Monster

by Bernard L. DeLeo

  “We could not believe they were speaking of the same country. If America had not liberated Iraq and drawn the perverts of Islam there in battle, America would have been subjected to this terrorist plague in the streets of your own cities. Iraqis now have the chance to build and become allies of America. The Middle East will change and so will Islam, if the American media stop siding with the terrorist scum.”

  “On a lighter note, Kay.” Reskova leaned closer to the former Iraqi, after glancing towards where McDaniels had exited the restaurant to call Aginson. “Do you have any tips on avoiding Cold’s little surprises?”

  “I have a few, Boss, but as you know, he is very proficient at it.” Rasheed chuckled. “It is good to watch for Colonel McDaniels everywhere but where he is expected. I have seen you watching the entrance for his return. If you truly suspect he will… how do you say…ah… screw around with your head, look for him to come from another direction.”

  They both looked around the restaurant. “Thanks, maybe I’ll teach him…”

  “Teach me what, Boss?” McDaniels asked, as he leaned down over her shoulder.

  “Son of a bitch!” Reskova jumped, and Rasheed whipped back around in his seat. Reskova could see Rasheed had been taken by surprise too.

  “Dog of an infidel! You are my friend no longer,” Rasheed said, shaking his finger at McDaniels, who had sat down. McDaniels innocently folded his hands in front of him on the table. “You have made me look foolish in front of the Boss. I will curse you for…”

  “Careful,” McDaniels cut him off. “I will tell Ansa on you.”

  Reskova saw a genuine look of horror come over Rasheed’s face as McDaniels began to laugh at his friend’s expression.

  “That is not funny, Cold,” Rasheed protested. “Ansa would probably disembowel me in my sleep if you asked her to.”

  Rasheed turned to Reskova. “I am very sorry, Boss. Cold has contaminated my family. They do his bidding while ignoring my wishes. I must abstain from helping you to gain the upper hand on this dog. The coward will surely tell on me.”

  “You weren’t doing too well helping anyway,” McDaniels pointed out.

  “I had just started to explain the intricacies of your depraved mental state. Actually, the Boss found a sure fire way to keep you in line. I bet you did not sneak up on anyone in prison, dog.”

  “You’re right. She did, didn’t she. Hey, what do you mean depraved mental state?”

  “I’ll answer that,” Reskova said, waving her hand as if wanting to be called on in a classroom.

  “I didn’t ask you, Boss.” McDaniels held up a hand in a stopping gesture while looking at Rasheed.

  “Do not look at me, infidel,” Rasheed said calmly. “I cannot forgive this blatant disregard for my position with our task force.”

  “You’re getting pretty good at this bureaucratic crapola, Kay. You sound as if you’ve been in congress for a couple of terms.”

  Rasheed grinned. “Yes, I am very much improved in my skills as an agent of government.”

  “How the hell do you do that materialization shit in a crowded restaurant?” Reskova asked, annoyance plain in her tone.

  “It’s not rocket science. I just moved quickly and quietly.”

  “Yes, it is just so - like a sneaking dog,” Rasheed added.

  Reskova laughed. “I could have one of those microchips installed under his skin and then program a little remote alarm to go off whenever Cold comes within twenty feet.”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen. You’re picking up the tab for this meal, right Boss?” McDaniels asked.

  “I’ll get it. Did Aginson okay your interrogation plan?”

  “Not exactly. Aginson says he’ll have to run it by someone a few steps up the ladder. He likes it though. He even said he’d have people looking into a spot where we can have our discussion in case we get the okay.”

  “When do we meet up?”

  “I am to call in at ten o’clock. If Aginson gets the okay, he’ll give me directions to the place where we will conduct the interrogation. The Syrian I picked out as the leader will be our test case.”

  “Do you want to call it a night or go get a beer?” Reskova asked, surprising McDaniels and Rasheed. “I’d like to hear more about your adventures together.”

  “Sorry, Boss, I do not drink,” Rasheed answered.

  “Besides, it’s classified,” McDaniels added with a knowing look toward Rasheed. “Kay probably told you more than he should have already.”

  “I have a top secret clearance.”

  “Then you won’t need the two of us to access the information.”

