[Anthology] Close to the Bones

by Martha Carr

  And with that, Karim turned and moved down the hallway. He rounded a corner and entered another room. He sank down on a plush chair facing a computer workstation.

  Karim activated the surveillance feed on the monitor in front of him.

  At the moment, the cell was dark, and the covert camera was switched to night-vision. This gave Karim a bird’s-eye view and a vivid image in ghostly green.

  The detainee was shuffling along the cell’s walls, groping blindly, trying to orient himself.

  Karim pursed his lips. He picked up the file on his desk. He opened and flicked through the pages. The detainee’s name was Haron Omar. He was a civil engineer. Married. Three kids, with another on the way.

  He studied the detainee’s psychometric profile. A Myers-Briggs assessment had been carried out prior to acquisition and rendition, and it had classified the detainee as an ENTJ personality.

  A micromanager.

  Pragmatic.

  Logical.

  Karim figured the detainee was the kind of man who needed structure. He thrived on routine. And he gravitated towards being in complete control of his life.

  But it was time to change that.

  Shift the paradigm.

  Burst the bubble.

  Karim shut the file. He reached forward and tapped his keyboard, switching on the fluorescent lights in the detainee’s cell.

  The detainee raised his arms, gasping and cringing from the sudden brightness.

  Karim loaded up a pop anthem from the 1980s.

  Heaven Is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle.

  Karim set the song’s volume to full pitch, then placed it on a continuous loop. The music would come from the loudspeaker mounted above the detainee.

  Karim leaned back against his seat and watched.

  He took no joy in the detainee’s discomfort, of course. This was merely the beginning of a routine process. A carefully designed program that needed to be executed on a fixed schedule.

  Karim kept the song going for five hours.

  By the end of it, the detainee was wild-eyed, reduced to covering his ears as he stumbled around his prison cell, body bent over in despair.

  Since the cell was completely enclosed and devoid of windows, the detainee couldn’t possibly know if it was night or day. He had lost all sense of time.

  The pervasive light and bombarding music only served to strengthen that effect. They forced stress hormones like adrenaline and cortisol to surge through his bloodstream, keeping him amped up.

  He couldn’t rest, not even if he wanted to.

  Subconsciously, the detainee was being conditioned to learn a very vital lesson – he was no longer in control of his freedom, and he was no longer in control of his senses.

  A very good start.

  Karim sipped on an ice-cold glass of teh tarik.

  He checked the clock hanging above his desk. And he decided that, yes, he had softened up the detainee quite enough. So he tapped his keyboard and killed the music in mid-tempo.

  On-screen, the detainee stopped in his tracks and looked right up at the loudspeaker above him. His lips were quivering. Relief distilled over his strained features.

  Karim nodded. He was willing to bet that the detainee had never quite appreciated the full value of silence until this very moment.

  You should savor it while it lasts.

  Tilting his head, Karim picked up his walkie-talkie and ordered Ahmad to slip a plate of fried rice and bottled water under the cell’s door, along with an Islamic prayer rug, a wash pan and a towel.

  At this point, Karim knew that all it would take was a little bit of kindness to push things in the right direction.

  Of course, the detainee took the bait.

  He gobbled down all his rice, barely pausing to chew. And he drank half of his bottled water. Then he used the remainder of the water to perform the wudu – washing and wiping his head, arms and legs in preparation for prayer.

  Of course, there were strict rules that needed to be observed while embarking on the salat – the right location, the right time of day, even the right kind of water.

  But the detainee had precious few options when it came to fulfilling his religious obligation. He would be forced to make do. Improvise with what he had been given.

  Karim listened to the covert microphone picking up the detainee’s words. He was chanting the shahada now. ‘There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God, and Ali is the friend of God.’

  Lacing up his fingers under his chin, Karim leaned closer to the monitor, frowning.

  As a Muslim himself, Karim was used to performing the salat every single day. And uttering the shahada was an act as familiar and intimate to him as breathing.

