Terminal Rage

by Khalifa, A. M.

  The CIA’s briefing on The Devil’s Throat said it best. The isolation of the prisoners was so extreme, not one of its inmates was aware of the Egyptian people’s nine-months-old revolution that toppled their president of more than thirty years. The moment a prisoner was admitted, their knowledge of the outside world was frozen indefinitely. Books, television and telephones were prohibited.

  The prison was built in the middle of a desert valley surrounded by six rocky hillsides. There were a few pathways out of the valley, only one of which led to the single road connecting the prison to the outside world. The other paths were carved by the army twenty-five years ago when the prison was being constructed, and they led nowhere. These false routes terminated as dead-end enclosures within the hills, booby-trapped with land mines so powerful they didn’t just maim a human body, they liquefied it.

  Anyone foolhardy enough to try escaping the prison would first have to know which path to take. Their next obstacle would be to survive the lethal deathstalker scorpions and desert horned vipers that infested the area. Assuming lady luck was on their side and they escaped these venomous creatures, there was also the matter of six heavily fortified checkpoints separated by electrified barbed wire. Still, if they made it out of the prison they would have no cover from the twelve elevated positions where snipers would pick them off like fish in a bucket.

  Even in the inconceivable possibility they were able to escape the snipers’ bullets and ran for their lives on the highway, and somehow evaded capture by the prison patrols who owned the road for miles upon miles, they would eventually end up in uncharted deserts or more hills with no food or water. Before long they would find themselves facing what they had tried to escape in the first place—a miserable death.

  The Devil’s Throat was penitentiary purgatory, a dress rehearsal for the eternal damnation that would come after the inmates were executed. Its four hundred inmates were all on death row for terrorism and other violent crimes, none of whom the Egyptian state was in a particular rush to execute. Most of the prisoners could still provide information critical to ongoing criminal investigations. The official life span estimate of an inmate before execution was seven to ten years. A few years ago a handful of Western rights groups confronted the Egyptian government with reports of prisoners on death row for more than twenty years.

  The Knighthawk carrying Smythe and the Delta Force men had flown across the Red Sea from the south camp of the Multinational Force and Observers in Sharm El Sheikh. The MFO was an international force overseeing the terms of the peace treaty between Egypt and Israel. The helicopter was ordinarily stationed at Task Force Sinai, the American contingent within the MFO, and had been borrowed by the FBI for this mission.

  The golden rays of the waking sun bounced off the helicopter’s belly as it descended in the main courtyard of the prison. The helicopter’s rotors and engine breached the dead air of the penitentiary.

  The Knighthawk seemed to offer a rare distraction for a few inmates who were roused out of their beds to spy through their minuscule windows overlooking the courtyard. Smythe couldn’t imagine the inmates were used to hearing anything else at this time of the day other than the screams of fellow prisoners being tortured.

  Major General Omar Beltagi, a bald, obese man with a curled mustache and thick sideburns, stood in the middle of the courtyard. Smythe had studied his picture on his phone during the flight. Beltagi was flanked by a constellation of uniformed men, most of whom had donned their sunglasses to avoid the reflection off the chopper.

  Finn Simmer had informed Smythe to expect high-level officers from the Ministry of Interior. Also expected to be there were the governor’s chief of staff and his men, a handful of Egyptian army officers and a four-man unit from Egypt’s elite counterterrorism force, Unit 777.

  The Egyptians stood at attention, waiting for Smythe and the other men to emerge from the aircraft. If the CIA briefing he had pored over during the flight was anything to go by, Warden Beltagi must have had a rude and early start to his day at his lodge in Qena about forty miles away. The warden had a habit of sleeping with pretty young girls from the nearby women’s prison.

  In his ten years as warden, not one inmate had left the prison walls alive. Surely he must have been miffed to hear from whoever woke him this morning about SCAF’s decision to pardon not one, but two prisoners to be released into US custody.

