by Jay Deb
Kassem walked through the hallway, moving on to the next cell. He heard the shrill cries coming from the first cell – the captive man’s second thumb had been broken.
Kassem and the three strong men entered the cell of the second prisoner. This fellow was a hulking muscleman, certainly over six feet, and weighed more than ninety kilos. He stood up as Kassem entered the cell, and the man held his ground and made eye contact with Kassem.
It was a dimly lit, damp room. A metal bed lay by the wall; the stench from the toilet at the corner was enough to make any normal person retch. But neither Kassem nor the other men were ordinary people. They stood in front of the jailed man with heads high and arms akimbo.
The two assistants moved close to the prisoner, grabbed his shoulders and hoisted him up in the air. Kassem stepped in front, grabbed the man’s balls and squeezed them as hard as he could. The prisoner screamed like an animal about to be slaughtered. When he threw kicks and one of the kicks fell on Kassem’s pot belly, Kassem held the prisoner’s one leg with one hand, and with the other he twisted the prisoner’s balls, as if trying to pluck them out.
The assistants dropped the man on the concrete floor and kicked him in his chest. The man tried to crawl away, but his head hit the bed. He curled up, writhing in pain.
Kassem took his gun from his leather holster and pointed it at the prisoner’s head, “Now, tell me where your boss, Halim, is.” He tapped the mouth of the barrel against the man’s head.
“I don’t know,” replied the man. One of the assistants kicked him again.
“Maybe this will help,” said Kassem and forced the barrel of his gun into the prisoner’s mouth. The cracking sound of the metal clashing through teeth could be heard as the prisoner tried to soften the blow by tilting his head backward.
Kassem took a step back. Blood started coming out of the tortured man’s mouth. Kassem jerked his head, a signal to kick him again. One of the assistants obliged; the man grunted and spat blood and a tooth on the concrete floor.
Kassem put his right foot on the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground. He pointed his gun to the man’s head and said, “For the last time. Do you want to tell me where Halim is, or do you want to die here?”
The man nodded, and Kassem waited to hear.
“Halim is in Somalia,” the prisoner said in a broken voice.
AFTER KASSEM WAS done with the second prisoner, he moved to the third cell. The prisoner lay on the bed, and at the noise of the door opening, he stood up. He wore a jumpsuit that covered him up to his neck. He had unkempt hair and black marks below his eyes. The prisoner rested his right hand at his hip; it perhaps mitigated the pain from his broken, swollen thumb.
Kassem stood in front of him with a demeanor that told the prisoner that he was in a lot of trouble. His assistants moved in, and one assistant kicked the base of the bed, shifting it by inches. The jailed man shivered and moved back two feet.
Kassem took two steps forward and was almost breathing on the nose of the poor man.
“Strip,” commanded Kassem.
“I beg your pardon?” the prisoner asked meekly. He clasped his hands together at his belly.
“I said strip,” shouted Kassem, one of his assistants stepping closer to the prisoner, standing barely a foot away from the man being asked to strip.
In response, the prisoner bent slightly, putting his two palms at his groin, as if trying to protect his manhood.
One assistant grabbed the hapless prisoner by his hand, pulling him closer. The other assistant caught the prisoner’s other arm, near his shoulder. The jailed man now had both his hands immobilized. The third assistant policeman moved forward, grabbed the man’s clothes and, with one jerk, ripped the garment. Kassem stood and watched as the policemen tear the clothes completely off the prisoner with a second jerk, leaving the man stark naked.
“Now,” Kassem said to his assistant, who walked out of the cell and reappeared with a hosepipe. The other assistants and Kassem moved away from the prisoner, thus leaving the ill-fated naked man near the wall.
“Go,” said Kassem, and a water jet fell on the prisoner at bullet speed, throwing him against the wall. The prisoner fell down and attempted to stand up, but the water jet was pointed at his feet, and he fell back on the floor every time he tried to get up. The force of the water was too much; it was pointed at his head, and then back to his feet, and then back to his head. His head repeatedly hit the wall, and blood soon started oozing from the back of his skull. The water onslaught continued for twenty minutes, and then it stopped after Kassem raised his hand.