  But what the detainee was now doing was a complete distortion of the sacred creed. He was daring to mention Ali in the same vein as the Almighty and the Holy Prophet.

  This Shiites truly are heretics. Blasphemers.

  Now the detainee was going through the motions on the prayer rug. Standing. Kneeling. Bowing. And the detainee was chanting surahs like his life depended upon it, his posture and voice heavy with desperation.

  Earlier, Karim had taken the liberty of sticking a green arrow emblazoned with the word KIBLAT on the cell’s ceiling. It indicated the position of Mecca. The direction the detainee had to face during prayer.

  And, as expected, that was exactly what the detainee did. He obeyed the sign. He prayed in the direction chosen for him. He didn’t even stop to question its providence.

  A pity…

  Karim rolled his eyes.

  Right now, he almost felt sorry for the detainee. Because his actions so far only confirmed what Karim already knew.

  The detainee was indeed a deviant.

  An undesirable.

  Maybe even a traitor.

  Fifteen minutes after the detainee finished praying, Karim switched off the lights in his cell.

  Yawning, fumbling, the detainee took that as a sign to crawl into the bed provided for him. He was coming down hard from all the stress hormones. The sensory overload may have lasted just five hours, but in biological terms, it would have felt more like fifty.

  At this point, the mental fatigue and physical lethargy would have been impossible to resist. And the darkness and the silence offered a seductive embrace.

  Sure enough, the detainee surrendered to its comfort. He drifted off to sleep. He started snoring.

  Karim watched, drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk.

  So far, the detainee had been able to maintain a certain measure of dignity. He hadn’t cried out. Hadn’t begged. He had simply endured the psychological torment inflicted upon him; internalizing his pain before seeking solace in the fragments of decency that had been thrown his way.

  Yes, the detainee still had his pride. His honor. But Karim intended to shift the balance. Push the program further.

  So he gave the detainee one hour of rest. More than enough time for him to descend into REM sleep. The deepest level of unconsciousness.

  Then Karim reached for his two-way radio and ordered the rendition team to burst into the cell, shouting obscenities, jolting the detainee awake in a flurry of punches and kicks.

  The formula was a simple one. Speed, surprise and violence of action. The detainee was so stunned, so terrified, he couldn’t possibly fight back. The team yanked him off the bed, pulled a hood over his head and dragged him out of the cell.

  They brought him to the interrogation room.

  They shoved him down on a chair.

  Karim sat in another chair directly opposite.

  The detainee fidgeted and swayed, his body clearly hurting.

  As before, Karim kept his voice gentle. Like addressing a wayward child. ‘You’ve been a very bad Muslim. You failed to meet all the conditions of the salat.’

  The detainee spoke, his voice quavering. ‘God… God will forgive me. He will understand. He has to.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe He will. He
won’t understand why you prayed towards New York instead of Mecca.’

  The detainee stiffened. ‘Wh-What? New York?’

  ‘That’s correct. The Big Apple. The capital of sin.’

  ‘You tricked me. It was you—’

  Karim cut him off by reaching forward and slapping the detainee’s knee. And the detainee jumped.

  ‘Listen,’ Karim said. ‘Listen well. Praying in the wrong direction is the least of your troubles. Because we control you. We own you. And this is just the beginning of a very, very long list of misfortunes that will befall you if you continue to be difficult. Do you understand?’

  The detainee trembled and swallowed noisily, then retreated into silence, refusing to engage any further with Karim.

  But Karim knew that he had penetrated the detainee’s psyche. He had shaken the man’s faith. And slowly, surely, the mental pressure was mounting.

  Karim nodded. ‘I am giving you the opportunity to resolve this situation. It’s simple. All you have to do is confess. Tell us how the hawala network functions and name your collaborators.’

  The detainee remained silent.

