ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES

by Richard Drummer

He wrestled his fear into a wave of boiling anger. No, goddamn it, a voice screamed from deep inside, I’m not done here. Now it’s my turn!

  “What is your connection to Sirhan Abbas?”

  Smith released Waltstein’s hand and settled back in his seat. He folded his arms with a contemptuous grin as though amused by this senseless American who dared to question him further. He looked away a moment before returning his gaze on Waltstein, his expression once again a blank slate. “I live to serve Abbas,” he answered with a discomforting calmness. “I do as commanded for the glory of this holiest of celebrations.”

  “What celebration is that?”

  “The dawn that approaches when everything the sun touches will belong to the true followers of Allah.”

  Waltstein mulled his words over, searching for the right follow-up question to keep the information coming. “Can you tell me where this celebration will be taking place? Is there a specific country in the Middle East that—”

  “Ignorant little man,” Smith scoffed, “Allah will take from those deemed unworthy and give to those who fight in his name.”

  “Yeah, I get that. There’s going to be a fight. But against who? And what exactly will belong to the true followers?”

  Smith now understood an earlier observation made by a brother in arms who had spent considerable time in this country. He had concluded it was possible to attend some of the finest universities the United States had to offer and still come out stupid. He smiled at the irony of his old friend’s statement.

  “To quote some of your own vernacular, Mr. Waltstein, what part of ‘everything the sun touches,’ did you not understand?”

  Waltstein felt a lump form in his throat and nearly gagged. Smith could not be serious. He wasn’t talking about a few disputed territories or border skirmishes in the Middle East. This was about world conquest! He had heard extremist threats before, but this one? No way! Off the charts. All the same, he could not bring such an unsubstantiated boast like that back to the newsroom without more information. He needed details about this man’s armies, locations, maybe even a filmed interview with the leader himself. So far, he didn’t have enough to write more than a quarter page, even if he stretched the hell out of it. He had to keep it together and get more out of Smith, or this was all for nothing. Just keep it rolling, he thought.

  “Tell me…um, tell me about Sirhan Abbas.”

  “All you need to know is on that device. There is nothing further to be said.”

  Waltstein sensed the man’s agitation as his thin veil of calm demeanor shrank. He had no choice but to push on. There would be no bright tomorrow without this story. He recalled some of the sketchy details he had heard about the mysterious leader, then drummed up every remaining ounce of confidence. He blurted out, “Sirhan Abbas has called for mass beheadings of Christians in Afghanistan. What man of peace would approve such despicable acts as—”

  “We are not men of peace,” Smith shot back. “We are men of action! We are the soldiers of Allah! We stand on the mountain top, looking down at a world that we will soon control. We will be your lords. You will accept our law, our God, and our way of life.”

  The waitress looked up lazily from the other end of the diner, then returned her attention to a crossword puzzle book.

  Smith regained his composure and added, “This should be very simple, even for you. You will accept our demands, or you will meet your death at our hands.”

  Waltstein’s face turned ashen, but his mental motor remained in overdrive. He pushed forward, aware only that he feared going back to LA empty-handed even more than he feared this crazy son of a bitch.

  “The president recently stated he would not consider relations with OASIS until its human rights violations are addressed. Do you believe Sirhan Abbas will comply?”

  Smith’s left hand shot across the booth and grabbed Waltstein by the throat. His fingers wrapped around Waltstein’s windpipe and pulled him forward. The right hand moved down into his jacket and slid out a pistol with a short silencer. He jammed the barrel into the center of the shocked reporter’s chest. “You just do not know when to shut that big mouth of yours, Mr. Waltstein. Someday it may cost you your life.” He paused, then asked, “Is this the day?”

  Waltstein struggled for breath through the vice-like grip on his throat. A twinkling blackness appeared in the corners of his vision. He was within seconds of losing consciousness. His heart boomed in his chest like a cannon as adrenalin flooded into his bloodstream. His entire body convulsed and trembled. His bladder loosened. He realized now the terrible mistake in coming here. He was utterly at Smith’s mercy, and the man was not the merciful type. He had failed. He now understood the futility, the folly in expecting a positive outcome from meeting with such an evil man. All hope of pursuing the epic story was now lost. It no longer mattered. Surviving this ordeal was all that did.

  Smith pushed the pistol silencer harder into Waltstein’s chest. “I need your undivided attention. Do I have it?” His nails dug into the skin of Waltstein’s throat. “Do I have it?”

  Waltstein managed a nod.

  “Good. You will announce to the world that you have this video and will broadcast it in its entirety on the date I have given. Until then, no one is to have access. No one. You will not plug this in or reveal its contents before the broadcast. Do not even remove it from its case until it is time. We will know, Mr. Waltstein. We will know if you do. Nod if you understand and accept what I have told you. Because that is the only way that you walk out of here with it in your possession. In fact,” Smith brought his face even closer and whispered, “that is the only way you walk out of here at all.”

  2

  Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

  Only six inmates remained at the military prison at Guantanamo Bay since its official closure. The facility had become less functional as a penitentiary for combatants of the United States and more of a symbol of imperialistic injustice. Although much of the valuable intel gleaned from its occupants had saved the country from further catastrophic attacks, it was the abuse of power and the deplorable reputation on human rights that had finally ended the way business was conducted. That reputation was not undeserved.

