by Jack Ford
‘Why.’
Cooper sighed. Again. Agitated now. Wanting to get away. ‘She’s getting older, and last time I brought her, she began to tell Maddie she’d been in a big white house.’
‘That’s cute.’
‘No, it’s not. I don’t want her to say anything and I’m not going to start asking her to keep a secret. There are too many secrets round here already, don’t you think, John…? Anyway, listen, I’m going to get back to Jackson.’
‘Okay, sure… and Coop, you are being straight with me about the pills, aren’t you? You wouldn’t lie to me?’
And in a tone Woods couldn’t work out, but knew he didn’t like, Cooper said, ‘No more than you’d lie to me, John.’
NORTH TURKMENISTAN
30 MILES FROM THE UZBEKISTAN BORDER
23
dc6 Ng3
The reverberating sound of the distressed, screaming baby filled – jammed, packed – every corner of the darkened room.
Shrill.
Shrilly.
Shrilled.
And deafening.
Ear splitting agitation.
And even Chuck Harrison couldn’t concentrate on his thoughts as he swaggered across to the three by three box standing in the middle of the room.
He gave a nod towards the one-way interrogation mirrors which walled every side of the room, and directly the sound of the crying stopped. Ceased. A welcome hush descended, lifting the palpable angst from the tense jowls of the military officers, who gave a long exhalation of relief.
Chuck said, ‘You should try the real thing, gentlemen! That’s a recording of my friend’s baby. Looked after the thing one night, damn near sent me mad.’
He winked. Then opened the box lid and, like a magician performing his trade, he pulled up a man. David Thorpe. The coffee shop bomber.
Aggressively, Chuck dragged him out and over the steel side of the container, which was too small to do anything in but crouch and contort and twist up in the stifling confinement.
Thorpe tried to stand but his sweat-drenched legs and weakened muscles wedged in spasms. Stiff with cramps. Crying out with pain. Fear. Terror. Blindfolded. Chuck watched, emotionless, turning his nose up from the stench of urine and drying feces which covered and flaked from Thorpe’s body and matted in his unkempt Afro.
Again Chuck nodded, but this time to the uniformed soldier, who went across to Thorpe and implemented the silent order with a kick from his steel-toe boot. A dragging of the arm. A throwing. A sliding of the naked Thorpe across the room, to come to a halt by the feet of Chuck.
‘Hey David, how the hell are you doing? Care for a seat?’
Trembling. Crying. Handcuffed. Thorpe nodded.
‘Well that’s a darn shame because there’s only one chair.’
Chuck sat down, bending forward and lifting up Thorpe’s blindfold. Small, terrified brown eyes, which hid under heavy lids, stared up at him.
‘Well hi there, David. Good to see you. Not doing too well by the looks of things. Now, I want you to show you something. Okay…? David, I can’t hear you. I said, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. Now watch.’
Thorpe, shivering naked, viewed the grainy pictures of the CCTV footage playing on the large TV screen. Showing him driving up in a large Scania truck. Showing him parking. Showing him drinking the infamous coffee the press would write about. Before showing him walking away down the block.
‘Now let’s get to the important bit shall we, David?’
Chuck forwarded the security video until the digits in the top right of the screen read 18.45.
‘Now watch the truck, David. Watch it real carefully.’
The black and white footage stayed focused on the vehicle as the digits on the screen climbed up in seconds until it read 18.47 then instantaneously the truck exploded. Blowing out and up into a colossal cloud of smoke before the screen went black as the CCTV camera was destroyed by the blast.
‘So you want to go over it again with me? Why did you do it, David?’
Licking his dry, parched, deeply cracked lips, Thorpe said, ‘I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t? That wasn’t you driving and leaving the truck?’
Weakly. A struggle beyond struggles, Thorpe managed an exhausted reply. ‘Yes, but I don’t understand.’
Chuck smiled. Roughly pulled down the blindfold over Thorpe’s eyes again.
‘What don’t you understand, David? Because the fact that you don’t understand is the part I don’t understand.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘It wasn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘That wasn’t you on the CCTV footage?’
