She opened herself to him, to his eyes and his gentle hands and the heat of his skin against hers. “I want you,” she said, the words muffled in the breath of desire. She took him in her hand and guided him toward her.
He entered her slowly, but she pulled him deeper. Her body moved quickly, and she cried out for him. Before he could answer, their bodies reached the same sudden precipice of desire. He could feel her tightening around him, and then he lost himself in a shudder of pleasure that carried them together into white space. He laid his head on her breast, wet with his saliva, and listened to the beat of her heart.
10
AMMAN
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Hani summoned Ferris to his office. Ferris went alone, around that bend in the road to the fortress set against the mountainside. Two sergeants led him upstairs this time, flanking him almost as if they were guards. And for once, he was not taken to the holding chamber of Hani’s deputy, but brought immediately to see the pasha himself. Ferris wondered what was going on. There had been no sign that Hani had been upset; indeed, he’d heard nothing from Hani at all for days.
When Ferris entered Hani’s office, he could see immediately that something was wrong. The Jordanian had none of his usual bravado. He had a heavy growth of beard and deep circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for several nights. Hani gestured for his guest to sit in the chair opposite his desk rather than on the couches where they usually sat. He waited for the door to close, and then waited a moment more to compose himself.
“Mustafa Karami is dead,” said the Jordanian coldly. “Our man in Berlin. He was murdered a week ago.”
Hani spoke the words with a deep anger. It was an expression of frustration, of hurt, of regret at so much wasted effort. It wasn’t the loss of the life so much as the man-years of work that had gone into setting up the operation, and the lives that might have been saved
Ferris wondered what to say. “Who killed him?” he asked finally.
“We believe it was one of his contacts from Al Qaeda. They got him in Madrid. What we do not understand is why he was killed.” The Jordanian looked Ferris square in the eye. “Do you have any idea?”
Ferris paused a long moment, too long. “I have absolutely no idea,” he said.
“Absolutely no idea. That is more than a no, and it makes me ask a question: Why do people feel it necessary to add extra words to their denials? When it would be enough to say ‘no,’ why does someone say ‘absolutely not’? It is strange, don’t you think?”
“Okay, Hani. I’ll give you the simple version. I don’t know who killed Mustafa Karami. Until I walked into your office, I didn’t know that he was dead.”
Hani was still musing about words. “With Arabic, there is something about our language that makes every statement a bit of a lie, you know? Even when you are telling the truth. Ours is a language for poets, not engineers. But English is simple. It is a language of ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ When people add something, it is for a reason. When someone says to me, ‘Frankly, Hani…,’ or ‘Honestly, Hani…,’ I always suspect that he is lying. If he were telling the truth, he would not need those extra words of emphasis. He would just say it. Am I right?”
“Yes, Hani. You are right.”
“But I believe you, when you tell me that you do not know why Karami was killed. Because how could you know? I do not know myself.”
“Thank you.”
“But, my dear, we are going to find out. Isn’t that good luck? You and I are going to find out why Mustafa Karami was killed.”
“How are we going to find that out?” Ferris was suddenly nervous. He could feel his heart racing.
“By interrogating the man who killed him. The Spaniards seized him in Madrid and gave him to us. His name is Ziyad. He has been here almost a week. He is here now, right below us, in the prison beneath this building.”
“The Palace of the Ghosts,” said Ferris, for that was what Jordanians sometimes called the prison beneath the GID’s headquarters. It was said you never left the prison the same person who went in.
“That is nonsense, my dear Ferris. There are no ghosts, and no broken bones. You know better than that. We do not torture people. The best interrogation technique is to let people break down themselves. Or bring in one of the sheiks, to read the Koran with them. They are much more effective than we could be.”
“Not when you need information in a hurry.”
“No, my dear Ferris. It is especially when you are in a hurry that you must be patient. That is the way I have behaved with Ziyad. When we brought him in a week ago, he was screaming through his hood that he would never talk. By Allah, he would shit on the moustache of the king before he would tell us a word. He was kicking and screaming, to show how tough he would be in resisting what he thought must be coming. I think he actually wanted me to beat him, to get his adrenaline going. But I walked away. I refused to say a word to him.”
“Not a word, Hani?”
“Nothing. To him, only silence. The only sound was my praying, at prayer time. I came back the second night, and he was the same, but not quite so crazy. I sat behind him in the interrogation room and watched him for more than an hour. You could hear screams down the hall, but we always do that. The screams are recorded. He babbled for a while, telling me how tough he was. He said he was glad that he had killed Karami, because he was a traitor. He was glad. He shouted at me. He was waiting for the torture, but still it did not come. And I said nothing. Before I left, I prayed again. But not a word to him.”
“He was disappointed. You wounded his dignity.”
“You are precisely right, Roger. This is the Arab in you. Ziyad thought he was so important that we would have to beat him like a dog to get his information. But we were ignoring him. He could not understand it. It was an insult to his dignity, as you say. I came back last night and sat with him again. He had stopped screaming. I sat behind him again, just behind his head, so he could hear me breathing. I was silent for many minutes. Perhaps another hour, maybe more, I don’t know. Finally he spoke. He wanted to know if I was going to ask him any questions. That’s when I knew he was ready to talk. He was asking to be interrogated.”