  Some of the most evil beasts on the planet had been held here, alongside many who were innocent of any crimes. The courts made no distinction and ruled that no one should be imprisoned without due process of the law. The point had been argued unsuccessfully that military combatants from outside the US were not entitled to access the American legal system. The last two presidents had sided with the courts, pushing to forever open its gates and release the remaining prisoners. Upon its closure and transfer of operations, over 700 prisoners were released. It was now an antiquated behemoth with minimal staffing and multiple layers of oversight.

  The six that still remained were here only because of their direct involvement in terrorist acts worldwide. A small coalition of victims and anti-terrorism enforcement fought tenaciously to keep them locked away for their crimes. In the end, however, their battle was being lost. These mass murderers would all eventually walk out of this place and pick up their causes where they had left off.

  Freedom was mere days away for prisoner 4135, one of the most notorious this institution had ever detained. His reputation was legendary. And his list of crimes stood as a stark reminder that the man should never again be allowed to see the light of day. Many of the offenses he was suspected of being involved in lacked hard evidence to tie him directly. Much of the Intel proving his guilt had been obtained by less than conventional means. It was therefore inadmissible in court. Military interrogations, abhorred by the world’s peace activists, had supplied the links that tied this man to some of the most heinous atrocities ever inflicted against other human beings. For every case that could be proven legally, there were two others where he had been implicated. Prisoner 4135 was complicit in the deaths of thousands of innocent people.

  Before being captured, he had orchestrated the destruction of
a school in Ghazni, Afghanistan. Two hundred children attending classes that day were blasted into oblivion. He posed as a janitor and set off a series of bombs that leveled the building. Wiping out the seed of your enemy was considered acceptable military tactics. It was also intensely satisfying. Few who opposed his extreme view of victory ever came forward. They were either too afraid to speak against him or already dead.

  Prisoner 4135 was accustomed to the daily regimen of this place and his jailers. He found it amusing. They were forced to make his life comfortable while being detained and interrogated. His prayer time was reverently adhered to, as well as the types of food he was fed in accordance with his religious beliefs. He smiled as he finished his breakfast. The people who now controlled this facility made it their cause to ensure he was treated as more of a guest than a military combatant. When the day came, they would be the easiest to defeat and the first to die. Their good intentions would be their undoing.

  His handlers approached to escort him to the interrogation room. He rose and walked toward them, leaving his tray behind. Someone else would clean up after him.

  “I see you have more time to waste with your pointless questions,” he said with sarcastic defiance.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say pointless, would you, sergeant? I would call it quality time with our favorite guest.” Corporal Bolinski winked as he handcuffed the prisoner’s outstretched wrists.

  Sergeant Dobbin nodded. “Yes, that special time of day when we reflect on our life experiences.”

  “Succinctly stated,” Bolinski said as he took hold of the prisoner’s right arm. Dobbin wrapped a gloved hand around his left. They guided him toward a room in the old facility the prisoner knew all too well.

  “You have learned nothing from me in the past and will not learn anything today. Your superiors forbid you from injuring me to obtain information. I will walk away from this place very soon. Then maybe someday, you will be my prisoner.”

  The irony of the statement was not lost on Sergeant Dobbin. He knew how he would be treated if he had the misfortune of being captured by this man’s forces. He decided to prod him a bit further. “Tell me, Abu, exactly how would you welcome us if we became your house guests?”

  The prisoner’s facial expression remained blank. “You would be tortured until you told us everything we wanted to know. Then you would be beheaded. Your bodies would be dragged through the streets to celebrate the death of two infidels.”

  Dobbin offered a mocking smile. “You’re going to have to try a little harder than that if you ever want your country to be a travel destination. I’m already thinking Cairo, even Paris, would be much more favorable.”

  Bolinski smirked at the sergeant’s goading of the assassin. The man deserved a horrific death. Instead, he would walk out of this compound in four days and board a plane supplied by a group of human rights sympathizers. Then he would be flown to an unknown destination in the Middle East. At least, that was how the news storyline would read.

  The actual events about to unfold were part of a classified operation to exploit prisoner 4135 and his inevitable freedom. If all went according to plan, he would be an unwitting participant in the elimination of his superiors. The next twenty-four hours would determine whether the mission could proceed as planned.

  The guards directed their prisoner to a gray steel door. The sergeant knocked twice and the electronic lock released with a buzz and a sharp clunk. He pulled it open as Bolinski held tight to the prisoner’s forearm and guided him in. The door latched loudly behind as they directed the prisoner into a brightly lit cubicle, furnished only with a stainless steel table and two metal chairs. Dobbin walked to the opposite side of the table and directed the prisoner to sit while he kept a hand on his club. Bolinski locked the prisoner’s wrists into a pair of chained shackles attached to the table and removed the handcuffs.

  “You cannot harm me. I will not answer your questions,” the prisoner declared with smug self-assurance.

  The guards shared a sideways glance, then exited through a door that led to the observation room. Both took their places behind a large two-way mirror. The three other occupants looked up and nodded in silent acknowledgment.

