Zac stared down at the floor. He had felt the same pain and loss, the anger and hatred. He too had wanted retribution for the reckless actions of the person who had shattered his own family, but Assad was wrong about America.
Zac looked up and shook his head.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Assad slapped him across the face. “You don’t think so? You still want to see someone from your government? Fine. But you will answer my questions first.”
He muttered something in Arabic to Sabir. The man nodded and removed a set of thick jumper cables from the cart. He clamped one of the leads to Zac’s right hand and another to his left foot. Slowly and methodically, Sabir attached a rheostat and a heavy-duty car battery to the other end of the jumper cables. He glanced up at Assad and received a simple nod in return.
The first shock was mild, just enough to confirm that the system was working. Zac’s body tensed. The voltage shot from his hand to his foot, stimulating every nerve and muscle in between. Satisfied with the reaction, Sabir looked at Assad and smiled.
“Those many years ago when I was in Iran mourning my lost wife and son,” Assad began, “I spent much time with that young army officer. He had been gravely wounded in battle, but he held his head high and his back straight. We befriended another police officer who was also grieving. The three of us were kindred spirits. We spoke as if we’d known each other our whole lives. The army officer taught us about using adversity to grow one’s character. So often in life disasters become debilitating. People lose heart, lose the will to continue the daily struggle that life can be. He taught us that we must steel ourselves to do what must be done, however difficult or unpleasant it may seem. He taught us about true courage. He taught us about suffering and pain.”
Assad looked Zac over. “And now, I am going to teach you about suffering and pain.”
Sabir smiled again.
“I am going to ask many questions. I suggest you answer them quickly and truthfully. I already know the answers to some of the questions; to others, I do not. If I think you are lying, or taking too long to answer, then what you just felt will not even be a taste of what is in store for you.”
Assad launched into a rapid-fire interrogation.
“What is your name?”
“Zachary Miller.”
“Where are you from?”
“The U.S., but I live in England.”
“Who do you work for?”
“E.A.D.”
Assad shook his head and held up one finger.
Sabir twisted the dial briefly. Zac’s eyes widened as the shock ran through his body. He felt fine as soon as it stopped, but his heart was racing.
“Consider that a warning. Why were you in Iran?”
“My plane had some sort of mechanical trouble. We made an emergency landing.”
“What was the problem with the plane?”
“I’m not sure. We had an engine failure, I think.”
“What flight was it?”
“British Airways. I don’t remember the number, London to Singapore.”
“Who do you work for?”
“E.A.D. Electronic Architecture Development.”
Assad held up three fingers. Sabir turned the dial and Zac felt like a dozen knives stabbed him at once. He strained against the handcuffs and his breathing became shallow and rapid. The questions came more quickly.
“Where did your plane land?”
“I don’t . . . Wait, I think it was Sirjan.”
“That’s a long way from Bandar Abbas. Why did you not stay with the other passengers?”
“They grabbed me when I went to the bathroom.”
“The other passengers grabbed you?”
“Soldiers.”
“Why you?”
“I took a picture, a couple of pictures, of the sunset. It was all a mistake.”
“What was in the pictures?”
“Nothing. Mountains. Maybe some houses. I don’t know. I never left the airport.”
“Are you with the CIA?”
“No.”
“SIS?”
“No! I was on a business trip. The plane . . .”
Assad held up five fingers and Sabir sent another jolt of electricity blasting through Zac’s body. He screamed and his body convulsed until the cable fell from his foot.
Sabir bent down and tied Zac’s ankles to the chair as Assad watched, his elbow resting on his holstered pistol. The electrician reattached the jumper cable to Zac’s foot.
“Tell me, spy, who do you really work for?” Assad whispered.
This time he did not wait for an answer. He held up five fingers and kept them up. Zac let out a long, guttural scream. When Sabir finally cut the voltage, Zac’s body went limp but Assad resumed the questioning immediately.
“Where did you get the gun?”
Zac hesitated for a second and Sabir didn’t wait to be told. He shocked Zac again.
“Where did you get the gun?”
“I found it.”
Assad grabbed the controller and twisted the knob to full power. Zac thrashed about in pain, screaming. He feared his heart might explode inside his chest. Assad cut the power and threw the controller back in Sabir’s lap.
“How about some water?” Assad asked. He lifted a jug from the cart and dumped it over Zac’s head, soaking his clothing and leaving his bare feet resting in a puddle.
Assad flashed one finger at Sabir and the shock hit Zac like a city bus. His limbs exploded against their restraints as if repelled from his body by force. He screamed; a long, agonizing plea, but Assad was relentless.
“Where did you get the gun?”
“I . . . I got it from a soldier,” Zac answered breathlessly.
“He gave it to you?”
Zac hesitated and was shocked again. His limbs felt as if they were on fire. Even in his worst nightmares he had never dreamed that such pain existed.
“I killed him.”
“Where was this?”
“I don’t know.”