The prisoner stood up, naked; distress showed on his body, which was now covered with blood.
“Now, are you going to tell me where Halim is?” asked Kassem, grinding his teeth.
“I don’t know,” said the naked man.
Kassem slapped him in the face and then grabbed him by the hair and banged his head against the wall.
The naked man grunted, more blood dripping down his neck, and the blood turned pink upon its mixing with the water on his chest. One of the assistants kicked his knee and threw a punch into his stomach.
“How about now?” Kassem asked, rolling his eyes. “Where is Halim?”
“He is in Kandahar, Afghanistan.”
Kassem grimaced, bit his lower lip, and then threw a jab into the man’s stomach and walked out of the cell.
Kassem went back to the office of Mahmood, who was the chief administrator of the secret jail. The air was hot in there; Kassem wiped the sweat from his brow as he sat on the metal chair. His four assistants stood behind him.
“Is your work done?” Mahmood asked with a chuckle.
Kassem shook his head and rearranged his legs. “These bastards are tough. They don’t tell the truth easily.”
“Do you want some cold Coke?” the jailor asked.
“No. Just some tea, please.”
“Hey, six teas, strong,” Mahmood shouted to an invisible person, and within five minutes, tea cups appeared on a large plate carried by a short man.
Kassem sipped his tea and felt relaxed. “These fellows are hard to crack,” he said to Mahmood, putting the teacup down on the wooden table.
“Some guys are tough,” Mahmood said. “Especially the ones that come from Afghanistan.”
Kassem felt insulted and said, “Nobody is from Afghanistan. These fellows are all local.” Then he calmed a little. “What would you suggest to make them talk?”
“Try electricity. That never fails.”
“Show me where you keep your wires,” said Kassem and rose from his chair.
A HALF HOUR later Kassem and two of his helper policemen appeared in the cell of the next prisoner. The policemen had wires that were attached to a heavy car battery at one end and a metal stick with an insulated handle on the other end. The prisoner was sound asleep on the metal bed. Kassem opened the cell door. But the loud, creaking metallic noise of the door opening was not enough to wake him up.
One of Kassem’s men flipped a switch on the car battery, making the metal stick in Kassem’s hand live. To test it, Kassem rubbed the stick on the iron bars of the door, and bright sparks emitted from the point of contact.
The jailed man was still asleep, and Kassem thought it would be nice to wake him up with a dose of electricity. Kassem moved closer to the bed, careful not to touch the metal frame, and looked at the man’s face. His face was much darker than the rest of his body. It had multiple dents on it, which perhaps came from chicken pox. Kassem moved close to the prisoner’s foot and lowered the metal stick as his assistants watched. He touched the bottom of the star-crossed man’s foot with the metal rod and held it for two seconds.
The man’s body shivered at first, and then it curled, just like a worm does when it is sliced into two pieces. The man groaned in pain, his body uncurling and curling up again.
Kassem stood in front of the man, grinning. “Are you going to tell me where Halim is, or do you want to be licked by this?”
Kassem swung the metal rod in the air.
“I have no idea where he is,” the man said in a fearful tone.
“No?” shouted Kassem. He lowered the rod, and it touched the ill-fated man’s belly.
The man shrieked in pain and jerked his arms and legs. “Okay, okay. I will tell you,” the man said.
“Where?” Kassem took a step forward and lowered his face and shouted, “Where is Halim?”
The jailed man gasped for air and said, “Halim is in Switzerland.”
Kassem flinched. He swung the metal rod in his hand one more time, bit his lower lip, and threw the prisoner a piercing look.
Three prisoners had given him three different locations. Kassem was now sure none of them were correct. Halim was not in any of those three places. He felt all his work was just a waste, and his day had been in vain.
