by Jay Deb
Doerr stood in front of Faizan. Two other men flanked him, one of whom said, “We have been talking to Faizan for a while. But the bastard has been bullshitting us for hours. See if you can do something.”
Doerr stood in front of Faizan and looked into his eyes.
“Who sent you here?” the thirty-something muscleman, standing to Doerr’s right, thundered at Faizan.
“Allah,” Faizan said and pointed his eyes up.
“I will send you to hell,” the man on Doerr’s right said and kicked Faizan’s bare foot, “if you don’t tell us your boss’s name.”
Faizan shook his head. The pain in Doerr’s shoulder was making a comeback, the anesthetic wearing off.
The muscled man on Doerr’s right took his gun out and pressed it against Faizan’s forehead. “Tell us what you guys were planning? When exactly did you get in the country?”
“I was sent here by the Almighty to teach you infidels a lesson, and I was supposed to die.” Faizan spat on the floor. “And now the Almighty is punishing me for not carrying out his orders.”
The man on Doerr’s right looked dejected. “It has been such a long night.” He looked at Doerr, pointed his hand to Faizan and said, “We have been interrogating this guy for three hours. But the bastard hasn’t budged. Maybe only you can extract something from him.”
Doerr thought for a few seconds. “You can still live.” Doerr put his hand on Faizan’s chair and bent down. Doerr’s nose was within inches of Faizan’s. “Tell us the truth. You can start with what you did to the professor’s daughter.”
Faizan’s eyes flickered. He swallowed and licked his lower lip.
“Tell us, you son-of-a-bitch.” The interrogator on Doerr’s left, who had not said anything in the last minute, kicked the ground. “You killed the girl. Didn’t you? What else did you do to her?”
“She is in hell now,” Faizan said defiantly.
Doerr looked into Faizan’s eyes. “Where is her body?”
“I don’t remember, somewhere in Virginia.”
“Where in Virginia?”
“I don’t know. I dumped her body in a lake near a road.”
“Where is Halim?” Doerr grabbed a handful of Faizan’s hair. “What is his number?” Doerr knew Faizan had been calling Halim, but he may not know where Halim was. If the CIA could get hold of the number, there was a good chance that they could locate Halim.
Faizan sat silently, and then suddenly he threw kicks in the air. “I want to die. Somebody kill me. Allah, forgive me.” He pushed his feet on the ground, and the chair toppled backward, and his head hit the ground with a thud.
Doerr saw a gash in the back of Faizan’s head, and blood began to ooze out. Doerr knew what Faizan was trying to do, injure himself and gain sympathy. It was an old trick employed by many criminals. Doerr remained calm and shouted for a doctor.
A young paramedic, carrying a box, came in. He looked at Faizan’s wound and shook his head. “We have to take him to the hospital.”
Ten or fifteen minutes later, an ambulance with armed security guards came and took Faizan away.
Doerr thought of going back to the hospital where he had been just hours before. He touched his wounded shoulder, and it felt okay to him. The pain had lessened some. He felt a trip to the hospital was unnecessary, and if he went, getting out again may not be easy.
He called a cab and booked a room at a nearby hotel.
It was three a.m. when the cab picked Doerr up. The roads were deserted, walkways empty, no honking cars, no one talking on cell phones and crossing the road at the same time, and even the cabbie was silent.
Doerr reached the hotel room in less than twenty minutes. He grabbed a frozen turkey sandwich from the mini fridge, microwaved it, took a bite, and then slumped on the bed. But he could not sleep. Faizan’s face was lingering in his head.
To forget Faizan, Doerr turned on the TV.
A newsman was reporting the mayhem that had taken place earlier in the day. “The attack was seemingly conducted single-handedly by a young man from Egypt, who arrived in the country illegally. How and where the man entered America isn’t clear. Only two people were killed in the attack, as most of the public turned away from the exploding vehicle, thanks to the warning of a law enforcement officer from either the local police or the FBI. The FBI is investigating how the Egyptian man got a vehicle, the explosives and was able to travel all the way to Washington, DC. They are saying that they have more questions than answers right now. We just have to be patient.”