  Private Jerry Frazier sat at a bank of recording equipment. He cued up the system to capture any information the prisoner might give up during the interrogation. He didn’t expect any more today than they had ever gotten from this man. But protocol had to be followed and documented. He checked the microphone and video signals coming in from the adjacent room and slid his headphones off. “Everything is ready here,” he said.

  “Showtime,” announced Marcus Gante, the intelligence officer. He stepped away from the mirrored glass where he had been watching the prisoner and walked toward the door leading to the interrogation room. He glanced back at Dr. Karl Maxwell, the third man in the room. “At least he’s consistent,” he added, “a total prick till the end.” He pushed through the door and closed it behind him, then took a seat at the steel table across from the prisoner.

  “Comfortable, Abu?” he asked.

  “Does it bother you that your country does not allow you to harm me to extract information?”

  “Does it bother you that so many lives have been ended because you misinterpret your holy book?”

  “Allah speaks to me. He directs my hands to do his bidding. The day comes when you shall fall by his sword.”

  “Not today, Abu. Tell me again how you got your hands on twenty pounds of C-4 and blew up a police station.”

  “I never said these things. You are a lying infidel.”

  “And you are a brainless meat puppet that kills everything that doesn’t agree with you. Now that we’ve gotten our greetings out of the way let’s move onto something more productive. Tell me about your mother. Is she still charging a Rupee for a roll in the dirt?”

  Prisoner 4135 smiled, savoring the moment. Freedom was but hours away, and yet this man still attempted to taunt him.

  “You show anger with your words. You cannot harm me, and I will tell you nothing. I walk away from you and this place very, very soon, and you will have gained nothing.”

  “I prefer to compare your release with flushing a toilet. Somewhere in this world, a large turd named Abu Dahl is going to splat down and stink up everything around. You are a total piece of shit, and millions of people would cheer if you would just stop breathing and die.”

  “You waste your time with these insults.”

  Gante nodded. “We both know you’re not going to answer my questions. But since I have to sit here anyway, I figured I would just enjoy myself for a change.” Gante relaxed, sliding down into his chair. “Let me share a thought I’ve had for all the time we’ve spent in this room together. There is not a god in the universe that would condone the slaughter of innocent people. Hell, the whole point of religion was to inject some fear into soulless creatures like you. To make you believe there would be consequences for your actions in the afterlife. But you made up new rules that say your god wants you to kill, so now it’s okay. You even think you’ll be rewarded for your actions with seventy-two virgins. My question is, have you ever stopped to think about those virgins? Because spending their eternity as your concubines must surely be their punishment for having committed more terrible sins than you. Being with you must be their hell. Yup, pull down that veil, and I’ll bet you see a face like a dish of worms, with the sweet demeanor of an ax murderer.” Gante chuckled. “Now that’s what I call paradise.” He paused again, noting the prisoner’s tensing face, hands balling into fists. Finally, he thought, something that gets a reaction out of this emotionless dirt clump. Wouldn’t you figure it had to do with getting laid? He enjoyed the moment, smiling broadly at the man’s steely glare. “Be sure and pack about a million condoms in your overnight bag when you cross over, buddy. I wouldn’t want to get any of that on me.”

  The prisoner bolted forward in his chair, then thought better of it and composed himself. “You cannot speak to me this way,”
he stated flatly, “your Geneva Convention forbids it”

  “Yes, and that same document forbids acts of genocide as well. But that didn’t stop you from killing innocent people.” Gante straightened in his seat and added, “Abu, you are a disappointing waste of oxygen and carbon. The sooner you die, the sooner people can rejoice and spit on your dead stinking corpse.”

  The prisoner considered the taunts being thrown at him from this filthy, self-absorbed American. How he would love to climb over this table, bite through the man’s windpipe and spit the piece of flesh at him, then watch as he gurgled and drowned in blood. This man’s job was to maintain his composure and extract information. Yet, here he was, no longer attempting to restrain his anger and frustration. This would be the last time they faced off in this room, and the man had failed. It gave the prisoner a deep satisfaction. Never before had Gante hurled such insults. It was clear how frustrated this agent of Satan was that he had never gained any useful intelligence during his twelve years of imprisonment. He now admitted his failure with this unusual show of emotion.

  Abu Dahl smiled. America, once the most powerful nation on earth, had lost this battle. Defeated by its internal bureaucracy. Elected officials had stripped the country of its power, turning it into a pathetic collection of whiny weaklings who could agree on nothing. Diplomacy, rather than the blade of a sword, was now the only tool available to end wars. Their nation would stand for a few more years at most. But it had already begun to crumble from the inside. Abu thought of a future where the great buildings and monuments of Washington, DC, would someday resemble the decaying ruins of Rome, another civilization that imploded from its internal fight. The thought of the capital city in flames calmed him.

  He felt a brief pang of pity for this interrogator. Should he offer some small scrap of information? Something that would give false hope and send them all running in circles? He thought better of it and decided to leave as he had come, in control and unbreakable. He sat up taller in the metal seat and awaited the next question or insult, defiant to the end.