Circle Around the Sun

by M. D. Johnson

  Outraged though he was, their psychological onslaught had still not broken him. Mason was tired but strong, and while the glare from the single light bulb over his head had blurred his vision and his head ached, he had not given any information other than his role as a physician. Another man entered the room and apologized for his colleague. “She’s new at this. Let’s just get down to business, then you can go,“ the officer said, and once more Mason answered the barrage of the same questions again and again, repeating his answers unswervingly.

  When de Crecy finally appeared, Mason expected the worst. The man had a long piece of rope in his hand, specially knotted every four or so inches. He slapped it against his own thigh, tapping his foot on the floor to the rhythm.

  “You have told us you were a guest at your father’s house and then taken to an encampment in the mountains.”

  “No. I said that I was visiting my father. He is my father. I don’t know about an encampment. I have committed no crime. I am a British subject. You have no right to keep me here against my will,” Mason answered.

  “We have photographs of you talking to Osama bin Laden. You were with him in his encampment.”

  “I am a British subject and you are keeping me here against my will. I have committed no crime,” Mason repeated.

  A hood was then placed over his head and he was led away.

  He was pushed along a corridor and heard a door open. He was then fully cognizant of the overwhelming stench of urine as he was shepherded into yet another room. His wrists were tied together in front and he was told to raise his arms. He heard what sounded like a squeaky pulley being hoisted. Within seconds he was suspended in mid air. He felt as though his weight would pull his arms out of their sockets, he felt his pants being pulled off and then blows rained on his legs, and thighs and down again to his ankles and feet until he could feel nothing more.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-THREE

  His head was full of flashes of blood-red lightening bolts. He was on a stone floor. It was freezing. He dreamed of his mother. He saw his sister in his dream. She was holding him, telling him it was all right, that he had to hold on, he was going home. He saw lights, then a dark passage. This must be it, he thought. Death! Then there was a beam of light followed by the dark tunnel. Death is not so bad, he thought. Then Mason saw gigantic black wings, so close that he could hear them flapping. A loud whirring sound. He was very, very cold. “Mother!” he screamed, “Where is she? Where’s my mother?” he screamed again. ”Mummy!” he screamed once more, “don’t leave me!” He closed his eyes and lapsed once more into unconsciousness. He felt himself rising upwards, as if flying away. And then, covered in a shining light, he saw Atiya.

  “Go back Masud. It’s not your time,” she said softly smiling. “Go back to your family. Your mother waits for you. You cannot enter here. Go back. Please go back.”

  He could smell gasoline. He was warm. His legs felt numb. He could smell again the distinct odor of TCP disinfectant. It was a comforting reminder of his childhood. Under his body he could feel the sensation of hard lumps and bumps, like he was traveling on a road filled with rocks. He opened his eyes and saw his sister Haley.

  “It’s alright Mace, I’m here. They can’t hurt you any more. We’re going back to civilization. Maybe the long way round, but we are leaving this God forsaken shit house. We are going home.” She held a silver flask to his lips. It was full of cognac. “Just drink this Mace. It’s OK. God won’t mind. Trust me now.”

  “Where are we?” he asked her, as the brandy took effect and warded off his shivering cold and fear.

  “We’re in an ambulance. A Red Crescent type, would you believe? We crossed the Pakistan border by chopper and now we’re heading towards Atiya’s old house in Islamabad. Dad is there waiting for you and Mom is meeting you in Paris at your Grandfather Ansari’s house. That’s where we are going as soon as you can travel. It is a neutral zone you see, you’re safe there. No one can prosecute you, as the Ansari’s used their diplomatic connections. It’s all arranged.”

  Mason didn’t hear last words as he drifted back into the warmth again. When he awakened he was in a large comfortable bed. Harrison was standing over him and there was a beautiful, familiar looking woman with ebony skin and shoulder length beaded braids next to him. She was smiling.

  “Hey handsome. You ok? They beat you up real bad, huh?”

  Mason looked at Harrison and started to sob. He couldn’t stop himself. Dana Johnson left the room cursing. Wilfred de Crecy, whoever the bastard was; he would pay for this. She returned with a glass of water and some Percocet.

  “Mason, please listen to me and don’t speak until I’m finished. I’ve been retained as your lawyer. I am able to represent you here and anywhere else. I have been advised that you were detained by a man named Wilfred de Crecy, who sometimes calls himself Wolfgang von Roehle. Is that right?”

  He nodded his head.

  “Were you formally charged with anything?”

  He shook his head from side to side.

  “They took you to the British Camp near the airport, is that correct?”

  He nodded his head.

  “They interrogated you?”

  He agreed.

  “Do you remember who beat you?”

  He started to cry, again shaking his head.

