“Where was that?”
Does Gandalf hesitate, just a bit? Austin isn’t sure. Maybe it was just a pause as she reached to touch something—a gold necklace?—around her neck, then set her empty mug on the floor. Or maybe the temperature is getting to her, slowing her down. What information is Tobias looking for?
“It was London, 2003, at the international symposium.”
“If you haven’t seen these people, how do you write papers together?”
“We have a secure private website where we can work jointly online, in real-time.”
“Yes, of course. We found that site on your laptop, Ms. Cohen. Very instructive. We were especially interested in the archived emails between you and Mr. Makhdoom.”
Gandalf’s eyes widen slightly, but Austin notes that she keeps her expression bland. Perhaps not as secure as you think, Professor?
Tobias scoots his chair closer to Gandalf. “Tell me, what other work do you do together, online?”
Gandalf looks puzzled. “Nothing else. What do you mean?”
“Political work.”
“I am not at all interested in politics.”
“What do you know about your friend Ahmed’s political leanings?”
“We never talk about politics. I don’t think he cares much about it either.”
“Your friend is a practicing Muslim, right?”
“I believe so, but Islam is a religion, not a political position.”
“You just said you don’t know about his politics.”
“I don’t.”
“But you do know that your friend Ahmed is from a small village in South Waziristan, one of the most politically volatile places in the world?”
“We never discussed our backgrounds.”
“I’m sure you know that his uncle was a founding member of a radical jihadist party in Waziristan, right?
“No, I did not.”
“And that Ahmed’s brother is in a microbiology graduate program at MIT?”
“I did not know that either.”
“Perhaps you know that ten days ago your good buddy Ahmed’s uncle, a politically powerful man and extremely anti-American, and his pregnant wife were killed by a U.S. drone attack?”
Gandalf looks down. “No.”
“Are you aware that shortly after that accident your friend Ahmed was observed in his uncle’s village near the Afghanistan border. The village where Ahmed was born, where his brothers and sister still live with their families.”
“Perhaps he went home for the funeral?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“I told you that I have not heard from him.”
Tobias shakes his head slowly. “You don’t know much, do you, Professor? Well, what do you say to this: we have credible evidence that a terrorist cell is planning another attack, a significant attack, on this country. Your country. The planning cell is located in Ahmed’s home village. We think he may be part of the group.”
Gandalf looks stunned. Either she is genuinely surprised, or a better actress than Austin would have guessed. Tobias’s performance isn’t too shabby either. He stands up, throws his cap on the floor and speaks to Gandalf with clear disgust in his voice.
“When’s the last time you got a telephone call from your friend Ahmed?’
“Never. We communicate by email and our website.”
Austin shifts her weight to the other leg and glances down at her watch. She is exhausted and she’s just an observer. Gandalf must be dying. How does Tobias look so fresh?
“Maybe so, Ms. Cohen,” he says. “Maybe so. But I suspect you’re not being totally truthful. I admit I’m disappointed in you. I had such high hopes for our little talk. I might have to ask some of my slightly less, well less refined, colleagues to join us. You might want to reconsider your lack of cooperation.”
Austin looks away. She doesn’t want to see the reaction on Gandalf’s face. Tobias must be referring to the “guys.” She’s heard the male guards bragging about how they terrify female detainees.
Tobias refastens the restraint around Gandalf’s waist. At the control console, he stares into the retinal scanner. Austin can’t see exactly what he does next, but she hears the air conditioner click back on. And the music. He walks to the doorway.
“Perhaps our guest needs some time alone to think about things,” he tells Austin. “Take away the blanket.”
Is she imagining it, the way his voice lingers on “blanket,” as if it has another meaning, something secret between the two of them?
Then he faces Gandalf, and his voice gets hard. “I’ll be back. You might want to consider cooperating fully. That is, if you are interested in going home. Jess is quite worried about you.”