Out of frustration, he swayed the metal rod again, this time hitting the prisoner’s head.
The question that remained in his mind was whether the men were just telling random lies or if it was a coordinated lie. He was determined to find out.
Chapter 16
“Do you want to fly to Dubai this week or next week?” It was Lazarus on the phone.
“This week,” said Doerr. “Actually, I can fly tonight, if you can arrange the ticket.”
“I think we should be able to do that.”
“Thanks, Lazarus. Any idea about where Samuel is now?”
“I have no new information. If I find something, I will let you know.”
“After I finish this Dubai job,” Doerr said, “you will let me pursue Samuel. Right? You won’t take back your word?”
“You have my word, Max. After this Dubai job is finished and we get Halim, you can go after Samuel. You will have access to the CIA database and our full support.” Lazarus’s tone turned menacing. “But I warn you – don’t try to go after Samuel on your own before the Dubai job is complete. We don’t like freelancers. You have to do what the agency tells you to do.”
Doerr thought for a second. The only chance he had to find Samuel was through the CIA. If he blew this, he would be blowing his only chance of ever catching Samuel. “Okay, boss.” Doerr hung up.
DOERR FLEW OUT the same night. The plane touched down in Dubai International Airport at four p.m. local time. After going through immigration and customs, Doerr exited the terminal with two suitcases. Hot air hit his face, and he liked it. He wished to retire in Florida someday and had talked to Gayle about it, but she thought it was too early to muse about retirement.
Doerr took a cab to the Dusit Thani Hotel. ‘It was not overly expensive and gave value for the buck,’ according to the Langley rep who had given him the details of his booking. Once he got into his room, he realized that the rep was not wrong. The room was well maintained, the toilet was clean, and the view from the room was marvelous.
It was already seven p.m., and Doerr wanted to have his dinner before the restaurant closed. He hated to call room service and dine alone in his room.
He went down to the restaurant and ordered two pieces of shish kabob and a plate of goat biryani. The restaurant was nearly empty, but he was rewarded with a grand view of downtown Dubai through the glass windows. The Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, stood out like a defiant teenager. He knew the six-hundred-meter-tall building was a statement from the Emirates and was built at a cost of one and a half billion dollars.
After dinner, he tipped the waiter generously. Once back in his room, he set the alarm to 6:30 a.m. and went to bed.
The next morning, Doerr woke up to the noise of the alarm and spent an hour reading the dossier he had been given on Kassem, the UAE intelligence chief. Kassem was loved by the Langley bosses and liked by the current administration in the White House. His ability to squeeze information out of captured terrorists and criminals was revered throughout the Middle East.
Doerr shaved, took a shower, and then went downstairs to hail a cab to Kassem’s office. The ride was pleasant; the morning air was cool and dust free. The cabbie dropped him at the office. He paid with local dirham. He got out and ran his fingers through his blond hair left unkempt by the unruly dry air. He loosened the knot of his red tie before proceeding toward the collapsible gate of the large building.
He took the elevator to Kassem’s office on the seventh floor. The male receptionist asked him to wait, and he sat down on the metal chair. From the waiting area he could see the employees inside – they were sitting close to each other at small tables, each shared by two employees. The working conditions were inferior to most offices in America, but he had seen worse.
Doerr glanced at his watch. His wait for Kassem had already exceeded a half hour. The chief, he was told, was mindful of time. Doerr was about to inquire with the receptionist, but he noticed a man with a thick mustache, which gave him an aura of seriousness, approaching. Doerr knew it was Kassem.
After exchanging greetings and introductions, Kassem showed him the way to his office. Kassem was not a man who spoke too many words; Doerr knew that from the dossier.
“We roughed up eight guys,” Kassem said as he walked down the hallway and described the men he had in custody. “Three men gave three different stories,” Kassem continued and entered his room. The room was ten by fourteen feet, Doerr estimated. Kassem’s own chair was wooden and had intricate designs woven into it. The three guest chairs were made of metal rods, and paint had flaked away from many spots. “And we are checking the other men out. We are leaving no stone unturned.” Kassem gave a big smile and pointed to the guest chairs.