  ‘We can do a great deal to rehabilitate you. A great deal. But you have to show a willingness to turn back from the deviant path. Return to the ummah.’ Karim paused. ‘If you are remorseful, we will be lenient. On the other hand, if you’re not remorseful...’

  Karim inhaled and leaned back.

  He allowed the veiled threat to hang in the air.

  He gave the detainee a full sixty seconds to think about it.

  But, as expected, the detainee continued to be stubborn. He refused to respond, as if resistance at this point would count for anything.

  Karim made a tutting sound. ‘Fine. Zero leniency, then.’

  He clicked his fingers.

  The rendition team yanked the detainee from his seat.

  They brought the detainee to the enhanced interrogation room. They strapped him down on a horizontal wooden board. They shackled his arms and his legs.

  The detainee was panting through his hood now, whimpering.

  That was good.

  The fear would make the treatment all the more effective.

  Dr Ridzuan was present. He was observing with an expression that was clinical. ‘No more than fifteen minutes.’

  Karim nodded. ‘Fifteen minutes is all I need, Doctor.’ He turned to the rendition team. ‘Proceed.’

  Ahmad filled a jerrycan with water, while both Faisal and Mazlan held the detainee’s head steady. Then Ahmad poured a constant stream over the detainee’s face.

  The detainee jerked and gagged. He fought against his restraints, but the water kept on coming, and the hood’s fabric clung to his face like a second skin. It smothered his mouth and his nostrils.

  There was no chance to breathe. Only to receive more and more water. The detainee was engulfed by the sensation of drowning. The sensation of dying. It was swamping his lungs, ripping through his senses like an unbearable fire.

  After ten seconds, Ahmad eased up on the water.

  Faisal pulled the hood up. Just long enough for the detainee to gasp and sputter and vomit. He managed to catch a few desperate mouthfuls of air.

  Then Faisal yanked the hood back down, and they began the process all over again.

  Start.

  Stop.

  Start.

  Stop.

  It was the cruelest of rhythms.

  Karim folded his arms and watched. He intended to drag this out for as long as he could. Make this the longest fifteen minutes of the detainee’s life.

  Unfortunately, Dr Ridzuan stepped in and halted the treatment after only five. The detainee was clearly under extreme stress, and all the retching and convulsing had taken a terrible toll.

  His arms and legs were bruised from all the struggling, and there was a chance that he might shatter his bones if he was allowed to descend further into panic.

  So Dr Ridzuan sedated the detainee. He ruled out any further enhanced interrogation.

  In a way, Karim was glad for the interruption. After all, he took no joy in inflicting excessive pain. And if five minutes was all the detainee could handle, well, so be it. It was far better to stop now rather than risk permanent injury. Or even death.

  So Karim ordered the rendition team to unshackle the detainee, clean him up and bring him back to the infirmary.

  This was a setback, no doubt.

  But, as far as Karim was concerned, it was only a temporary one.

  They rehydrated the detainee and treated his bruises.

  They gave him half a day of sedated rest.

  Then, once he was awake and lucid, they shifted him back to his cell.

  This time, Karim opted for something stronger. Harsher. No more syrupy pop. So he loaded up Enter Sandman by Metallica.

  He allowed the rock music to hammer the detainee for a full twenty-four hours. And he kept the fluorescent lights on throughout.

  The detainee was bleary-eyed and gibbering like a monkey by the time they brought him back to the enhanced interrogation room.

  This time, he wasn’t made to wear a hood.

  Karim had decided that the detainee needed to see what they were going to do to him.

  Karim held up a bottle of Coca-Cola. ‘Do you see this? It’s my favorite soft drink. But I’m not going to be drinking it. You are. Once it gets into your lungs, it really burn. It will be much, much worse than water.’

  Sweating, sobbing, the detainee shouted as they strapped him down to the wooden board. ‘I confess! I’m a traitor! I will tell you where the money is! I will tell you everything!’