Assad jolted him again, this time on setting number three. Zac was numb.
“. . . A building in the mountains. I don’t know.”
“Tell me who you work for!”
“E.A.D! I told you . . . E.A.D.”
Assad held up five fingers. Sabir turned the dial to full power but this time Zac went limp. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body twitched.
“Stop!” Assad cried. “He’s of no use to us dead.”
Sabir cut the power and cowered like a scolded dog.
Zac lapsed in and out of consciousness, his chin now resting on his chest.
Assad felt a pulse in one of Zac’s arteries and concluded that the prisoner would live. The police officer stood in contemplation for a few moments before he called for the guard. As he walked out of the room he looked over his shoulder and said, “OK, Mr. Miller. You will have your visit with the U.S. government.”
THIRTY-FIVE
ZAC REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS in the interrogation room. He was seated behind the table and facing the door. His legs had been untied and his left wrist handcuffed to the chair’s arm. The room had been cleaned too. The electrical cart was gone and the water had been mopped up.
Zac stared at the door for what seemed like hours until Assad entered carrying a small cardboard box. He sat on the edge of the table and scratched his beard before he spoke.
“I am sorry about the vigorous interrogation, but we had to be sure you were telling the truth. You can appreciate that everything becomes more complicated when foreign nations are involved in police matters.”
Assad opened the box and passed a sandwich and a bottle of water across the table. Zac drank the entire bottle of water before tearing into the curried chicken wrap.
/> “The representative from your consulate is upstairs. She is taking care of some formalities and will be ready soon.”
Zac looked up from his first real meal in days. Gone from Assad’s face was the creased brow and the tight jaw. He looked relaxed, almost relieved.
“Finish your meal. I will fetch her now.”
He yelled to the guard through the thick steel door before leaving the room. Zac contemplated the puzzling sequence of events he’d experienced since entering Dubai. His treatment seemed to vary from cordial to cruel at the whim of his jailer. Assad could be playing a one-man good cop/bad cop routine, but once Zac had a face-to-face meeting with a U.S. government official, he would gain a measure of protection that had eluded him so far. No country wanted a foreign national to die in police custody.
When the door opened again Zac saw that Assad had remained true to his word. A woman entered the room, staring down at the floor. Tall and lithe, she wore a simple red pencil dress with long sleeves. Assad gestured to the chair across from Zac and she tried to slide it closer to the table before she noticed the carriage bolts holding it to the floor. She sat and crossed her legs at the knee.
Assad sat at the end of the small table and took the lead. “This is Emma Rogers from the U.S. consulate.”
The woman glanced at Zac before turning away. Her dark blond hair cascaded across her forehead, highlighting her pale blue eyes.
But Zac barely noticed.
“May I see your credentials?” he asked.
Miss Rogers reached into her briefcase and practically thrust her State Department ID into Zac’s free hand until Assad intervened.
“I am sorry. No contact is permitted with prisoners. Mr. Miller, you may look, but do not touch.”
Zac and Rogers made eye contact.
“Miss Rogers, you may begin your interview.”
The representative from the consulate asked Zac some basic questions about his identity and health. She glanced at Assad, who nodded in return.
Rogers stared down at her notebook as she spoke.
“Mr. Miller, Colonel Assad has told me of the charges against you and I’d like to hear your side of the story. So before we discuss what happened here in Dubai, I need you to tell me about Iran. You can appreciate that this is a sensitive time given the state of their nuclear program.”
Zac regarded the woman. She was the first American he’d seen in weeks.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“What?”
“Where are you from in the States?”
“How is that relevant?”
“I’m just curious.”
Rogers looked at Assad. He waved his hand dismissively.
“Boston,” she answered.
“Really? You don’t have much of an accent.”
“Not everyone does.”
“I love Boston. You must be a big Giants fan.”
For the first time, Emma Rogers smiled. “No. I root for the Pats, the Sox, and the Bruins. I can tell you the history of the Battle of Bunker Hill and which T line to take to Faneuil Hall too . . . Satisfied?”
Zac smiled back. “Thank you.”
Assad watched the exchange like the finals of a tennis tournament. His eyes darted back and forth, careful not to miss a single word or look.
“Continue with the interview,” he instructed.
The smile left Rogers’s face and she looked down at her notebook. “You were about to tell us what happened in Iran . . .”
Zac contemplated the body language of Assad and Rogers. She was an American diplomat, working to assist a fellow countryman, yet Assad seemed to be in charge. It was his country and his police station, but something didn’t feel right.
“What made you decide to join the State Department?” Zac asked.
Rogers shifted in her chair.
“I wanted to see the world.”
“Did you always want to be a political officer?”
“Yes.” She put her pen down. “Now, my questions first.”
Zac looked at Assad. The police officer was leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes fixed on Miss Rogers.
“OK. I was flying from London to Singapore on a British Airways flight when the plane developed engine trouble. It was a last-minute business trip . . . Did you take the State Department exam in college or after?”