  She left the room and telephoned the British Consulate to inform them she was filing formal complaint on behalf of her client based on the violation of the human rights of a physician working under the auspices of both the Red Cross and Red Crescent. She also advised the Consulate’s office that she had prepared a press release with Human Rights Watch being the first to receive it.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR

  Interrogation Centre, Herat

  Tony Shallal entered the small room with Ghulam Ansari, one male civilian interpreter and a female agent from MI6. The interrogation was videotaped and all questions asked him were answered. Ghulam Ansari stated that he was a high ranking member of the Taliban Militia, that he was indeed a supporter of Osama bin Laden and was prepared to die for his beliefs. He said he had fought with the rebels during the Russian occupation of his country and had continued restoring a secular Islamic way of life to his homeland after the Russians had fled. He emphatically stated that he had committed no atrocities, killed no one outside of hand to hand combat, and he had not procured funds in support of worldwide terrorism. He had, he admitted, used monies donated by other supporters of Jihad to recruit, promote and train young Muslims from all over the world, who would be willing to help lay the foundation for the United Islamic States of Bosnia, Pakistan, Kashmir, Afghanistan, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Chechnya, Kosovo, Liberia and Palestine. He answered all questions relating to Osama bin Laden, but could give no account of the al-Qaeda network, its finances, supporters or the whereabouts of its highest ranking members, and could make no suggestions.

  Shallal instructed his colleagues to continue the questioning, reminding them that they were on camera. He left the room and sought out Wilfred de Crecy. De Crecy was sitting in his small office with his feet on the table, drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea with slices of lemon floating on the top. Shallal smacked the cup out of his hand, the hot liquid flowing over the man’s legs. Wilfred de Crecy shrieked in pain. “Jesus Christ! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “What am I doing? You sick little bastard! What the fuck are you doing? Do you know who the Afghan prisoner you had whipped was?”

  “The half-caste?”

  “Half-caste? This isn’t the fucking Raj!” Shallal screamed, mimicking Peter Sellers, “Queen Victoria, God Love her. This is 2001, not 1840, you arrogant prat! You gave the orders and probably helped out as well in the torture of a British subject, who is not only well connected, he’s a doctor. You knew this. He was one of my assets; you’ve tortured one of my assets. You bastard! I’ll break you for this!”

  “Oh steady on, Shallal, don’t go bloody Arab on me now. How was I to kn
ow he was one of ours. Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “It is of no consequence to you. He wasn’t charged with anything, he’s a fucking civvie and besides that, it’s hard to speak coherently when someone is beating your legs with knotted ropes. We have what we needed from him already, but his mother is Emily Byron Cowan. She’s heading a task force on bin Laden. We need her expertise along with her team selection to evaluate human intelligence. You’ve tortured her son. Are you out of your tiny mind?”

  “Ah, the Desai wench. Of course, yes I remember her. Nice tits as I recall, a bit small but...”

  He didn’t get the all of the words out before Shallal caught him with a left uppercut. Blood splattered all over de Crecy’s face.

  “That’s for Atiya Shah,” he said as he flexed his hand to make sure nothing was broken. “This shatters another Arab myth, de Crecy. Just for your personal information, some of us will hit with a clenched fist,” he said as he walked out the door.

  Tony Shallal left the compound and in several hours was in the office of Colonel Julian Walsingham, second in command to Brigadier Roger Lane, Commander of Britain’s combat troops in Afghanistan. Shallal was explaining the urgent need for a courier to take the diplomatic bag he was carrying to the Consulate in Islamabad for immediate dispatch to London. It was time for his file on Wilfred de Crecy to be given to the man they knew as “C”, Sir Richard Dearlove, Head of Intelligence at their Thames Southbank headquarters. The file, now containing an official report, photographs and the videos of both Atiya Shah and Mason Desai took eight hours to reach its destination. The aftermath and consequences of its contents would take the intelligence service known as “Six” a decade to recover from.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE

  Paris, 2001

  In the company of her former in-laws, Emily found it very difficult to relax. She drank too much burgundy and paced the floor until the phone rang and the concierge let her know that her son and daughter had arrived. All Mason’s security and travel had been organized by Harrison, who had remained in Pakistan working with a solicitor and his clerk closing out the personal affairs and the estate of Atiya Shah. Her will and supporting documents had transferred title of her home to the clinic which would in the event of her death, pass into the hands of a board of governors headed by Emily, Harrison and their designees. Both homes and their possessions, after death duty and taxes, would be used by the hospital as places of rest and recuperation by the staff.

  Mason was helped in by Haley, the young British diplomat, Idris Farrukh and his American counterpart Jared Craig, who had met them at the airport. Farrukh had promised to return the following day for an additional statement from Mason while the American took Haley to the United States Consulate for an immediate debriefing.

  After her personal information was verified, Haley was asked to give a complete account, under oath, of her actions.

