The Guardian

by David Hosp

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she said. ‘I was bored. That’s all.’

  ‘Kuwait,’ he said. ‘First Gulf War.’

  ‘The easy war,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Easy.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’ she started. He cut her off, though.

  ‘It’s okay, you’re right. We got in, we got out. We chased Saddam Hussein and his men right back to the Iraqi border and stopped on the line. Then we stood there and watched as he slaughtered those in the Iraqi resistance who had helped us gather the information and had laid the groundwork for our victory. We stood there and watched as all the goodwill we had built up with those who supported freedom in the Middle East was pissed away.’

  ‘You think we should have gone in?’

  He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t a politician or a diplomat. I was a soldier. I didn’t believe in leaving people behind, and I didn’t believe wars could be fought halfway.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now,’ he said slowly. ‘Now, I suppose I’m still a soldier. I still don’t believe in fighting wars halfway.’

  The words had barely left his lips when the phone rang.

  Akhtar had heard stories of prison. As the Imam of one of the most important mosques in Afghanistan, his father had been an important and influential figure. Prominence in Afghanistan brings with it great danger, though. Loyalties and political allegiances are mercurial enough that influence can be of dubious advantage. Relatives of his had spent time in the custody of the various regimes that had drifted through control of Afghanistan, and they had told him what to expect.

  The Russians had been cruel, but more out of bureaucratic habit than anything else. After the Russians came the Taliban. Their prisons were by far the most terrifying. Fear had been the only unifying principle under the Taliban’s rule. The stories of random torture, mutilations and killings without any apparent justification or purpose were widespread. Tongues were often cut out, and limbs removed, all in professed loyalty to Allah and the Koran. For the vast majority of Afghans, the day the Taliban fled was a day for celebration.

  The American military prisons were a riddle. On the one hand, the Americans were institutionally organized and humane. It was clear that there were rules about the treatment of prisoners that were taken seriously. Those in custody were identified and catalogued and tracked. They were given decent food, and allotted time for prayer. Notwithstanding the order that was imposed by the Americans, though, rumors of random acts of perverse cruelty spread throughout the prison population. The American military guards came to be seen as smiling serpents, waiting for the right moment to pick out anyone who let their guard down to torture them in unspeakable ways. That uncertain fear was more debilitating than anything else.

  And so, when Akhtar entered the police station in the Back Bay, the fear ate at him. The large black uniformed police officer called McMurphy walked him through the booking process, then snapped handcuffs on Akhtar and led him down a hallway to a plain room with a mirror on one side, and a wooden table with three chairs in the middle.

  ‘Sit,’ McMurphy said.

  Akhtar did as he was told. He understood this was the place where the beatings would be administered. That was acceptable; there were beatings in every prison. It was the right of the strong to test their prisoners.

  ‘You want some coffee?’ the police officer asked.

  Akhtar said nothing.

  ‘Coffee,’ McMurphy repeated. ‘You want some? Or maybe some water?’

  Akhtar refused to fall for the ruse.

  ‘You speak English, right?’

  Akhtar looked carefully at the man. Finally, he said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. That makes all of this easier. Do you want some coffee?’

  It was disorienting to have a captor offer simple kindness. ‘Yes,’ Akhtar said. ‘I would drink some coffee.’

  McMurphy walked over and stuck his head out the door, calling to someone, ‘Hey, Kenny! You wanna bring me a couple cups of coffee in room four?’ His head came back in, and McMurphy walked over and sat in the chair opposite Akhtar. The coffee was brought in a moment later.

  ‘There was a shooting reported in Southie yesterday, just around where you were parked this morning. Did you know that?’

  Akhtar shook his head.

  ‘Three people called it in. We knocked on some doors, but couldn’t find anything. You know anything about this?’

  ‘No,’ Akhtar responded honestly. He could feel McMurphy probing his eyes, searching for any sign of prevarication. There was none there yet.