“So what did he say?”
“Nothing, because I still wouldn’t talk with him. I whispered in his ear that he was in a great deal of trouble. I took off his hood and put a picture in front of him.”
“His mother.”
“Of course. ‘Be careful,’ I whispered. And then I walked away again. I wanted to give him twenty-four more hours of nothingness, so that he would truly need to confess to me. And now I think perhaps he is ready. He has been up all night again. Yes, I think this is a good time. Shall we go and see?”
“Yes,” said Ferris. He knew he didn’t have a choice, in any event. “One thing.”
“And what is that?”
“Can I call Headquarters, to let them know that Karami is dead?”
“No.” Hani’s eyes were as sad as a dog’s. “I am afraid you cannot call your Headquarters. That would be quite inappropriate.”
“Why not?” asked Ferris, but Hani ignored the question. Then, for the first time since he had arrived in Jordan, Ferris felt afraid of his host. He was Hani’s prisoner, and he had no doubt that for all the Arab man’s subtle word play, he would kill Ferris if he decided it was necessary.
Hani rose from his desk and led the way out the door. Aides immediately jumped to assist him, but the boss waved them away. A guard at the end of the corridor mumbled deferentially, “Ya sidi,” as the chief passed. Hani nodded, then punched a code into an electronic lock, opening a heavy door. Ferris followed him, into the Palace of the Ghosts.
Just past the door was a small elevator with no buttons. Hani put a key into a lock and the elevator door opened. Inside, there were just two buttons, up and down. This was Hani’s private elevator to the prison. They descended a long time; Ferris wasn’t sure whether the elevator was slow or they were going very deep underground, but it seemed to
take almost thirty seconds. Finally the door opened and Ferris looked down a long, dank concrete corridor.
A group of powerful Arab men, the sort who looked like they might shoot you on a whim, stood in the corridor. Hani approached them and said something that Ferris couldn’t hear. The American shivered slightly. It was cold in this underground pit. A man might freeze here, if he wasn’t given adequate clothing. Hani beckoned for him to follow down the corridor. There were heavy metal doors every ten yards, with tiny openings.
“You can look, if you like,” said Hani.
Ferris peered in one hole. He saw an emaciated man in his under-pants, so glassy-eyed that he seemed barely alive. The smell in the cell was of human excrement and urine.
“A hard case, that one,” said Hani. “But he’ll come around.”
Ferris didn’t want to look in any more cells. He was not a sentimental man, and he had seen before what America’s friends and allies were capable of when they decided to put the screws on someone. By comparison, Hani was mild. But he did not want to be in this place. They reached an intersection, where corridors of cells stretched a hundred yards in either direction, and then another, similar intersection. Jesus, Ferris thought, half this country must be in prison.
“Here we are,” said Hani when they reached a third intersection. He walked to the left. There were no cells along this corridor, but small rooms that appeared to be used for interrogation. He could hear the sound of a man screaming. It began as a sudden wail of pain and shock, as if a bone had been broken, and then grew in intensity, as if someone were grinding the broken bone back and forth. Ferris didn’t know whether it was real or fake. There was a pause, and then another horrifying shriek, as the victim whimpered and pleaded in Arabic.
Hani opened a door and gestured for Ferris to take a seat. Before him was a one-way glass panel, and just beyond that, the interrogation room, brightly lit by a fluorescent light overhead, with a desk and two chairs. The walls were painted blue. This was it. The blue hotel. On Ferris’s side of the glass was a small speaker, so that he could hear what was said in the other room. “It’s lucky you understand Arabic,” said Hani. “I don’t think this would translate very easily.”
He left Ferris, entered the interrogation room and pulled his chair back against the wall, perhaps a dozen yards from the other chair. A moment later the far door opened and two guards led in the prisoner. He was unshaven, exhausted from lack of sleep but otherwise appeared unharmed. The guards sat the prisoner in his chair and strapped his arms and legs to the metal frame. Then they left the room. The prisoner looked at Hani almost plaintively.
Ferris waited for Hani to say something, but the Jordanian was silent.
“What do you want from me?” the prisoner asked. He repeated it, this time almost a wail. Still Hani was silent.
Several minutes passed. The prisoner stared at Hani with a haunted look. There were tears rolling down his cheeks, and then he was choking back a sob. “What do you want?” he pleaded.
At last Hani answered.
“Tell me, Ziyad, why did you kill Mustafa Karami?” His voice was soft. From the corridor came the sound of ceaseless screams.
“Because he was a traitor,” the prisoner answered. “Because he was a traitor. Because he was a traitor.”
Hani let the silence in the room build. It was like the pressure against the skull when a diver is too deep under water. After ten minutes, Ziyad grew desperate enough to speak again.
“Please. It is the truth. Mustafa Karami was a traitor.”
“But Ziyad, how do you know that Mustafa was a traitor?” Hani’s question was almost a taunt.
“You are tricking me. You already know!”