Austin takes the blanket from Gandalf’s shoulders and gathers it in her arms as she follows Tobias to the door. She wants to look back at Gandalf, to communicate some sort of comfort, to apologize even. But it’s possible the woman does know something about this Ahmed guy, something she won’t tell. Besides, Tobias is watching.
In the corridor, Tobias double-checks the lock, then crosses his arms and looks at Austin. “We’ll resume in one hour.”
After returning the blanket to the storeroom, she stands in front of the outside door at the end of the corridor. Wind-flung raindrops batter the barred window. Almost two hours left on her shift, two interminable hours before she can walk down the hill to the ferry and go home to supper and Gran and Pops, far away from this place.
19. TOBIAS, 5:00 P.M.
When they return to the interrogation room an hour later, the prisoner is a marble statue posed on her metal chair. For an instant, Tobias sees her as beautiful, almost as art. He feels a shudder of something like shame, but it passes quickly. He notes that she hugs ashen legs with goose-bumped arms. Good. Cold temperature is effective preparation, and warmth makes prisoners grateful, ready to talk. But this one turns ugly. She refuses to look at him, doesn’t respond when he turns off the music and changes the flow of air to warm. She ignores him when he turns his chair around and straddles it. He leans his elbows on the top rung and stares at her. Either she’s catatonic or royally pissed off. Fine. Either way he’s getting to her.
“Are you ready to work with us, Professor?”
When she doesn’t answer, he slaps her face.
She flinches. Austin cringes too, and reaches for the towel on the desk. He stops her with a glance before turning back to the prisoner.
“Now do I have your attention?”
The prisoner dips her chin, a small gesture of defeat. A speck of blood blossoms on her lower lip. It grows in size until it drips onto her bare thigh. She doesn’t move to wipe it up. Playing it tough, is she?
He scoots his chair closer. “Let’s talk some more about your friend Ahmed.”
She moves her lips, then speaks slowly. “Not a friend, a colleague.”
“I don’t believe you.” Tobias drums his fingers on his legs. He loves this part, when he knows something they don’t know he knows, and he is about to pounce on them, claws out and ready to draw blood. “Because the letters and emails I read sounded more personal than that. Intimate, even.”
“Intimate?”
“How about this note he sent you in 1988?” Tobias closes his eyes and recites. “‘Our minds are so compatible. Do you ever wonder if we might find other kinds of solace in each other?’” He cocks his head and grins at the woman. “That sounds like a rather intimate invitation to me.”
She flushes. “When Ahmed returned to Pakistan after graduate school, he felt out of place. Lonely. He flirted with me some by mail, but not seriously.” She looks at him then, full face. Which is actually pretty ridiculous with that bead of blood hanging off her lip. “He knows I like women.”
“Don’t play me for a fool. This message is some kind of code, right?”
She shakes her head. “No code. After that one exchange, he never mentioned it again.”
He can feel that she is lying. The trick now is to m
ake his questions circle around, and catch her by surprise. “But you were turned on, weren’t you? By his desire?”
“I felt only embarrassment.”
“Then why save the correspondence?”
“It’s our work archive. It’s supposed to be private.”
“Do you consider yourself a patriot?”
The detainee looks surprised. That always throws them off-balance, the quick change of subject. Tobias glances at the girl, Austin. He hopes she’s paying close attention.
“Of course,” the woman says.
“So, if there is an immediate and dire threat to your country, and you are one of the few people who could prevent a major terrorist disaster, you would do so, right?”
“Naturally, if I could.”
“Well you can. We have reason to believe that your colleague is part of a Pakistani cell and they are planning an attack on a critical U.S. target. The anniversary of 9/11 is in two days. A likely date for something big to happen, don’t you think? Now you’re a smart lady, a professor. Surely you can see how important this is. You’re our only direct link to Ahmed Makhdoom.”
“But I only know him through our mutual work. I know nothing about this.”
The woman is hiding something. He can always tell.