  “Fine, whatever.” Reskova features reflected her irritation. She stood up and left a five-dollar bill on the table. “Do we have adjoining rooms, Kay?”

  “Yes, Boss, I will show you the way.” Rasheed handed her a room keycard.

  “That wasn’t a tip you just put on the table was it, cheapskate?” McDaniels asked.

  “Our dinners only came to forty dollars.” Reskova looked at the check.

  McDaniels put a ten-dollar bill on the table and handed Reskova her five. “I’ll get the tip, Diamond Jim.”

  “When you’re more familiar with expense accounts, you won’t be tossing around your money so freely.”

  “Who is this Diamond Jim?” Rasheed asked.

  “I’ll explain it on the way to the room. I want to make sure the boss doesn’t try to walk out without paying.” McDaniels grinned at Reskova who gave him a single finger salute.

  Chapter 10

  Interrogation

  “Oh man, this place reeks,” Reskova stated.

  McDaniels offered her an open oval tin with a coffee colored pasty substance inside. “Here, put a dab of this inside each nostril.”

  “What is it?” Reskova asked, taking a small amount on the tip of her pinky finger.

  “Camphor,” McDaniels answered. “Kay and I already put ours in before we left the hotel. “It will help a lot and keep you from gagging.”

  The three stood inside a slaughterhouse chosen by Aginson for their needs. Although empty, the large cement room was damp. Doors leading into other areas of the huge complex were located on each of the three other walls. The door across from the entrance they had walked through opened. A man of medium build with hardhat and white coveralls on entered the room.

  “Hi, I’m Jud Cantrell, the shift supervisor. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the place I was told has what you’ll need.”

  “You’re not interested in what we’re doing here?” McDaniels asked, as he shook the man’s hand.

  “It’s Homeland Security.” Cantrell shook hands with Reskova and Rasheed. “That’s all I need to know.”

  Cantrell led them to a room where table and chairs had been placed in front of a butchering station. “Here’s the meeting room. C’mon, and I’ll show you the porkers.”

  Cantrell exited the room. He led the way down the passage. The muffled noise of animals could be heard before Cantrell opened another door. Even the camphor could do little as the stench was overpowering. A roiling mass of large pigs, squealed in distress, penned inside an area where they huddled in their own waste.

  “Oh my God,” Reskova yelped plaintively.

  McDaniels and Rasheed examined the stand near the entrance with half a dozen cutting utensils laid out on the surface.

  “This will do very well,” Rasheed announced.

  McDaniels took Reskova’s arm. He urged her out of the room, followed by the two other men.

  “If that’s all, I have to meet up with your friends,” Cantrell said, walking back toward the entrance. “Make yourselves comfortable in the meeting room.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Reskova gasped.

  “Easy, Boss,” McDaniels soothed. “You’ll be in the other room with us. You won’t have to follow me and Kay over to the pen.”

  “I will if I’m to do my job,” Reskova murmured, drawing a shaky hand over her face.
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  “I will remain in the pen area until our Syrian friend gets seated,” Rasheed said. “Did I overdo the uniform, Cold?”

  McDaniels looked him over carefully. Rasheed wore the khaki uniform of a Major with two rows of Iraqi medal ribbons. He also wore a black beret with rank designation. “I think you should have went with the beard, Kay, but the uniform is perfect.”

  “As I explained, my friend, if he spotted the beard our ruse would be over. Besides, I have a nice beard shadow, see?”

  Rasheed’s face darkened, and the scowl he assumed had both McDaniels and Reskova nodding approval.

  “Very nice,” McDaniels agreed. “Come over outside the door after we get the Syrian settled.”

  Rasheed snapped to attention with a jaunty British salute. McDaniels gave him a push toward the room housing the pigpen. McDaniels set up the video and sound equipment they had brought in with them. Reskova helped him test the visuals and sound. McDaniels looked at the set up equipment doubtfully, and then at Reskova.

  “Are you sure you want to have a record of this? It could get pretty rough.”

  “I realize that. It’s as much for our protection as it is to make sure we don’t miss something.”

  “Okay, it’s your call.”