  ‘You understand why we’re asking, right? Shots are reported on that street last night, and then this morning, you’re sitting there in your car, waiting for someone, gun in the glove compartment. You can see how this looks, right?’

  ‘I was waiting for a friend,’ Akhtar said quickly. ‘And it is not my gun.’

  ‘Right, your friend. What was his name again?’

  ‘David.’

  McMurphy’s eyes were probing again, and this time Akhtar felt less confident. Neither man spoke for a few moments, and Akhtar was convinced that the beatings would begin then.

  They didn’t, though. There was a knock on the door, and another officer brought in two cups of coffee. McMurphy took one and took a sip. He handed the other to Akhtar and Akhtar looked at it suspiciously.

  ‘Detective Morrell will be back in a little while. He’s gonna want to talk to you,’ McMurphy said. ‘You get one call; is there anyone you want to tell you’re here?’

  Akhtar’s eyes widened. ‘A call?’

  ‘A telephone call. You don’t have to use it now, but if there is someone you want to notify that you’re here, you can do it.’

  ‘I can call anyone?’ It made no sense.

  ‘Yes. You want me to bring you out to the phone?’

  Akhtar assumed again it was a ploy, but on the chance that it wasn’t he didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. Please take me.’

  ‘Hello?’

  Cianna would have expected her voice to have been more unsteady. She understood the danger her brother was in; understood the consequences of any mistake. And yet her voice sounded confident. Serious and concerned, but strong.

  ‘Cianna.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Sirus.’

  She drew in a quick breath and nodded to Saunders, who was leaning in close, listening as best he could to the earpiece, which she held just inches from her ear. ‘You were at my apartment,’ she said. ‘You took my brother.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s here. You can talk to him in a moment if you’d like.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Cianna,’ Sirus said. ‘You should know that it never is. There is someone here who wants to talk to you, first.’

  ‘Let me talk to Charlie!’ she screamed into the phone.

  A new voice came over the line, quiet and soothing. ‘All in good time, Ms Phelan,’ he said. She caught the slight accent from the Middle East. ‘You have something of mine. Something of great importance. I want it back.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ It was the answer that she and Saunders had agreed on. She would eventually admit that they had the dagger, but Saunders wanted to draw more information out of them first.

  ‘Your brother will be disappointed to hear that,’ the man said. There was a pause, and then an anguished scream in the background that she recognized as coming from Charlie. It sucked the strength from Cianna’s resolve to play the game.

  ‘Okay!’ she screamed. ‘I have it!’

  The screaming in the background settled into a whimper. ‘Good,’ the man on the phone said. ‘Very good. I was certain that this was the case, but Mr O’Callaghan refused to confirm it.’

  ‘Nick?’ Cianna felt like she was going to throw up. ‘What does he have to do with this?’

  ‘I think you know,’ the man said. ‘Charlie left my property with
Mr O’Callaghan. If you have it now, you must have received it from him. We paid him a visit last night; but his resolve to keep his secrets was remarkable. It is refreshing to know that you are more reasonable.’

  ‘What did you do to Nick?’

  ‘Nothing that was undeserved. And in the end, he told us very little. He was very strong, and he clearly cared for you very much.’

  ‘Oh, God, Nick,’ Cianna moaned. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘If I was in your position, I would worry now more about your brother. You can save him, you know. All I want is my property. As I said, Mr O’Callaghan told me very little, but he did say that you have a man with you – the man who claimed to Sirus that he was the police, is he still with you?’

  Cianna looked up at Saunders, and he nodded back to her. ‘He is,’ she said.

  ‘Good. By all means, make sure that he is with you when you come to me. I want to meet this man. If you do everything that I tell you to, and if you bring to me what was stolen, you and your brother can go free. Do you understand?’

  ‘Let me talk to him,’ Cianna demanded. ‘I need to know that he’s all right, before I agree to give you anything.’

  ‘Of course,’ the man said. ‘He is right here.’