  When Smythe and the other men emerged from the helicopter, the Egyptian officers from Unit 777 recognized the Delta Force guys. The commanding officer of the American contingent had told Smythe on the flight that he and his unit train frequently with the Egyptian Special Forces in Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. The terse mood in the courtyard was temporarily softened by the handshakes, hugs and warm smiles of the Special Forces fraternity, leaving Smythe feeling a little left out.

  “Major General Beltagi,” he interrupted. “I am Jamie Smythe from the FBI. Have the prisoners been prepped for the transfer? ”

  Beltagi looked at him with no expression on his face. Smythe remembered somewhere in the reams of reports and briefs a note saying the warden didn’t speak a word of English. A young, dark-skinned Egyptian army officer with a handsome face standing by jumped to Beltagi’s rescue.

  “Welcome to Zor el Shaytan, Mr. Smythe. My name is Major Adel Sobhy, with the Ministry of Defense. I am happy to translate for you.”

  Smythe reached out to shake his hand.

  Beltagi remained focused on Sobhy’s mouth as he paraphrased the question. In response, the warden confirmed Nabulsi and Madi had been moved to a secure holding wing of the prison, but they had not been informed of what was about to happen. The two Jordanians were terrified, Beltagi revealed with a thundering laugh that rumbled through the courtyard. They thought their move to the secure holding wing was a precursor to execution. Sobhy did not translate the warden’s last observation, but Smythe understood anyway. He was almost fluent in Arabic, a skill he kept to himself in the interest of the gold nuggets of secondary information provided by Egyptians who discounted him as just another dumb khawaga—foreigner.

  With a roar to his men, the warden led the group to the secure holding wing where Nabulsi and Madi had been transferred. Smythe walked with the Delta Force operators, who were a step behind the Egyptians.

  When they entered the building, Smythe’s stomach tightened. If human misery and suffering could exude a unique smell, this was it. It wasn’t just the pheromones of the four hundred residents of the prison waiting to be killed that was responsible for the funk. The prison was notorious for its inhumane conditions, including decrepit plumbing.

  Smythe covered his mouth and nose to avoid the terrible smell, but the taste of unprocessed human waste was already palatable on his tongue. His skin crawled and his throat tightened as he tried hard to keep his stomach contained. No one else in the group, Egyptian or American, seemed moved by any of that, having probably smelled and experienced far worse in the past.

  Two burly prison guards in riot gear stood vigil outside the room where the prisoners were held. When they saw Beltagi approaching, one of them shouted to his colleagues inside, alerting them of the incoming group. They waited for the all clear and then unbolted the doors.

  Inside, the holding room was about a nine-hundred-square-foot open space that could be outfitted for any purpose. There were no windows, but powerful halogen floodlights suspended from the ceiling generated tremendous heat that would make anyone feel oppressed after a brief sojourn.

  In the center of the room, two prisoners wearing orange jumpsuits were shackled and tied to rusty metal chairs, their heads hooded with black cloth bags. When everyone had stepped in, the doors were bolted once again from the outside.

  Even though the Delta Force men at his side gave him some sense of security, Smythe was unnerved to be boxed in under the mercy of a man like Beltagi.

  The warden’s temperament transformed in the presence o
f his prisoners. Whatever decency he had feigned for Smythe’s benefit fizzled quickly. His eyes turned demonic and he walked up to the two shackled men and slapped both hard on the nape, a gesture of utter humiliation in Arab culture.

  “Hazokom helw ya welad el metnaka. Awel etnayn fi tareekh el segn da yokhrogo men ghair may footo ala habl el mashna’ah! Yakhi aha!” Beltagi made a snorting pig-like noise called a shakhra and wiggled his middle finger, although the prisoners couldn’t see it. He seemed unable to resist the pleasure of humiliating shackled prisoners, even as he told them they’d be the first to ever walk out alive.

  The faces of the Delta Force guys betrayed exactly how uncomfortable they were by cloth bags on the Jordanians. Memories of similar images from the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq must have been floating in their minds.

  “Can we remove these hoods, please?” Smythe asked, then glanced at Sobhy to translate.

  Right on cue, Beltagi resisted.