“This information is crucial for our national security, and we don’t have much time left. You’ve left me no alternative. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll bring in some additional interrogators. To help jog your memory.”
He studies the effect of his threat, how her nostrils flare and the muscles around her mouth stiffen. Good, she has lots to ponder all night long.
Austin’s face changes too. He watches her mouth constrict, squeeze in on itself as if something smells bad. Her eyelids droop like she’s exhausted and can’t wait to go home to mama. She might be too soft for this job, but he can think of other activities she’d be just right for. Don’t let her distract you, he reminds himself.
He isn’t the slightest bit tired. On the contrary, he feels zingy and jazzed up and full of energy. He doesn’t plan to go home tonight. Someone in charge has to stay at the camp, just in case, with the big storm coming. Henry doesn’t think about things like that, doesn’t plan ahead. It’s one of his faults. Still, everybody has a vulnerable place, if you look for it, and his job is to search and find those weak spots. He’s convinced this prisoner is hiding something related to the Ahmed fellow, but her major weakness is her lady friend. He’s read their archived emails and felt the passion, though the messages are carefully bland on the surface. Maybe it’s time to bring Jess back into the room.
He leans closer to the prisoner and lowers his voice into the dead-serious range. “Listen to me, Professor. I know Ahmed is your friend, and you’re loyal. That’s an admirable quality. But think for a moment about your other friend. We can pick Jess up as easily as we got you, and she might not fare so well.”
The prisoner’s eyes fill again. She sits silently for a minute, then speaks. “I’m cold. May I please have the blanket back?” She glances towards Austin, who returns her look with something like pity.
Very interesting. There’s something between the two of them, something more than who brings the blanket. Tobias holds up his index finger, wags it back and forth. “Nope. Not until you give us something, anything, to help us stop this attack.” With a flourish he brings both hands to his thighs and resumes playing drumbeats to accompany the rumble of thunder outside.
20. GANDALF, 5:34 P.M.
She watches Ferret’s fingers drumming on his legs. His nails are squared-off and very clean; his hands small and neat, full of tension. They are rattlesnakes ready to strike. His words are frightening too but they make no sense because Ahmed is not a terrorist. He is a math geek, like Sandra, like her. She is willing to tell these people anything she knows, but she will not fabricate evidence, not about Ahmed or anyone else. She will not let herself dwell on Ferret’s rattlesnake hands, either, or his threats to Jess. She will not think about the guys he mentioned; they must be the men Norah talked about, the men who said ugly things about her exposed body.
Gandalf shudders. Her body, which moved from violent shivering pain to dead-tired and mostly numb, is starting to hurt again in the warmer air. She glances at Austin leaning against the wall. Her face is an icy, dismal mask; what could the girl be thinking about all this? Her eyes follow every move Ferret makes with something softer than fear, almost desire? But that cannot be right; she probably cannot stomach this either. How could she? Ferret seems comfortable and at ease in this room, except that he is not getting what he wanted which is why he is threatening her with Jess and the guys, trying to intimidate her. He is bluffing.
Maybe Ferret can read her thoughts, because he turns his chair around and leans back, extending his legs straight out in front of him, as if he is relaxing in his living room. That is better; she hates it when guys sit straddling chairs, legs opened wide as if their scorching genitals need all that extra breathing space.
“So, tell me,” Ferret asks, looking up at the ceiling vent. “What got you interested in clouds?”
That is an easy one. She was doing her homework in front of the picture window looking across the Hudson River towards the Palisades. The river was the highway of rapidly changing weather patterns, and the clouds, the most spectacular manifestation of the changes, formed the palette of her daydreams. She was not a nerdy kid, not exactly; she just lacked the self-protection skills for middle school. Was Ferret also awkward back then, one of the skinny boys trying to melt back into the fence at recess, or was he one of the bullies?
“Nothing in particular,” she says. “I have always been intrigued by clouds.”