  Five minutes after McDaniels and Reskova were seated at the table, the meeting room door opened. Cantrell led two uniformed guards with M16’s into the room. Between the guards walked the manacled Syrian. His face was swollen and a tightly taped bandage covered his nose. McDaniels walked over to the group.

  “We’ll take it from here, guys. Mr. Cantrell will take you back to the entrance. We’ll bring the prisoner out when we’re done. Go ahead and take his manacles off.”

  “Do you think it wise to do that, Sir?” The older looking Sergeant asked hesitantly.

  “It’ll be fine, Sergeant. Leave the manacles and key with me.”

  The Sergeant smiled. “Yes, Sir. I heard you gave our boy here his facial, Colonel. There’s only one way out of here as I understand it, so if I see him coming out by himself, he better have his hands behind his head.”

  “That’s the ticket. If he makes it out there, he’ll be a hell of a lot badder than I think he is.”

  Both soldiers laughed as they freed the enraged Syrian from his bindings. After Cantrell led the soldiers out toward the entrance again, McDaniels gestured for the Syrian to sit down opposite Reskova.

  “Sit down in that chair. Keep your hands clasped in front of you on the table,” McDaniels directed.

  The Syrian, who had been rubbing his wrists, instantly launched into an expert looking martial arts attack on McDaniels. Reskova yanked her 9mm out instantly. She kept silent while watching McDaniels counter every thrust and movement. He gave the Syrian a light slap on the nose each time the Syrian initiated an attack. Soon, the Syrian was circling McDaniels cautiously with fear replacing the enraged eagerness he had displayed at first.

  “If you do not sit down quietly,” McDaniels said finally in Arabic, “I will make you scream in pain.”

  Rage took over for good sense on the Syrian’s face. He launched into a deadly thrust with his edged hand towards McDaniels’ throat after faking a roundhouse kick to McDaniels’ head. McDaniels slapped the kick away with disdain before catching the Syrian’s hand thrust in one giant fist. Reskova turned away at the crackle of finger and hand bones snapping. The Syrian screamed. McDaniels released him to the concrete floor. While his adversary cupped his mangled hand and sobbed in pain, McDaniels lifted him casually up by the orange jumpsuit into a chair across from Reskova. The Syrian continued rocking back and forth in his seat. McDaniels smiled at Reskova and gestured for her to begin. Reskova holstered her handgun.

  “I have some questions to ask you,” Reskova began.

  “I…I am injured. I… must be attended to,” the Syrian gasped out haltingly as he cradled his hand.

  “Answer our questions and we’ll see to your hand. Now…”

  “I am tortured and you think to withhold treatment?” The Syrian shouted in pain filled anger, rising up from his chair.

  McDaniels cut him off with a single wave of his finger in front of the Syrian’s face. “Sit down, dog. Do not make me show you what torture really means.”

  Outrage and fear battled across the Syrian’s features as he continued to cradle his broken hand. Finally, he slumped down once again.

  “Ask, but I will not tell you or your bitch anything.” The Syrian spat for emphasis.

  McDaniels smiled as he saw anger in Reskova’s face for the first time.

  “What is your name?” Reskova asked after a short pause. “You have Ahmed Al-Ashari on your passport. Is that your real name?”

  The Syrian nodded his assent.

  “Tell us about the flight.”

  “We were traveling to play soccer. My… hand… it… this is torture.”

  “So what do all you Syrian soccer players do with drop down wooden knives?” McDaniels asked. “Do you all play with each other in the locker room or something?”

  Al-Ashri looked up at McDaniels with pure hatred but stayed silent.

  The door opened and Rasheed marched into the room purposefully. He walked over where Al-Ashri could see him. He held out his hand stiffly to McDaniels who shook it. Reskova marveled at the complete change Rasheed had worked on his demeanor. Gone was the easy going Rasheed. Only contemptuous arrogance remained as he looked at Al-Ashri.

  “Good day, Agent McDaniels. Is this the one you wished me to interrogate?”

  “He’s the one, Major,” McDaniels confirmed. “This is Special Agent Reskova from the FBI.”

  Rasheed shook hands formally with Reskova before returning his attention to the prisoner who looked at Rasheed with uneasiness.