  “The warden prefers not to, especially since these men will be freed. He doesn’t want them to see his face or the faces of other senior prison personnel. It’s a standard procedure.”

  “Tell the warden we’ve no other option. My mandate is to take custody of two specific men, and to do that I need to identify them.”

  Beltagi seemed to grasp the gist of this request. He pointed at the tips of his fingers to let Smythe know he could just as well fingerprint them.

  “It’s not going to be enough, Major—tell him that. I have pictures and I need to positively ID them.”

  The warden and Sobhy broke out into a heated argument about Smythe’s request, but Sobhy was smart enough not to let it drag for too long before he lashed at the warden. The orders to assist the Americans had come from the very top, he reminded him. If he wanted to pull rank and waste time he was welcome to, but it would end up costing him dearly.

  Beltagi finally capitulated and snapped the order to remove the black cloth bags to reveal two sets of stunned eyes. The light in the room was unbearably bright for the Jordanian prisoners, who squinted hard while their pupils adjusted.

  Smythe was appalled by their appearance. They looked nothing like their pictures during the trial, which he had reviewed on the incoming flight. Their beards and heads had been shaved off. Both men were at least thirty pounds lighter, their eyes sunken in their sockets and their skin pasty, almost gray in color. A large scar ran from Nabulsi’s forehead to the base of his skull. Smythe couldn’t fathom how anyone could incur such a perfect, unidirectional cut. The whites of Madi’s eyes were jaundiced. Perhaps some sort of liver disease, maybe chronic hepatitis contracted in prison.

  As their eyes adjusted, the sight of so many people in the room must have confirmed their fears their day of reckoning had arrived. They both began reciting the Islamic testimony and verses from the Quran, which made Beltagi chuckle uncontrollably. Smythe looked at Sobhy, cueing him to translate what he was about to say.

  “I think both these men speak English, Mr. Smythe. It might be better if you address them directly.”

  Relieved, Smythe turned to the two prisoners.

  “Are you men Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi?”

  Their heads rotated sideways, their eyes meeting, possibly for the first time since their trial six years ago. Common sense dictates they would have been isolated from each other.

  Smythe asked again, “Are you men Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi?” They turned their heads at the same time, almost in sync, and gawked at Smythe.

  He pulled out his cellphone and looked at their photos to tell them apart. He walked up to the man he thought was Nabulsi and put his hand on his shoulder, then asked him again in a warm, gentle voice, “Is your name Tarek Nabulsi?”

  The Jordanian closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded.

  Smythe did the same thing with the other guy, who whispered back, “Yes. I am Hassan Madi. Today I die?”

  “Not if I can help it. Listen carefully both of you.” Smythe maintained eye contact with the two men, who were becoming more lucid as he addressed them. He was hoping the humanity in his voice would engage them faster by offering a sharp contrast to the roaring insults and raining physical abuse they were used to at The Devil’s Throat.

  “You have both been pardoned for your crimes and are being released into the custody of the US government, to be exchanged for an American citizen being held by a number of your associates. Once we confirm your identity through your fingerprints, my men here will get you ready for the journey. I repeat, your lives have been spared.”

  Smythe pointed to the Delta Force operators.

  “We’ll dress you in civilian clothes and attend to any wounds or pain you may be experiencing in preparation for the journey. From here we will transport you by helicopter to a nearby airport, where we will all board a private jet heading to an undisclosed location. There the exchange will be made. Tomorrow you will wake up free men. Any questions?”

  Madi and Nabulsi appeared stupefied. Had they even processed anything I just said? A torrent of emotions must have flooded and clogged their systems. They had been catapulted from the resignation of certain death to the sliver of hope freedom could be at hand. Madi broke out in tears and it was left to Nabulsi to confirm to Smythe both men had understood everything they just heard.

  “Even if you are lying, even if we die today, death is a welcome change from this living hell.”

