Who’s this?”
“Captain Davis. Salem, Oregon.” He says this with pride.
“Rory?”
“Yes!” From where I’m standing, I see only his swarthy arms protruding through the bars of his cell. He waves them. “Can you see my … biceps?”
My chuckle emits like a sob. “Rory. Oh my God! I’m so happy to hear you’re alive, Captain!”
“Roger that, Trust. Happy to hear you’re alive too. Thought I was the only one.”
“Anybody else with you, Captain?”
“Nope. Just me.”
I have so many questions I don’t know where to begin. “Where …?”
“Ahhlass! Ahhlass!”
Rory and I obey and shut up.
***
Enter Shariff. From the size of his entourage, I gather he’s the Don around here. Seven of his men with M16s and AK-47s pour into my cell. After every sentence of Shariff's, his men nod vigorously. Akin to “Amen brother!”
He’s a bigger version of Bin Laden. Rounded and taller, cherubic cheeks, well upholstered – wears a long white caftan and flat leather sandals. A white turban is coiled around his head, and his salt-and-pepper beard touches his chest. He could easily pass as a priest, and I bet he does. Probably why he’s been missed by coalition forces.
He looks at me sitting on the floor and frowns. Angel-man quietly enters the room and fades into the wall. He looks worried, so I get worried.
Shariff takes a deep breath. “You came to Iraaaaq to kiiiill?”
“N … no sir.”
“Siiiilence!”
Shit.
“We have plans for you, American soldier. Big plans.”
This time I quietly look at the floor.
“I’m talking to you!”
My head jerks to look at him. Make up your mind, will you?
From the corner of my eye, I notice a faint smile on Angel-man’s face.
“Ummm … sir?”
To begin with, you will have to deliver a message or a speech.”
“Yes sir.”
Okay, so it’s probably going to be one of those speeches you see on a grainy video. You know the one where you say, I’m okay, they’re treating me well. Send a hundred million in one-dollar bills.
That means I’m going to be alive for a while longer, and that is a relief.
***
After my meeting with Shariff, I walk to my door and look outside. Angel-man sits outside my room and pages through a car magazine. The one thing I notice about him – he’s always clean shaven. It’s confusing when all the other assholes around me have long beards.
“Psst! Rory!”
“Trust?”
“Shhh!” Angel-man says, looking up from his magazine and faking a scowl.
I ignore him. “You hurt, Rory?”
Angel-man glares at my insolence.
“Yeah. Busted knee, sprained wrist, couple of gashes. But I’ll be okay. How ’bout you?”
“Too bad. Well, I’ve got a broken clavicle, some head injuries, generalized bruising, a sprained ankle. Lost a lot of blood, but I’m alive, thanks to a very nice gentleman sitting here reading the paper.”
Angel-man rolls his eyes as a blush creeps into his face.
“They’ll come for us,” Rory says. “They’ll find us, Trust.”
“You think?” I cannot hide the hopelessness in my voice. I think Angel-man hears the despair, because he looks up from his magazine again, this time a worried look in his eyes.
I look away.
“Yep. I’m going to see my wife and baby again, Trust. And very soon, you’ll be back home, wearing your Jimmy Choos and prancing around in your polka dot bikini.”
I swallow hard. Wish I had the same faith he has.
“So Trust, why do they call you that? And what’s with the polka dot bikini story?”
“Changing the subject to lift my spirits, eh? As if you don’t know, Rory.”
“Tell me.”
“Awww, it’s a long story.”
“I got time. You got time too.”
I smile. “Well, just cos my husband is a …”
“… Poh … leeese commissioner …” Rory teases.
I chuckle. “Assistant ‘poh …leeese commissioner.’ ”
Angel-man glances at me again before returning to his magazine.
I toy with the idea of telling Rory that my parents are not wealthy at all and that my husband worked really hard to become successful, but I decide against it.
“Uh huh. And the bikini? True about you being a former model and shit?”
I glance down at my tattered clothes, think about my scarred body, my matted hair, my pasty skin, and I cringe. “Well ... I modelled once. Some fizzy drink. But then I got married ...”
“And all that came to an end, right? Marriage does that, I know, I know. Must have wanted you all to himself.”