  There was a rustling on the phone, and then she could hear his voice. It sounded confused and distant. ‘Cianna?’ he said. He was still whimpering, and it broke her heart. A flood of memories of him as a child swept over her, from the days when she was still able to protect him.

  ‘It’s me, Charlie,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’m here. I’m going to come get you. Everything is going to be all right.’

  She could hear him sob. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Shhhh,’ she tried to quiet him. ‘Shhhh, it will. I promise.’

  ‘You can’t!’ he screamed through his sobs. The anger in his voice frightened her. ‘You can’t promise, because you don’t know!’ He wasn’t making any sense.

  ‘It’s okay, Charlie,’ she tried again. ‘I don’t know what?’

  ‘You don’t know what they did!’

  Cianna had trouble breathing. She closed her eyes. ‘What did they do?’ she asked. He tried to answer her, but she could barely understand him, he was crying so hard. ‘Tell me, Charlie, what did they do?’

  ‘They took my hand!’

  Cianna didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean? How did they take your hand?’

  He was sobbing uncontrollably now. ‘They took it! They cut it off and they fucking took it!’

  It took a moment for that to sink in, and she couldn’t speak. The phone on the other end was pulled away from her little brother, and his anguish faded again into the background. The man with the accent was speaking again. He was telling her where to bring the dagger. She listened, and memorized the information, still unable to speak.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he asked.

  Her breathing was shallow. ‘You cut off his hand,’ she said.

  ‘He is a thief. I left him one, which is more charity than he deserved. That is justice. That is what the Koran teaches. You will bring my property back to me.’

  ‘I will kill you,’ she said. It came out without thought.

  ‘No you won’t,’ he replied without emotion. ‘You will do what I tell you to do.’

  ‘Or what?’ she challenged.

  ‘Or your brother will share Mr O’Callaghan’s fate.’

  The squad cars were thick around Spudgie’s as Morrell pulled up. It wasn’t unusual for a sense of excitement to surround a crime scene. Crime was the police force’s business, and as in any business, when important things are happening, those involved are infused with an energy that can sometimes approach giddiness. Macabre jokes are common. Rumor and speculation are rampant. The scene often takes on a feel that is somewhere between beehive and fraternity party.

  That was not the case that morning at Spudgie’s. There was energy at the crime scene, but it was muted, serious. Faces were drawn into dark frowns. Shoulders were hunched over, and people moved about without comment or wisecrack.

  Morrell understood it. Most of those there knew or had heard by now that the victim was the brother of a cop. Attacks on the relatives of police officers were treated with a special seriousness. In addition, Nick O’Callaghan was respected, even admired among those on the force. He was a military man who’d survived more than his fair share of dangers both on and off the battlefield. Most of those working the scene had been in the bar on happier occasions, and O’Callaghan had always treated them well. He was one of the world’s few faithful arbiters of right and wrong, and he provided a touchstone in a neighborhood that often seemed lost. It was right that people treat his misfortune with a certain reverence.

  Morrell realized quickly, though, that there was something more to the way people were acting. The shock in their eyes went beyond losing a good man. The frowns were lined with horror and disbelief. Morrell sought out the detective in charge of the scene, Reggie Halloway, ten years his junior, but well-liked within the department.

  ‘Reggie,’ Morrell said upon approaching him.

  The detective looked up. ‘Morrell,’ he said. The silence stretched painfully for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ Halloway said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘How bad?’ Morrell asked. Halloway didn’t reply, and after a moment Morrell nodded in understanding.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Halloway said again. After a brief moment, he took a deep breath and moved on. Like many on the force, Morrell included, Halloway lacked sentiment when it came to matters of death. ‘You were here last night?’

  Morrell steeled his jaw. He was on the job now. ‘I was.’

  ‘I’ve seen the reports. You want to add a little color?’