  Smythe pulled out a small portable fingerprint reader from his shoulder bag and attached it to his cellphone, then placed it on the table in front of the two men. He navigated to the specialized app that operated the device, pulled out a small piece of microfiber and wiped the surface of the reader clean. He started with Nabulsi, putting every digit of his right hand on the device, followed by his left hand.

  The application beeped, indicating a positive match to the prints he had downloaded earlier courtesy of the CIA’s database. This was only the second time Smythe had used this device. Three years ago, the FBI had launched its first portable fingerprint system called Quick Capture. Back then it weighed around twenty-two pounds but was compact enough to be lugged in a backpack and transported into remote or hazardous places. The first-generation Quick Captures communicated with the FBI’s fingerprints database via satellite, which required a line of sight. Oftentimes agents didn’t have that luxury when operating in fortified prisons across the world. So a mobile version was developed to communicate over Wi-Fi or cellular networks, and like today when even that was not an option, the mobile versions could be pre-loaded with fingerprint profiles in advance to work offline.

  By way of habit, Smythe pulled out an antiseptic gel and gave it to Nabulsi to clean his hands. The Jordanian didn’t respond to the gesture so Smythe did it for him. He opened the plastic bottle and squeezed some in Nabulsi’s hands and instructed him to rub them. Smythe then repeated the fingerprint verification with Madi, who also checked out. He looked at Beltagi and nodded. “It’s them. We’re ready.”

  Beltagi clicked his fingers at one of his assistants, who pulled out two release folders, one for each prisoner. Smythe scribbled his signature and the date on both forms, then gestured to the Delta Force operators.

  “Let’s go!” he roared.

  When Nabulsi and Madi were unshackled by the Egyptian prison guards, the Americans moved swiftly. One of the Delta Force operators pulled out fresh clothes from a duffel bag for the Jordanians, while another one assisted the two prisoners to undress. With their naked bodies exposed under the light, they looked even more frail and consumed. Covered with cigarette burn marks, wounds and scars, their skin was a translucent membrane that could almost reveal their organs when exposed to minimal light. Smythe skimmed through the long history of torture inscribed on their bodies, and involuntarily flashed contempt at Beltagi, who was admiring the obscenity of his work with the satisfaction of a proud artist.

  Another Delta Force operator dress
ed some superficial wounds the Jordanians had sustained. There were no broken bones, which meant they could walk on their own without having to be carried. A fourth Delta guy hovered around the prisoners cautiously, looking out for his three colleagues.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

  The special ops men led the trail out of the secure holding wing, with the two Jordanians sandwiched between them. Smythe and the Egyptians trailed behind.

  They crossed through the main hall of the prison and then out to the courtyard. A prisoner overlooking the scene from his cell must have heard the English being spoken below and shouted at the top of his voice in Arabic, “Guantanamo!”

  The other prisoners picked up on the trigger word and started shouting rhythmically and in chorus.

  “Khodni! Hararni! Ana ayez arooh Guantanamo! Khodni! Hararni! Ana ayez arooh Guantanamo!”

  Smythe couldn’t believe his ears and looked at Sobhy.

  “Are they saying what I think they’re saying?”

  Sobhy nodded and looked away in shame.

  One of the Delta Force operators nudged Smythe for clarification. “What exactly are they saying?”

  “Take me. Set me free. I want to go to Guantanamo.” Smythe felt a shiver travel down his spine as he translated the words.

  “Holy crap!”

  The intensity of the chanting in the prison increased exponentially. The prisoners started banging their metal trays and plates against the doors of their cells. Smythe was concerned things would spiral out of control and wanted to get the Jordanians and his men airborne fast. Within seconds, the chanting and banging evolved into a thundering uproar. The remaining three hundred and ninety-eight prisoners who weren’t being freed stamped their feet on the floor, sending vibrations all the way outside to the courtyard.

  A loud alarm sound erupted, drowning out the mutinous voices of the prisoners. An ominous recorded Arabic message boomed through the loudspeaker in a loop, but Smythe couldn’t make out what it was saying. Beltagi and the other Egyptians had recognized the warning and dropped flat on their bellies with their hands behind their backs.