Doerr changed the channel. He knew that CIA agents’ names were never expressly mentioned in news reports. Credit always went to the other authorities. But one thing he was sure about – Faizan could not have done everything on his own. He must have had help, and it had not come from that Augusta professor; it had to be from someone else.
DOERR WOKE UP at eight thirty the next morning. He tried to get up and felt the pain in his shoulder; he had almost forgotten about his wound. He ordered a huge breakfast to gather enough energy for the day ahead. He went to the downstairs shop and purchased a bottle of maximum strength Tylenol to take care of his pain.
He came back to his room and looked outside through the window. The city had returned to its hectic activities. Students were headed for their classes, wearing sports jackets. Lawyers walked by, in their spotless suits, and drivers honked constantly. From his window, he watched countless cabs dropping customers at the hotel.
Doerr turned away from the window, picked up his cell phone and dialed Gayle’s number.
“When are you coming back?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. We apprehended the guy who exploded the bomb. Now some questioning is going on. We still don’t know where the mastermind is.”
“The CIA arrested the man?” Gayle sounded surprised. “On the TV they are saying the FBI did all the work.”
“No, we did. Our name never goes on the TV. Think of it as a classified detail.”
“What are you going to work on today?”
“The guy tried to kill himself yesterday, so he was taken to the hospital. Today he should be back. We are going to get the information out of him one way or another. Hopefully he will sing soon, and then I can move on to finding Samuel.”
“When are you coming home, Max?”
“Soon, baby. Soon. Samuel is still sitting on my chest, choking me. If they don’t let me go after him, then I’m going to quit and hunt for him all by myself.”
“But what do you think will be the chance of success if you go it alone?”
“That’s the thing.” Doerr heard a knock on the door. “I will call you tonight, okay?” Doerr said and hung up and opened the door.
It was the concierge. He came in with a double omelet with bacon, a large Croissan’wich with ham and cheese, a large portion of hash browns and black coffee: a traditional, fat-loaded, American breakfast. He finished every morsel of the food and sipped his coffee.
He received a text message from the agency. ‘Bird is back in a new nest and car on the way.’ Faizan was back from the hospital.
Doerr rushed his coffee and put on black slacks and a white shirt. He put the tie in his pocket, to be knotted in the car, and headed for the lobby. He picked up another cup of coffee at the hotel lobby and waited outside.
A white sedan stopped next to the curb, and Doerr instantly knew that it was his ride by looking at the driver, who was a thirty-something man in a suit, obviously not a driver by profession. Doerr got in and sat on the passenger seat. The vehicle started moving, slowly at first and then it picked up speed. Its dashboard was extra large with a large monitor.
The car took Interstate 66, heading west, before taking an exit that led to an increasingly rural area.
Doerr looked around, and he could see only trees and glimpses of a few far-between houses. The road was dotted with potholes, perhaps on purpose – to keep the agency interrogation house as far away from the public’s eyes as possible.
The
driver asked, “First time here?”
“Yes.”
“Did you join the agency recently?”
“Not really,” Doerr said and then changed the topic. “These houses look privately owned.”
“They are. Our agency bosses decided we needed a jail-cum-interrogation facility in an area that looked like a residential place. A place where journalists or the civil rights groups won’t be poking their heads.”
“How long have you been working at this jail-cum-interrogation facility?” Doerr asked.
“A month. But I like the place already. You see, this place is just fifteen miles away from the center of DC, very convenient for everyone. It was constructed just five years back, when George Bush was president.”
“I see.”
“He was a good president, by the way,” the driver said. “I know the whole country hates him, but I think he was a courageous man.”
Doerr was irritated to see where the conversation was going. “I also admire George Bush. I like all the presidents. People think being the president is easy. It’s not. But I will tell you one thing.” Doerr turned to the driver. “At work we should never express political views. We do our job and leave the opinions for the gutters of newspaper op-eds and blogs.”