‘It was, but…’
Chuck flicked through a file on the desk in front of him. Inside it were photos. Paperwork. Print outs.
‘Shucks, call myself the head of CTC? I’ve gone and got myself the wrong person. There’s me thinking you’re David John Thorpe, born 22nd November 1966. The same David Thorpe in the footage and the same David Thorpe who had ammonium nitrate traces on his clothing and hands. Have I got that all wrong?’
‘No…’
‘Let me ask you this, do you have affiliations with Wilāyat Gharb Ifrīqīyyah? Boko Haram?’
A pause. A hesitation. A glance round as if he could see through his blindfold and through the mirrors. Unsteadily, Thorpe answered. ‘I did.’
Chuck banged his fist on the table. ‘Did or do?’
‘I was messed up.’
‘Messed up. Is that why you planted the bomb, because you were messed up?’
‘I didn’t.’
In a controlled and quick movement, Chuck grabbed Thorpe. His hands on either side of his face, drawing him in towards his own. ‘David, shall we start again? Was that you on the CCTV?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that you driving then leaving the truck?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, so are we going to stop going round in circles?’
Thorpe trembled. Said nothing.
Flicking through the files again, Chuck continued. ‘You were interviewed by the FBI six years ago and you were also investigated in 2016 after being linked to a man who became a suicide bomber in North-East Nigeria, killing thirty-five people… And you were also put on the No-Fly List. Seems to me you were a bit more than messed up.’
‘I was lost.’
‘Lost, now? You know what I do when I’m lost, David? I look at a map. I turn on my GPS. I might even ask some passing folk which way to turn. What I don’t do, David, is blow up a building.’
With his head down and his tears dropping into his stark-naked lap, Thorpe wept. ‘No, I mean I was lost when I was interested in Boko Haram. When I was posting those messages, the terror, hate… it was only because I was trying to get my life back together.’
‘Is this what you call getting your life back together?’
‘No. I…’
‘What happened to you, David? Had a rough childhood? Hated your middle school teacher? You Goddamn scum.’
With great strength, great effort, Chuck grabbed the handcuffed David Thorpe, taking him and sending him reeling towards a tank full of iced water. Dunking him below the surface. Pushing him down with his foot as he struggled and flailed.
‘I want answers.’
Spluttering, quivering, David Thorpe scrambled, draping his body over the side of the tank, trying to get his breath back before inadvertently tumbling out onto the hard floor, reminding Chuck of a wet fish falling out of a fisherman’s net.
Then, using the handcuffs to drag him, Chuck hauled Thorpe along the floor. Heaving him up onto his feet. Then brought the chair up, close. Sitting down and looking up at him.
‘Keep your hands up.’
Slowly, nervously, Thorpe put his hands up into the air.
‘Don’t drop them.’
Feebly, Thorpe nodded, standing humiliated and naked in the middle of the room. Handcuffed arms above him.
&nb
sp; ‘You got it easy. Some folk here were held in pitch dark, windowless lockups for months at a time. Deprived of sleep and made to stand up for days at a time, and I mean days. If their legs gave way they were made to hang by their arms instead. One detainee I know was forced to stay awake for eight solid days in a row. So you see, you have got it easy with me, but it’d be a hell of a lot easier if you gave me a full confession, so the American people will feel satisfied. There’s a lot of fear back home and I’ve got to bring to justice those responsible. So, what are you waiting for?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You want to go back in the box, David?’
‘No… No!’
‘So you’ll give me a confession? Because the problem I have is your polygraph test was rendered inconclusive. Now that won’t do, will it? There can’t be any room for doubt. Besides, we both know you did it, don’t we?’
Thorpe, without thinking, dropped his arms down. And without a moment’s hesitation, Chuck stood up, brought back his fist, slammed it hard into Thorpe’s stomach. Sent him down to the floor. Curled in a ball. Coughing out phlegm and remorse.
‘I said don’t drop your hands, boy! Now get up!’