Doerr sat down; the metal rods creaked, but the room air was cool and comfortable. The rattling noise of the air cooler could be heard. “You found out anything useful yet?” Doerr asked.
“Not yet, but I am hoping we will know where that bastard Halim is, pretty soon. We will beat the hell out of those guys we have in custody, and one of them will have to be correct.”
“Hope does not get anything done, Chief. Do you have any sources other than those eight men?”
Kassem looked down. Doerr’s words hurt his pride. “We are pursuing all sources,” Kassem said. “I am sure we will find Halim soon and bust his balls.”
“Uh-huh.” Doerr knew that sometimes the local authorities would know where the man sought by the CIA was, but they wouldn’t give out that information – sort of playing a double agent role.
But that is not the case here, Doerr thought. “Can I talk to those eight guys?”
“Sure. Be my guest.” Kassem’s expression returned to one of cheer. “I will be glad to send them to Gitmo. Although I don’t think some of the buggers can withstand the long air journey.”
Doerr knew why the prisoners could not withstand a long travel. Torture was a common method of extracting information in nearly all Asian countries.
“Talk to them here in Dubai first. Then they can head for Gitmo,” Kassem said. “You can apply a little bit of water-boarding that your good Vice President Cheney invented. Maybe then those bastards will talk.”
“Dick Cheney didn’t invent water-boarding, and we are not allowed to use it on anyone anymore. When can I see those prisoners?”
“Anytime. I can take you there right now, if you want.”
“Okay, let’s go, then. But I will interrogate them alone.”
“No problem,” said Kassem and rose from his chair. “Be my guest.”
THE CIA HAD many techniques for asking questions. Some in the agency believed in torture, but Doerr knew that torture only worked under certain circumstances; what worked even more was morality, fear of God’s wrath, money, and the ace of all – the lure of a Green Card. Doerr had used it so often that he could not even remember how many times. He remembered Evanovich, the Romanian man who had refused half a million dollars from the CIA, to infiltrate the KGB. Evanovich used to import drugs from Afghanistan into his own country and exported young girls from Romania to rich Russian tycoons. After he was given a promise of a Green Card,
only then he changed his mind. The lure of a peaceful life with no enemy lurking behind with a 9mm or Makarov pistol was too good to refuse for men like Evanovich.
Doerr was sure that the Green Card route would be the best incentive for the men incarcerated by Kassem. He talked to the first three men, interrogating them alone.
FAIZAN WAS BARELY twenty-two years old, but his thick beard hid his youth. He was a brilliant student, just graduated from Cairo University with distinction. He applied at a number of American Universities for an entry to the MS program, not because he loved America, but because he knew that a degree from an American university would put him on Egypt’s corporate ladder; he hated the Zionist America. He had been overjoyed when he received his acceptance letter, not just from one American University but three of them, including Georgetown University. He had started planning where he would go, how he would fund his education, and even thought of staying in America after completing his education. But all that was in vain, as he received a rejection notice from the American Embassy in Cairo. His student visa application had been rejected. After that his hate for the American infidels increased, and he was soon introduced to Halim, the Lion of Dubai.
Halim flew to Cairo to meet the young man in person. He was not disappointed by what he saw. The timing was perfect. Halim was looking for a young, able, and educated man to carry out his operation. Faizan fit his need. He had just the right amount of hatred for America and passion for taking revenge.
Faizan needed some training, which was completed by sending him to Somalia promptly for a month-long crash course at an al-Qaeda training center.
HALIM WAS THE man the big corporations in the city of Dubai often called upon to settle disputes over their share of the oil and other resources. He traveled extensively with his business partners to Dubai, Riyadh, Amman, Tehran and New Delhi, to name a few. He partied with many, but being a devout Muslim, he never touched alcohol. He even rejected the idea of drinking soda from a bottle that resembled a beer bottle.