  ‘Not much to add. According to everyone involved, it was an altercation between Miles Gruden’s boys and another group. The Gruden faction got the worst of it.’

  Halloway nodded. ‘Any idea who the other group was?’

  Morrell shook his head, looking straight ahead. Around him, he could feel the stares, but he ignored them. ‘No one was talking. Least of all my brother. I’d assume it was Sully’s boys from over in Charlestown, but it could have been the South Americans, too. No way to tell.’

  ‘It wasn’t any locals,’ Halloway said with certainty.

  ‘No? How do you know?’

  ‘Locals don’t do what was done to your brother.’

  Morrell shot the other detective a sharp look of inquiry. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ he demanded.

  Halloway rubbed his forehead. ‘You don’t need to deal with this, Morrell,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go on back to the station house, and I can interview you there a little later.’

  ‘What the fuck are you saying?’ Morrell demanded. ‘What did they do to him?’

  Halloway shook his head.

  ‘Where is he?’ Morrell asked quietly.

  ‘He’s still in the backroom. On a table.’ Morrell moved toward the backroom, but Halloway grabbed him by the arm. ‘You don’t want to go back there. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.’

  Morrell gave an offended grunt. ‘I’ve been doing this for thirty-five years.’

  ‘So has the coroner. He threw up out in the alley.’

  For a moment, Morrell thought the other detective was kidding. A look in the man’s eyes told him he wasn’t. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They used a power drill,’ Halloway said. His eyes went to the floor.

  ‘A power drill?’ Morrell was confused. ‘Where?’

  ‘Everywhere. They . . .’ He paused, looking pained at relaying the information. ‘They drilled out his eyeballs. They took out his intestines while he was still alive, Doc says. It’s fuckin’ medieval.’

  Morrell stood there for a moment, his mouth hanging open. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Not medieval. Mid-Eastern.’

  ‘What do you mean?’
/>   ‘Afghanistan. I read an article about a series of dungeons they found over there. Hundreds of people locked up, chained to the walls, tortured over time. They used power drills.’

  ‘You think there’s some connection?’

  Morrell shook his head. ‘I can’t see how.’ He thought about the young man he’d arrested earlier in the morning. He was from that area of the world, but his passport was from Pakistan, not Afghanistan. Besides, there was no power drill in his car. There was no reason to connect him to the atrocities committed here. And yet Morrell felt the itch of intuition. He set it aside. ‘I want to see my brother,’ he said.

  Halloway nodded. ‘It’s up to you. You’ve been warned.’

  ‘I have been. I need to see him for myself, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  Morrell shrugged. ‘Because he was my brother. And maybe just so I know what we’re dealing with.’

  Halloway looked at Morrell. ‘We’re dealing with something I’ve never seen before.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Tonight,’ Cianna said. ‘Ten o’clock.’

  Saunders had to ask the question three times before he got a response. He was sitting right next to her, and yet she seemed a thousand miles away.

  ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘Cambridge,’ she replied after a moment. Her voice was quiet, calm. ‘The Gardner College Boathouse along the Charles River, up past Massachusetts Avenue.’

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘I know where it is. There won’t be anyone there at night.’ She was staring off into space.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘They cut off his hand.’

  He thought for a moment that she was going to slip away. ‘He’s alive,’ he said, trying to reassure her. He still needed her help, and there was a strength about her that he admired. He didn’t want to see her crack.

  ‘He’s alive,’ she repeated. She didn’t sound enthusiastic.

  ‘We’ll get him back.’

  She didn’t respond to that.

  He stood up and walked over to the window, pulled out his phone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ she asked.

  ‘The cavalry,’ he replied.

  Cianna went into the bathroom to let Saunders talk to his people alone. She turned on the shower and got undressed. She’d been wearing the same clothes for more than a day, and it had been longer than that since she’d bathed. She was working on no sleep, her nerves were raw, and her heart was broken by the news of what had already been done to her brother. And yet, somehow, she felt better physically than she had in years.