  McDaniels gestured at Rasheed. “Let me present Major Kumar Rasheed, formerly of the Iraqi secret police. The Major, since changing sides after Saddam fell, has been very helpful in our information gathering.”

  “This… this is… unacceptable. I am under the protection of the United States. What of the Geneva Conventions? I…”

  “Shut up, little lamb. Stop this bleating,” Rasheed cut him off, leaning down only inches from his face. “You are not an American. You were not in the uniform of any country. You were in the process of committing an act of terrorism against innocent civilians in a time of war. You have no rights!”

  Rasheed stood up and faced McDaniels again. “May I have this man?”

  “I don’t know, Major. Let me check. How about it Ahmed? Want to talk with me and my boss here or go with the Major for a little chat?”

  Al-Ashri gestured in supplication to Reskova. “You are in charge. Surely, your government does not condone this travesty.”

  Reskova shrugged with a rueful smile on her face and gestured at McDaniels. “Don’t look at me, I’m just his bitch. Do you wish to cooperate or not?”

  Al-Ashri turned away still gripping his broken hand.

  “Major, why don’t you take Ahmed next door. Show him what you have in mind for your questioning phase so we’re all on the same page.”

  “Of course, Agent McDaniels.” Rasheed took Al-Ashri’s broken hand by the wrist, causing the Syrian to scream.

  Al-Ashri, gasping breathlessly, jumped to his feet next to Rasheed.

  “Listen carefully, little lamb,” Rasheed said in Arabic, “come along quietly or I will dance on your poor hand. Do you understand?”

  “Yes… Yes… I…I… understand,” Al-Ashri murmured, grimacing at his injured hand.

  McDaniels followed the pair out, motioning for Reskova to stay where she was. Al-Ashri began squirming as soon as McDaniels reached around where Rasheed held Al-Ashri by his wrist and opened the door leading to the penned pigs. Inside the room, Rasheed gestured at the table where the cutting implements were displayed, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

  “Have you ever seen a man fed to hungry pigs, little lamb?” Rasheed asked Al-Ashri, who cried out as Rasheed tightened his gri
p on the Syrian’s wrist. “First, I will hamstring you so you can do no more than flop around. Then, I will slice you at your groin, belly, and buttocks, before I throw you into the pen.”

  Al-Ashri cringed, trying to back away from the pen, looking from the pigs to Rasheed. “If…if you kill me, I can tell you nothing.”

  “Why should I care. You are merely the example I will show the rest of your group. We will let the pigs eat a bit before we pluck your dead body away from them. Your comrades will still recognize your face, if not your body. I believe they will talk.”

  Rasheed peered into Al-Ashri’s face, smiling almost gleefully. “I get paid for information. It matters not what vehicle I use to obtain it.”

  “No…no…no… you… you… cannot…” Al-Ashri whimpered over the squealing of the pigs.

  “Yes, yes, yes, I can and I will,” Rasheed mocked him. “Many of my countrymen were killed because of you Al Queda dogs. I would feed you all to the pigs.”

  Rasheed released Al-Ashri. “Strip, little lamb, or I will strip you myself and I will do it with my knives.”

  Al-Ashri fell to his knees, head down, and his hands up in supplication. “I will tell you everything… please… do not do this.”

  “He will not tell the truth, Agent McDaniels,” Rasheed said nonchalantly to McDaniels. “Let me feed him to the pigs. The next ones will surely tell the truth.”

  “No…no… I will be truthful… as Allah is my witness!”

  “It’s your call, Major,” McDaniels replied.

  Al-Ashri continued to beg for his life while Rasheed pretended to be considering it. “We do know much of what he intended. Very well, take him and intersperse much of what you know to be true. If he balks, or tells an untruth, I will simply throw him into the pen.”

  McDaniels helped the sobbing Al-Ashri up.

  * * *

  When Reskova saw Al-Ashri shuffle into the room with his head down, she looked up with a smile at Rasheed. Rasheed nodded his head at her as he guided the dejected Al-Ashri to the chair opposite Reskova. Over the next two hours, Reskova carefully took the Syrian through his history from the time he became an Al Queda operative.