The young driver did not reply. Perhaps he realized that Doerr was correct.
The car turned into a driveway, and the ride became smooth again. The driveway was winding, definitely on purpose so people could not see much from outside, and lined with tall trees. A hundred feet into the driveway and nothing was visible – no road, no neighbor’s house. The car approached a large gate made of iron bars, and it opened without making a noise. The car drove through slowly and came to a stop.
“This is it,” the driver declared.
The house in front of them looked like a multimillionaire’s mansion. Escorted by the driver, Doerr entered through the front door, and immediately there was a large staircase leading downstairs. Doerr was led into the basement, and they passed at least ten huge rooms. The space in the basement looked to be many times larger than the house on top.
The young driver stopped in front of a room and scanned his ID card on the scanner. A red light flickered twice and then turned green.
“Here you go. I will be upstairs if you need anything,” the driver said and walked away.
The door opened automatically, and Doerr walked in. Inside, Faizan lay on a stretcher, wearing white pajama pants and a shirt, his head bandaged.
His arms, legs, and head were strapped, so he could not do what he had done the day before.
Doerr stood in front of the bed; two other men were already there.
The first man pointed to Faizan and said, “This guy is one tough bastard. Whenever I ask something, he either says ‘I do not know’ or ‘only Allah knows.’”
“Did you give him a dose of the truth serum?” Doerr asked.
“We already gave him twice the allowed amount,” the second man said and was about to smack Faizan with his elbow.
“Stop,” Doerr said and brought his face right above Faizan’s. “Look, young man. I know the game you are playing. It’s not going to work here. If you talk, you have a chance to live, even go back to Egypt someday. If you play hardball, you are definitely heading for the execution chamber.”
But Faizan was unmoved; there was not even a flicker in his eyes.
“You tell us where Halim is,” one of the two men, holding a wooden rod, said angrily. “Tell us who helped you set up your attack. Or else we will crack open your balls, just the way you opened the firecrackers to make your bomb.”
The questioning, threatening and beating continued for another hour. Faizan had bled from his head the day before, and now blood oozed from his arms and legs. There were bruises on his knees and elbows. Faizan replied to some questions with a grunt, but he remained silent to most. Occasionally he tried to shake his head but stopped immediately; the metallic head restraint seemed to be hurting.
“Look, we know the house on Al Omrani Road in Cairo where your parents live,” Doerr said. “We can send someone to take care of them. In fact, your own government will throw them into jail if we tell them to. And guess who gave us that info? Ahmad. Remember him?” Doerr lied. “Ahmad has already turned into our informer.”
“No!” Faizan tried to protest in a feeble voice.
“No? Look at this,” Doerr flashed a photograph where Ahmad and Doerr stood together, shoulder to shoulder, a photo Rosania had taken in the Dubai hotel.
Doerr thought he saw a flicker in Faizan’s eyes, but he thought he could be wrong about that. “I am going to leave now,” he said to the other interrogators. “And I will come back in a few hours.”
“Our psychiatrist will come at around noon,” one man said, pointing to Faizan. “We will know more about what’s going on in this asshole’s head.”
Doerr turned to leave. He walked upstairs, took out his phone and dialed the number of a person he knew who could impersonate virtually any male voice.
AT THREE P.M. the same day, Doerr was back at Faizan’s bed. Shamil, a man from Mossad, Israel’s intelligence arm, was already there. Doerr had worked with him years ago, on a project to extract information from two Libyan spies who had been caught in Saudi Arabia and handed over to the CIA.
Shamil had a reputation for being an extraordinary interrogator who pretended to be sympathetic to the captive’s cause and extracted valuable details. Hamas had tried to kill him many times. A year back, when he had been coming out of an office in London, a 9mm bullet almost killed him. The bullet had flown by his head, taking a few strands of his long hair with it. Mossad had hired Shamil right after 9/11; a year back he had completed his PhD in psychology from Oxford University.