“Well, not rea –”
“Can’t say I blame the dude.”
“Jeez, Rory, I’m surprised everyone knows so much about me.”
“Well it’s a –”
Nazim walks out of a room with a wooden pole and slams it against Rory’s arms hanging through the bars. Rory yells in pain.
Horrified, I scoot back into my cell and back into a corner.
Man, I wish Nazim and his bony ass would just fuck off the planet!
Chapter Four
When I see the tripod and camera again, I freeze. But then I remember that I have that speech to give. That speech.
Nazim and a few men, including Angel-man, follow the cameraman in. An insurgent they call Bilal flings a scarf at me.
I tie it around my hair.
“Not like that,” Bilal yells.
I look at Angel-man. He walks over and towers over me as he unties the scarf and reties it, tucking all my stray hair into the scarf. “It’s okay,” he murmurs reassuringly.
I gulp and nod my thanks.
Nazim stands in the middle of the room and draws circles in the air with his unsheathed sword. If it is a ploy to terrorize me; boy is it working! I’m suitably terrorized.
Without argument, I sit in front of the video camera.
A man slaps pages of a typed speech into my hands. “Smile!”
I bare my teeth an inch.
“More!”
My smile becomes large enough to stick a coat hanger in.
“Talk!”
Ready to deliver the speech, I squint at the page and balk. “Sir!” I look up at Bilal, a look of horror on my face. “I can’t say these words.”
He looks at me with hooded eyes.
“Please, I’m…” I fight to control my panic. “I’m a soldier in the United States Army. If I say these words, if I give this speech, I will be thrown in jail, sir, please!”
Nazim pauses with his air alphabets or whatever the fuck he’s doing. For a moment he stares at a spot on the ceiling. Suddenly, he rushes at me, sword first. I scream and cower. He grabs me by the hair and yanks my head back, and before he can even lodge his sword against my throat, my windpipe involuntarily constricts.
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” I gurgle. “I’ll do it! Please! Please!”
Slowly, he releases my hair, his lips twitching with unspoken threats.
Shaking and crying, I struggle to compose myself for the camera. Guess I have to give the speech. Fucked if I do and fucked if I don’t.
&
nbsp; “My fellow …” I clear my throat. “My fellow Americans, I have chosen to join the holy jihad against America. From now on, I choose to be called Zarina. America is committing a great transgression by killing innocent women and children and taking lives in the Islamic world.”
I glance at Angel-man standing in the background, looking at me, his hands stuck deep in the pocket of his jeans. When our eyes meet, he quickly averts his.
“I urge you to bring America to its knees and force it to take responsibility for its follies. Therefore, I beseech you, commit to the goals of Islam and join the jihad, and help bring the Islamic world closer to its goal, that is to defeat the wicked and depraved America and finally liberate Iraq and the people of Iraq from its…”
When I’m done, Nazim claps slowly then blows me a kiss. I look away, repulsed by the mere sight of him.
Bilal walks over and leers at me. His hanging jowls and protruding, jaundiced eyes remind me of a bullfrog and the name Jeremiah comes to mind. He stinks too – a base note of rancid yogurt, a top note of stale tobacco, and the rest – boiled eggs. When he strokes my cheek, I jerk my face away.
“I marry you, we have boy baby,” he says.
Eeeewww! I recoil further into my plastic chair.
Nazim smiles and casually drapes his bony arm around my shoulder, and immediately one hundred desert scorpions crawl over me.
When they finally leave, I exhale loudly. I’ve crossed more than a boundary with that speech. Just before I left the US, a new security law was passed which allows the US Military to detain anyone suspected of American terrorism, including US citizens, indefinitely and without trial. They will then be shipped to Guantanamo Bay for processing. No longer will the FBI or civilian law enforcement agencies be detaining traitors like myself.
I sigh inwardly. Guantanamo Bay, here I come.
Last to leave is Angel-man. At the door, he hesitates, then turns around. “Keep your boots on,” he says in a low voice.
“My boo –?”
“Even at night.” Then he’s gone.
I stare at the door. In my desperation, I read hope into those words. Perhaps he’s going to set me free. How good would that be?