Slowly and unsteadily, and with the blindfold cutting in and his tears unable to soothe his eyes, Thorpe stood.
‘Do you acknowledge that was you on the tape?’
‘Yes, that’s me, but I can’t remember…’
‘Why did you do it? Keep those hands up.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You want to go back into the box, David?’
He shook his head.
‘Then you need to start talking.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘The box, David… How long were you in there last time? Thirty-six hours wasn’t it? And they put insects in the last time, didn’t they? And you don’t like insects, do you? No. And we’ll do that again if we have to, but you can stop it. Make it all go away if you answer me, and give me that confession… Shall I help you, David? Was it to do with Boko Haram? Were you acting in their name?’
‘No. I…’
‘The box, David… The insects, David… Was it the Boko Haram?’
Hysterically sobbing, Thorpe nodded his head, ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Good. So tell me, why did you do it? Think carefully! Think about the box, David, before you answer me… Was it because you hate America and what the West stands for…?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. See it’s not difficult, is it? Here’s another one. David, are we, the American people, are we what you would call the infidels?’
Thorpe shook his head. Dropped his arms. A blow to the stomach sent him reeling back on the floor. Chuck stood over him. ‘Are we the enemy to you?’
‘Yes. Yes…Yes… No more, please.’
‘And is that why you did it? Is this your confession?’– Chuck picked up a piece of paper from the file and began to read. ‘I vowed to bring black days to the supporters of nations that have associated themselves with the bombing and persecution of Islam and in reply to their hostility I wreaked revenge. And what you can expect will be more severe and much more powerful than you have done. I did this by the permission of Allah and in the name of the Wilāyat Gharb Ifrıˉqıˉyyah…We found it in your house, David.’
From the floor Thorpe lifted his head. Shook it. Said, ‘I didn’t write that.’
Chuck took back his foot. Brought it in hard, then dragged Thorpe towards the box. He began to scream as he was bundled in. ‘I think you did write it, David.’
‘Okay! Okay! Please…! Please! Whatever you say. I wrote it. I wrote it! Please, no! No more!’
Chuck stood back whilst the two US soldiers pushed Thorpe down, shutting the lid of the box as the shrill, deafening sound of a baby crying filled the room once more.
The door of the room opened and a tall, sinewy man dressed in military uniform walked in, shouting over the sounds of the screaming child, ‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re wanted in the other room.’
Chuck nodded. Walked out. Threw his red cable sweater over his shoulder as if about to go on a stroll on West Hampton beach.
*
In the next room Chuck sneered a greeting to Lyndon P. Clarke, Secretary of State. ‘Mr Secretary, it’s good to see you.’
Lyndon paced. Angry. Pointed finger. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing in there?’
Chuck smiled. ‘Questioning the prisoner.’
‘That’s not questioning and it certainly isn’t authorized. You know that.’
‘You’re damn right Lyndon, I do, but we got his confession, didn’t we?’
‘We didn’t need it. He’s there on the CCTV.’
‘No, you’re wrong. There needs to be an explanation, a sentiment so we can tell the American people the right person is now detained. One less terrorist on our streets. They need to have an understanding, some kind of statement, and now he’s confessed we’ve got exactly that.’
‘What kind of confession? The kind he agrees to whatever you say because he’s terrified. The kind that he denies leaving but then under duress and fear he agrees he wrote it? That’s the problem with torture, Chuck. It’s morally wrong.’ Lyndon stopped. Wiped the back of his neck. It was damn hot.
‘Torture? Hey what can I say, Lyndon? You say to-mayto, I say tomato. You say torture, I say enhanced interrogation… Plus I’d say it’s pretty hypocritical of you to try to give me a lecture on morality. You’re part of all of this as much as I am.’
‘How d’you work that one out?’
‘You’re here, aren’t you? You’re part of the administration which keeps places like this open. So just because you don’t get blood on your own hands, Lyndon, it doesn’t mean you didn’t throw one of the punches.’
‘Bullshit. You’ve dehumanized that man in there, and whatever he says now you’ll never know if he’s saying it because it’s the truth, or he’s saying it because he’s in fear… You need to get him medical attention.’