  “My half-brother, Mason Desai,” she began, “unlike me is a British subject. My step-father, Harrison Cowan, also an American citizen, received an email from my brother, a physician, who was working at a civilian clinic in Herat Province. His email stated that he was shortly going to be taken in for questioning by British Intelligence. My parents, as you are aware, are both involved with intelligence and counter-terrorism efforts and have diplomatic connections. My mother heads a counter-terrorism task force in Maryland, reporting to the White House. We thought he had been abducted by someone posing as Allied intelligence. I flew from Paris to Afghanistan immediately to wait for his release. My dad was already there with a human rights attorney on another assignment. He handles International Security for diplomats and government officials. I felt my parents were at greater risk than I was so when I found out where he was being held I went there, accompanied by a British diplomat, Yassir Shallal, who is also related to me. Together, we brought my brother out. No fuss. He was released to us. That’s all.”

  “Ms. Agar, can you perhaps go into greater detail?” asked the FBI agent also sitting in on the debriefing.

  “Certainly sir, as much as I can at least. I’m afraid you might have to talk with the British for additional information. I wasn’t in the room when my brother was being released. I was outside in the hallway. But from what I could hear, there was a very big argument, as my brother had been very badly beaten by the British soldiers. They thought he was an Afghan national. He is dark-skinned, you see. He looks Hispanic, as do I,” she added maliciously.

  “What kind of name is Desai?” asked the agent

  “Moroccan and East Indian,” she replied

  “What are you? Are you of Arab origin?”

  “I’m an attorney!” she replied, glaring, “and I’m an American. My parents are both British born American citizens, my maternal grandfather is Moroccan-Egyptian. I’m really rather tired. I have nothing further to add. My brother was badly injured. He was released to Mr. Shallal and I was waiting in the hallway when they let him go. We left by ambulance then we were put in a medical evacuation chopper to the Afghan border where we were met by another ambulance which took us to Islamabad. We were met by U.S. and British officials, my dad and the human rights attorney, Dana Johnson. It was official, Gentlemen, and I am sure you can obtain reports after clearance by the British Government. Again, ya’ll can argue it out between yourselves, I’m sick, tired and would really like to get some rest now. You can meet with me again if you wish. But I’m not up to anything else right now.”

  ”We’ll take you back to your grandparent’s apartment,” Jared Craig said.

  “They’re not my grandparents, Mr. Craig. They’ve known me since I was a child, nothing more. We are not related. Will that be all?”

  “Of course, Haley.”

  “That’s Mrs. Agar, Mr. Craig.”

  “Sorry, I thought you were divorced.”

  “I am, but I didn’t change my name. Retaining the title also keeps away creeps. I’m sure you understand.”

  “We’ll have a car take you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get a cab.”

  “It’s really not a problem, Mrs. Agar. By the way, where’s your ex-husband these days?”

  “Haven’t talked with him in a while. You can get in touch with him through his job. He’s pretty easy to find. He’s an aide to Vice President Cheney. Raul Agar, the only attorney of Filipino origin in the place. Sticks out like a sore thumb, as they say in England. Need a phone number?” Haley smiled, “Have a good evening, gentlemen.”

  Leaving the room and closing the door softly behind her, she hurried to the elevator, covering her mouth to stifle her laughter.

  She walked a few blocks then hailed a cab and made two phone calls. The first to her mother, the second to Tony Shallal. She missed entirely the comments by the men she had left behind in the room.

  “Well JC, what do you think of that?”

  “She’s one very cool woman, who lies like a rug.”

  “Just write it up and pass it on. It’s just an incident report.”

  “I think I’ll keep my eyes on Ms. Agar for a few days.”

  “Don’t look too closely, my man. She’s very well connected”

  “Yeah, yeah ‘Bro’, I hear ya,” he said in reply.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-SIX

  “Hey Shallal, Meet me in the bar in the lobby. I’m on my way now. I’ll need a few minutes to take a quick shower and change.”

  Within minutes, Haley was out of the cab checking in with the front desk. Her suite, she was told, had been extended for an additional week, courtesy of the owner, Mohammed al Fayed. “Friends in high places,” she smiled at the clerk.

  “Mr. al Fayed is known for his generosity,” the clerk replied.

  “So I’ve heard,” Haley said as she headed for the elevator to her suite.

  After a shower, a change of clothes and a well deserved misting of the ample supply of “Shalimar” in her room, Haley went back through the lobby to the bar. She had the distinct impression that she wa
s being followed.

  Shallal was waiting for her with Idris Farrukh.

  “Hey there, I didn’t think I’d get out of there alive. The feebies are worse than the Taliban. By the way, I think I was tailed.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll call our cousins and tell them to lay off. Probably the over-active libido of their boy Jared Craig.”

  “JC? You mean Bro’ JC? He’s not all bad Tony. Come on, cut him some slack.”

  On the subject of bad guys, what’s the latest on whoosis von Roehle or de Crecy? Don’t you just hate the double-barreled names?”

  “Ah yes. The man of the hour. I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon enough. Suffice it to say that he’s up the proverbial creek without a paddle,” Shallal replied.