  Karim stared at the detainee. It would be easy to stop now and get him to sign the statement of confession and apology. But Karim didn’t want simplicity. He wanted certainty.

  So he shrugged and leaned over the detainee. Tapped him on the forehead, much like a schoolteacher admonishing an errant schoolboy. ‘I’m afraid we can’t be sure if you’re just saying that to buy time. So we’ll need to purify your motives with pain.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth! I’m a traitor!’

  Karim pursed his lips and leaned back. ‘Of course you are. We just need to be sure you won’t hold back on the technical details when you make a full confession.’

  ‘I won’t! I promise! I won’t!’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Karim sighed, and he placed the bottle of Coca-Cola on the floor. ‘But here’s the good news. We won’t be using this after all.’

  The detainee was grinning like a maniac. ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you!’

  ‘No, no. We’ll be using something else to purify you with pain.’

  The detainee’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

  The rendition team got started on the detainee’s left hand. Faisal gripped his wrist, while Mazlan gripped his elbow. And Ahmad used a pair of pliers to peel off a fingernail.

  The detainee jerked and shrieked, the wooden board creaking under his weight. But Faisal and Mazlan held him steady.

  Ahmad moved on to another fingernail.

  And another.

  And another.

  The detainee screamed and screamed.

  That’s when Karim’s cell phone vibrated and chimed. And, frowning, he got it out of his pocket and checked the caller ID.

  He scoffed and shook his head.

  It was the Director.

  Karim gestured for the rendition team to pause. Then he stepped out of the room and into the corridor beyond.

  He took the call. ‘Yes, sir?’

  The Director spoke, his voice gravelly and emotionless. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a new development. One that changes things considerably.’

  ‘New development?’

  ‘Yes, it seems we’ve located the individual who’s been siphoning off the funds and acting as the hawala. And it’s not the detainee you have at the moment.’

  Karim felt his heart skip. And, swaying, he had to steady himself against a wall. ‘Wait. Hold on. The detainee is a devi
ant. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And he’s about to make a full and complete confession—’

  ‘He’s innocent. He didn’t do it. Our forensic accountants have confirmed the money trail.’

  Karim stretched his cheeks tight. ‘So...’ He hesitated, then swallowed. ‘Are you saying we made a mistake?’

  The Director’s voice remained flat. ‘Yes, an error. Most unfortunate. But no matter. We’ll be apprehending the real culprit shortly. And we’ll be sending him over to you.’

  ‘But… what about the current detainee? What will we do with him?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of principle, we can’t release him. That’ll raise too many question marks. Blemish our record.’

  Karim felt a chill finger its way up his spine. ‘You mean…?’

  The director sighed. ‘Yes, he’ll have to disappear. I trust you will have no issues with that?’

  Karim nodded ever so slowly. ‘Yes, sir. No problems at all.’

  ‘Good. I will let you know once the next detainee is secured and en route.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘And Karim?

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘If it makes you feel better, he’s still a deviant. And we don’t want deviants in Malaysia.’

  ‘Understood, sir. No deviants.’

  Karim ended the call with his heart thudding in his ears. His hands were trembling, and he felt as if the earth had just spun off its axis.

  Damn it…

  He wanted to stamp his feet. He wanted to protest. He wanted to scream.

  But – ya Allah – what was it that his mentor had once told him? Oh yes. It was better for a hundred innocent men to be punished than for one guilty man to go free.

  Because that was the way the country had to be run.

  For the sake of stability.

  For the sake of continuity.

  Karim had to believe in that.

  After all, he considered himself a patriot.

  I love my country…

  And so, straightening his posture, smoothing his hand through his hair, Karim stepped back into the interrogation room. He inhaled deeply and nodded at the rendition team.

  Then he stared back down at the whimpering detainee. He looked into his glistening eyes. ‘Unfortunately, there’s been a change in the program. We’re going to have to wrap this up. For good.’