The second slap comes out of nowhere, a backhand smack across her left cheek. His college ring, the same generic design as the one in her jewelry box at home, slices a track through the skin. She brings her hand to her face, looks down at the blood on her finger. Being hit hurts more than she ever imagined watching film actors.
Tobias leans forward, and his eyes drill into hers. “Don’t fuck with me. Our country is at war. If you don’t help us, that makes you a traitor.”
Norah did not warn her about being hit; maybe Norah is not trustworthy. Jess teases her about being naïve; she might advise believing no one in this place. The thought of Jess brings a quick surge of warmth and she tries to prolong the moment. She pictures Jess wandering through the rooms of their apartment, straightening piles of mail and journals, making sure the windows are locked tight against the wind pummeling the windowpane. Jess must be fighting off an invading army of tormenting images but never could she imagine this frigid cell, this ferret of a man.
Ferret tosses a towel onto her lap. It takes long seconds before her hands can move to hold it briefly against the sting on her cheek. She lets it slide to the floor, and he watches it fall. He unsnaps the waist restraint and motions Gandalf to rise but her leg muscles are frozen and will not respond right away. Ferret motions to Austin, who steps forward and helps her stand up and then returns to her position against the wall, equidistant from the two of them. Gandalf must grip the back of her chair and even so, she wobbles.
Without dropping his gaze, Ferret snaps open a hunting knife. Slipping the blade under the waist elastic of her underpants, he slices downward to the leg opening. The cotton slides to the floor along her other leg. He cuts one bra shoulder strap, then the other. Finally he slits the fabric between her breasts.
Her bra swings open and the prosthesis falls from its pocket. It hits the floor with a small bounce. Gandalf watches Ferret’s sneer dissolve for an instant before he pulls his mouth back into control. She refuses to cross her arms over her chest, just lets them hang by her side, so he can fully appreciate the scar, the way it curves slightly across the left side of her chest and disappears into her armpit. She does not have to look down to know how the wound blooms purple in the cold air.
21. AUSTIN, 6:40 P.M.
By the time Austin stumb
les down the hill to the ferry, the sky is already purple-gray. Rain beats a steady rhythm on her slicker hood. Her presence on the dock triggers the sensor, and the floodlight reflection multiplies in the puddles.
Bert steps out of the guard post. “You’re late. Ready for a bumpy ride?”
Austin nods. She wishes she could pilot herself across the narrow sound instead of being transported like a tourist. Pops agreed to let her use his old outboard for the commute, but Henry Ames shot down that idea. Something about security, controlling all access to the facility. Makes sense, but tonight she can’t bear the thought of Bert’s amiable chitchat.
Bert peers ahead at the black water. “You okay? You seem spooked.”
She nods but doesn’t answer. Spooked is a good word for it. Bert probably has no clue about the business of the employees he ferries back and forth. Would he care if he knew? Grow up, she tells herself. What did she expect they’d do at the facility? Serve the prisoners tea and crumpets? Whatever crumpets are.
By the time they reach her grandparents’ dock, the rain is relentless. Fat drops batter the slippery wood. Austin climbs out of the boat, waves to Bert, and shouts over the wind. “Thanks. See you at 6:00 am.”
“If we’re not all blown out to sea.” Bert doesn’t sound worried. “Give my howdy to your folks.”
Gran is waiting at the back door with a towel. “I worried you’d be stuck out there all night. You’re late.” She peers into Austin’s face. “And you look awful.”
“Sorry,” Austin says. “I couldn’t call. We were in the middle of an … something.”
“Are you okay?”
Is she? She wants to fall deeply asleep and not dream. She wants to sob until the ache of not being able to cry dissolves. She wants to burrow under a pile of quilts and comforters until she is so warm that Gandalf can feel it too. She wants to call Gandalf’s girlfriend and tell her what’s happening. She wants never to return to Hurricane Island. Either that or take Pops’s boat over there right now and rescue Gandalf from that place, even if it turns out the woman has been doing math equations with a terrorist.
On Hurricane Island Page 10