“There is no trick. Tell me.”
“Because he was working with the Americans. He was a traitor, working with the Americans.”
Hani paused, to register the words. “And how could you be sure of that?” The voice was as impossible to escape as a dream.
“You know the answer. You know, you know.”
“Of course I know, but I want to hear it from you. You are an important man. I must hear it from a sincere man I respect, like you.”
“Thank you, sidi. We were sure he was a traitor because he was in contact with their man. With Hussein Amary, who works with the Americans in Indonesia. That is how we knew that Karami must work for the Americans.”
“Yes, the Americans.” Hani’s eyes were hard points of rage. “But how did you know?”
“We knew because Karami contacted Amary. At first it was the other way around. Amary calling Karami. He even asked us about it. Who is this Hussein Amary? Why is he calling me? But then, later, we learned that Karami had contacted Amary. He wanted to help Amary to travel to Europe, to meet with some of us. He asked about someone named Suleiman. And then we knew: You and the Americans were trying to insert him into our network. That was your trick. You were using Karami to put someone into our most secret places. That was when we knew that Karami could not be trusted. He was working for the Americans. And for you.”
Hani was staring at the prisoner. Ferris could see the tautness in his face as he struggled to maintain his composure.
“Why didn’t you kill Amary?” Hani asked.
“We tried to, but we could not find him. He disappeared. The Americans were clever. They hid him. They are very clever, the Americans. But they are Satan, and God will punish them.”
Hani looked toward the glass mirror, at the spot where he knew Ferris must be sitting. “Yes,” he said quietly. “The Americans are very clever.” He rose from his chair and left the room. There was a suppressed violence in his step, like a professional boxer walking toward the ring.
He opened the door to Ferris’s listening post. Ferris wondered if the Jordanian was going to shoot him right there. Hani was clenching his fists—not as a prelude to violence, it turned out, but to regain control of his emotions.
“I do not ever want to speak with you again,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. “We had a good and careful plan for Karami. He could have been a great asset for us both. Perhaps he could have taken us where we want to go. And now he is lost, because of your foolishness and your lies.”
He looked at Ferris, still in shock. How could the Americans have been so stupid? He shook his head. It was over. He turned toward the door and then stopped and looked back at Ferris.
“I know what you have been doing. We have an expression for it in Arabic, called taqiyya. It comes from the time of the Prophet. It is the lie you tell to protect yourself from the unbelievers. They are the ignorant ones, so you can tell them any lie you want. That is what you and Ed Hoffman have been doing to me with your deceptions. Taqiyya. But you have made a very bad mistake.”
“I am sorry,” said Ferris.
“Do not say another word, Mr. Ferris. If you speak to me again, I will kill you.” He turned again for the door and walked out, leaving Ferris in that foul pit deep in the mountain.
Through the window, Ferris watched as the guards unshackled the prisoner Ziyad and took him away. They would exploit him now that he had cracked, bleed him of every contact he’d ever had, every pot he’d ever pissed in, but the Americans would know none of it.
Ferris waited for a time, wondering if someone was going to fetch him or if he would be left there to join the detritus that was rotting under the ground. Eventually two soldiers came to collect him. They were the same two who had escorted him when he first arrived. They led him out a different way, down corridors that were dirty and ill-lit, and stank of shit. He could hear screams from cells as he passed, people who were in pain, or who had been here so long they had simply gone mad.
They came finally to an old gated elevator, big enough to hold a herd of cattle. This was the prisoners’ elevator, Ferris realized. It reeked of men who had shat their pants in fear as they descended into the house of the dead.
The elevator made a slow, clanking ascent. The door opened to more dirt and debris, foul smel
ls of captivity, a few faces caught in the lurid fluorescent light. The guards walked him toward a bolted door. A prisoner was pleading with Ferris, thinking he was a foreigner who might save him. The door opened and the guards gave Ferris a nudge. Darkness had fallen, and there was no moon in the bitter sky.
His SUV was across the road. He got in and started the engine, half expecting that it would explode. But no, that wasn’t Hani’s style. Ferris drove back to the embassy, sent a cable to Hoffman in the special channel and then, an hour later, talked with the division chief briefly by secure phone. Hoffman sounded upset, but not contrite.
THE NEXT MORNING, Ferris was on a flight back to Washington. He stopped at Alice’s apartment and woke her up on the way to the airport. She could tell that something dreadful had happened.
“What’s wrong, darling?” she asked. That was the first time she had ever called him darling.
“Something bad at work. They want me to come home, talk to people at the State Department.”
“Are you in trouble? Something awful has happened, hasn’t it? I can see it.”
He looked at her stray wisps of hair across her sleepy face. “Nothing is wrong. Nothing that matters. But I have to sort out these work problems. And talk to my wife.”
She nodded. “When will you be back?”
A muscle twitched in Ferris’s face. He shifted weight off his bad leg. He didn’t know when he would be back. If Hani meant what he had said, it might be never.
“As soon as I can,” he answered. “I’ll call you whenever I can while I’m away. Is that okay?”
Body of Lies Page 11