Before Rogers could speak, Assad stood and pounded his fist on the table.
“Enough! You have been asking to see someone from the U.S. government from the moment you were stopped in that wreck of a sailboat and now you waste our time with these idiotic questions? This interview is over!”
Assad glared at Rogers. Zac knew enough State Department employees at the embassy in London to know that she was faking it. The two Americans locked eyes and Zac knew in that instant that she was terrified. Though he was the one in jail, handcuffed to a chair, he saw the pleading in her eyes, the desperation and the fear. Zac nodded once before Assad grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the door.
She looked back at Zac in one last, desperate appeal, and he steered her gaze toward Assad’s gun.
“Wait!” Zac shouted. “I’ll answer your questions. I’m sorry.” His tone was defeated, his posture sunken.
Assad turned and cocked his head at Zac. “I am warning you. Do not waste any more of my time.”
“I’ll cooperate. I just wanted to make sure she was who she said she was. I’m satisfied now. I’m sorry.”
As the two men spoke, Assad’s years of training as a police officer kept his eyes focused on Zac’s hands, even though the real threat was behind him.
Emma lunged for his gun and pulled it from the open holster, backing away as she held it in her hand. Assad spun around, but she was already out of reach. She raised the 9mm Caracal in her quivering hand, her finger on the trigger.
The policeman slowly raised his hands and stepped toward Rogers. She took another step back and bumped into the wall behind her.
“Stop! Stop, you son of a bitch or I’ll pull the trigger. Don’t think for a second I won’t do it.”
Assad stopped.
“Slide your handcuff key over, on the floor, slowly,” Zac said. He looked at Rogers. Her hand was shaking so violently he thought she might pull the trigger by accident. “If he gets cute, just shoot him.”
Assad glared at Zac but did as he was told, sliding the key across the floor. Zac reached down with his free hand to retrieve it. When he had removed the cuff from his wrist he took the pistol from Rogers and directed the policeman into a corner of the room.
“Take your clothes off,” Zac said. He looked Assad in the eyes.
The policeman stared back, but did not move. Zac pistol-whipped him across the face. A trickle of blood ran down Assad’s forehead.
“Get undressed,” Zac said.
The police officer complied, but he never took his eyes off Zac. When Assad had stripped down to his underwear Zac motioned with the gun for him to sit in the chair farthest from the door.
“Cuff him to the chair,” he said to Rogers. She did as she was told, looping the chain around the thick, wooden armrest.
Assad sneered. “You will both pay for this in unimaginable ways. You are making a terrible mistake.”
Zac aimed the pistol at Assad’s chest. “I’ve had your worst and I’m the one who’s in control now, so shut up before I decide I don’t need you at all.”
“You think this will end with me?” Assad shook his head. “I think you know better, much better. There are forces at work here that are far more powerful than any man. So go ahead, kill me. I will be the lucky one. You will be begging for death long before it comes.”
Zac stared at the corrupt cop for a moment, then lowered the pistol until it was pointed at Assad’s crotch. Zac wrapped his finger aroun
d the trigger and took up the slack.
“Now,” he said, “I’m going to knock on the door and you’re going to call the guard.”
Assad nodded slowly but Zac shook his head.
“I know what you’re thinking, that I don’t speak Arabic, and you’re right. But I heard you say it a dozen times when you left me down in this sewer. If anything but ‘Iftah il-baab’ comes out of your mouth, you’ll be singing soprano for the Dubai Boys’ Choir.”
Zac moved to the door, positioning himself against the wall. He would be able to cover the guard the instant the door opened. He motioned Rogers to the corner behind the thick steel door in case lead started flying.
“Ready?” Zac said. He knocked twice on the door.
“Iftah il-baab,” Assad called out.
Nothing.
Zac swung the gun toward Assad. With his left hand he rapped twice on the door.
“Louder,” Zac said.
“IFTAH IL-BAAB,” Assad yelled.
Zac shifted his aim back to the doorway, but the door did not open. Zac wondered if Assad had somehow tipped off the guard, if there was a code Zac hadn’t picked up on. With fury in his eyes he turned the gun on Assad, but the deadbolts inside the old door began to creak, and Zac returned his aim to the door just as it opened.
The heavy door was open just a few inches when the guard looked up from the key and saw Zac. The guard’s other hand went to his holstered pistol.
“Don’t do it,” Zac said. The muzzle of his own pistol was aimed at the guard’s chest.
The guard released his grip on his weapon, but used his other hand to try to yank the door closed. Zac stuck his foot into the gap and the heavy steel door slammed into it.
Zac cried out in pain, but his gun never moved. He pushed the door open with his foot.
“Inside,” he ordered the guard through gritted teeth.
The guard walked into the room and spotted Assad. Zac told the guard to drop his duty belt and watched as the man’s weapon, handcuffs, and other gear slid to the floor. Rogers cuffed the guard to a chair and the two Americans began to plot their escape.
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