Chuck cut a cold stare. ‘When it’s time.’
‘No, now.’
‘This is not your jurisdiction. You are no longer on US soil, Lyndon. I do as I see fit.’
‘I’ll be reporting this back to the President.’
‘I’m sure you will, Lyndon, but then that’s what you do, isn’t it? God, what is it with nigg– ’ Chuck stopped. Then an exaggerated cough.
‘What the hell did you just say? What were you going to call me?’
A smile. Wide and goading. Chuck looked amused. ‘Call you…? I wasn’t going to call you anything, Lyndon. I was just going to say, what is it with niggly coughs? They just come out of nowhere. Can’t seem to get rid of it. Why, Lyndon, what did you think I was going to say?’
Lyndon P Clarke stepped up into Chuck’s face. His whole body tense, hovering.
‘I’ll get you, Chuck. Mark my words, I’m going to get you out. I’ll be on your back. I’ll be up your ass, until you make a mistake and when you do, then I’ll be there, waiting. I’ll make sure you get what’s coming to you. Whatever it takes. By any means necessary.’
VIRGINIA, USA
24
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It was a simple phone call made in the leafy green quiet of a side road in the Potomac Hills, Virginia, three miles outside Langley.
‘It’s me. I need you to shut down a problem.’
SCOTTSDALE, ARIZONA
USA
25
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‘Cora, do you have to do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I say do you have to do that, what I mean is, Cora, please don’t do that, honey.’
‘But Mommy, Daddy likes me to collect them.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes. I’m getting them ready for him when he comes. Is he coming soon? Is he coming today? Can he come now? Can you call him? Please, Mommy.’
Maddie looked at her daughter, and wondered where the five
years had gone to. Though it was almost six years, as Cora liked to remind her on a daily basis. And just for a moment – a split, fleeting moment – all she wanted to do was put Cora in the back of the car and drive her to wherever Tom was so she wouldn’t have to see her little girl pining, wishing, hoping her Daddy would come and play with her in the way only Daddies could… The other thing she wanted to do. Just for a moment – a split, fleeting moment – was to wring Tom’s neck. And preferably slowly. Real slowly.
Walking across her bedroom to where her daughter was sitting, Maddie decided neither thought was very helpful.
Going to happen.
Really a serious proposition.
Or conducive to moving forward.
But she had to admit the latter thought was often a delightful fantasy when Tom was being obnoxious. Unbearable. Offensive. Disappointing. Frustrating… Right there she broke off her thoughts. Not healthy. Not beneficial. Focus. Yes, she had to focus on the positive. Nothing else. And breathe.
Exhaling to the point of feeling slightly dizzy, Maddie crouched down, leaning her body on the apple white chest of drawers that she’d made and painted herself, to look at Cora’s new obsession. In that aspect her daughter very much reminded her of Tom. No… No, she wasn’t going there. Breathe. Focus on the positive.
‘Let me see, honey.’
‘You like them?’
Maddie stared at the pile of worms and other unpleasant crawling insects Cora had painstakingly collected from their back fields.
‘Cora, can’t you put them in a jar? Or at least a box? I don’t think I really want them crawling on my wooden floors.’
‘You don’t like them?’
Covering a large fat lie, Maddie smiled. ‘Yes, honey. I think they’re cute, but I think they’d be even cuter if you put them somewhere safe.’
‘That’s why I keep them in my pocket. They all go in there.’
‘They must get squashed in there, Cora.’
‘No they don’t. Ask them.’
Cora scooped up three worms from the floor and pushed them straight onto Maddie’s ear.
‘Ask them, Mommy.’
Maddie, trying not to be ridiculous, squeamish, grossed out by the fact there were three earthworms making out with her ear, and trying to tell herself she wasn’t going to fall into some stereotype of female neurosis – because after all she was not only a highly decorated ex-Navy officer but also a skilled pilot, an expert in close hand combat, and not forgetting an excellent gunwoman – said, ‘My Cora, you’ve put them very close to my ear.’