Doerr faced Shamil, towering over his short frame. “Anything new?”
“I don’t know when you talked to him last. I have been conversing with him,” Shamil pointed at Faizan, “for last two hours. I think he strongly believes that Halim will come and save him somehow, and all he has to do is keep his mouth shut. I also think he has remorse that he didn’t carry out the original plan; he was to shoot into the crowd, then turn his gun on himself.”
“But is he ready to spill everything he knows about Halim?” Doerr asked.
“That I can’t tell right now. But he is one tough zealot.” Shamil paused and then said, “Did your guys find out anything more on how he made the bomb and drove to DC?”
“Yeah, they found the remains of two rifles in the vehicle he blew up. The rifles are badly burnt. They think they were loaded.” Doerr turned to Faizan, who was trying to listen to their conversation. “Did he say who helped him set up the goods in his van?”
“No,” Shamil said. “It appears to me that he did a lot of the work himself. But it is impossible for one person to get all the material and construct a bomb like that without some good help.”
“Thank you, Shamil.” Doerr looked at the Israeli man. “Now let me talk to him.”
“How are you?” Doerr turned and said to Faizan softly.
Faizan simply nodded.
“Where is Zarin?” Doerr asked.
Faizan didn’t say anything and didn’t move.
“What did you do to the girl? Rape her?” Doerr shouted, anger creeping into his brain. “Then kill her?”
Faizan pointed his finger up, indicating that she was dead.
“Where did you hide her body? You son-of-a-bitch.” Doerr took out a handgun and pressed its barrel against Faizan’s lips. “Tell me now, or else I will shoot you in the eye.”
“Tell me,” Doerr screamed and smacked Faizan’s face with the gun. Blood showed on Faizan’s lips. Shamil watched Doerr as he smacked Faizan again. Faizan spat out blood on Doerr’s shirt, and Doerr slapped him again.
“You think Halim is coming to save you? He won’t because he is busy trying to kill Ahmad,” Doerr lied. “Ahmad is helping us now. He has landed in New Jersey with his family.”
Faizan
shook his head; he didn’t believe it.
Doerr took out his phone, pressed the redial button and put it on speaker.
“Inshallah.” It was the voice impersonator that Doerr had talked to hours before.
“Talk to him,” Doerr said to Faizan and held the phone close to Faizan’s ear.
“Ahmad?” Faizan said in a shaken voice. “Where are you?”
“I am in Patterson, New Jersey. I flew in today.”
“Are you in touch with Halim?”
“No, and I wish I had never met him. I heard he has hired someone to kill me. Son, tell those men everything. They will let you live, and maybe someday you will live freely in America, which is what you wanted. Allah never taught us to hurt anyone, let alone kill people.”
Faizan sighed. Doerr hit the red button on his cell phone, ending the call.
Doerr crouched to bring his face close to Faizan’s ear. “Now tell me everything. I will make sure you get a light sentence.” That was a lie too; Doerr knew Faizan would never get anything less than life in jail.
“Okay.” Faizan closed his eyes but did not say anything. Apparently he was thinking hard, and then he started telling them everything.
The confession was being recorded. Two FBI detectives and two CIA men joined Doerr to listen in, and they stood silently behind Doerr.
Faizan spoke for an hour. He detailed how he got into America, about the boat ride across Rio Grande River, about the non-religious professor’s wife, and what led him to kill Zarin, the teenaged daughter of the professor, and where exactly her body was, and how he had assembled the bomb.
“Back up, back up,” Doerr said. “Who was the man who gave you the firecrackers?”
“I don’t know his real name. But Halim referred to him as Sigma.”
“But you saw him. Correct? Tell me what he looks like.”
“He is tall and had a scar on his right cheek. Halim said he worked for American authorities before. But now works for him, for money.”
Samuel’s face flashed in Doerr’s mind. Tall and a scar on his right cheek. Can that be Samuel, by any chance? Doerr wondered. It was surely worth a try.