by Jason Elam
“You don’t want to hear my terms,” the older man said, turning back to Naheed.
Don’t let them intimidate you! Look at all the cameras in this room. What can they do to you? “I’m afraid I must insist on knowing what I can expect in exchange for the information that I have.” Out of the corner of her eye, Naheed saw Khadi look at her, shake her head, then turn back down to her files. Behind her, she could hear the other agent begin cracking his knuckles—pop . . . pop . . . pop.
Hicks’s face reddened a bit, but his voice remained level. “Miss Yamani, I cannot promise you anything if you tell me what you know. However, I can promise you plenty if you do not. You may have noticed that once you entered this building, the uniforms disappeared. We are a counterterrorism agency. As such, we have a little more latitude in how we . . . How should I say it? In how we convince suspects to cooperate with us.”
From behind her, the larger man, Scott, said, “What happens in the interrogation room stays in the interrogation room.”
“Well put, Agent Ross,” said Mr. Hicks.
Naheed’s heart was beating very rapidly now, and what had started out as internal shaking was starting to make itself known on the outside.
Leaning back in his chair until it tilted on two legs, Hicks continued, “Let me tell you the way this usually works, since you are so interested in knowing what you can expect. Most often I am the one directly involved in the active persuasion of the suspect. Agent Faroughi stays near in case the uncomfortable circumstances cause a person to unconsciously revert back to a native tongue—in your case, Arabic. Am I right?” Without waiting for an answer, he finished, “Agent Ross behind you is a little squeamish about these things, so he will probably leave the room.”
“The sight of blood makes me feel all woozy inside,” Naheed heard from behind her.
Naheed felt powerless to stop her eyes from darting around the room, futilely looking for some avenue of escape. Active persuasion? Blood? How can this be happening? Is he really threatening you with torture—in America? He’s got to be bluffing! Call him on it! Keep the upper hand! “Listen,” she said, mustering up all the bravado she had left, “do you think I just came to this country yesterday? Do you think I didn’t see the scandals of Gitmo, the waterboarding debates? What do you think the ACLU would say if I turned up bruised and bloodied? What do you think the L.A. Times would write? I have rights. I am innocent until proven guilty. You can threaten me all you like, but I’m not talking until I get some promises. And I’m certainly not talking to some old, bald-headed psychopath who’s got nothing to say to me except empty threats!”
Suddenly, a finger flicked hard on the knot at the back of her head. Pain shot through her body and the room did a little spin. Through her haze she heard a voice behind her say, “Don’t be rude to Mr. Hicks.”
Looking back at Hicks’s unchanged face through watery eyes, Naheed heard him say, “You’re making the assumption that the ACLU or the L.A. Times will see you again. Or that anyone will see you again. You should not make assumptions in areas you know so little about. It only makes you come across as a naive little girl. So, you’ve heard my terms, Miss Yamani. Do we talk, or does Agent Ross leave the room?”
He has got to be bluffing! But what if he’s not? You know the moment he hurts you, you’ll tell him everything. You’ll fold like a leaf, you coward!
As she wrestled with her weaknesses, a fresh flood of pain burst forth from the depths of her brain and filled her head. Naheed lowered her chin to her chest and held her breath as the wave swept through her whole body. When the misery began to subside, reality sunk in. How can you keep control of the situation when you can barely even think? The only hope you have is information! Just give him a little bit at a time. As long as you know something he doesn’t, you’re useful to him. Try to win him over with your helpfulness and your helplessness. Turn on the waterworks and make him feel sorry for you.
“Jibril,” Naheed said, bursting into tears. Off to her right, she saw Khadi’s head pop up.
“Jibril—Allah’s messenger,” said Scott.
“Who’s Jibril?” asked Hicks.
Between sobs, she managed to say, “My contact, but I don’t think Jibril is his real name.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s tall, middle-aged, scars on his face. He has a strong Iraqi accent. I can’t tell you much more—I only met him once.”
“When was that?” Hicks asked, passing her a handkerchief from his pocket.
Inside, Naheed began smiling. He’s beginning to soften already. “It was two days ago, at Union Square across from Macy’s.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I told him that I wanted out. I begged him to let me go home to Saudi Arabia. He got very angry. He threatened me. He said that if I didn’t plant the bomb on Pier 39, he would kill me, and then he would torture and kill my parents and my brothers and sisters. It was the same thing he had said when he forced me to leave the bomb in Hollywood.” More tears spilled from her eyes. “I swear, Mr. Hicks, I never wanted to hurt anyone. You have to believe me. I was just so scared.”
She was relieved to see her big play working. Hicks was nodding, and she could hear compassion in his voice when he answered, “I can understand your fear, Naheed. If this ‘Jibril’ is the man who forced you to do these things, then we definitely want to make him suffer the consequences. You said you only met with him once. How did he usually make contact?”
“There were only a few contacts. Twice by coded text message, and three times by cell phone.”
“Cell phone?” said the man behind her. “Come on, isn’t that a little risky?”
Continuing to focus on Hicks, Naheed said, “Jibril was always good at making our conversations sound innocent—nothing to raise any alarms.”
“Do you know the number he contacted you from?”
“No, but it’s saved on my cell phone under the name Sarah Michaels.”
“And your phone would be . . . ?” Khadi asked.
“In a Buick Century, gold, first level of the Pier 39 parking garage. I don’t know who it’s registered to.”
Hicks looked up at one of the cameras and nodded. Then looking back at her, he said, “This is good, Naheed. I appreciate your cooperation. Are you thirsty? Can I get you something to drink?”
Hope began to fill Naheed’s heart as she shook her head. Maybe I can make it out of this after all. He seems to be softening up to the helpless little girl. Just be careful and don’t press your luck.
“Okay, now getting back to the day in Union Station—”
“Union Square.”
“Right, Union Square,” Hicks said with an impatient wave of his hand. “Obviously I’m not from around here. So, you met there. Did you walk? Did you sit?”
Play him, play him. You’ve just about got him hooked. Naheed made herself shiver, as if the mere remembrance of that day were almost too much for her. “We sat and talked. He became very angry. I was glad we were out in the open, because I don’t know what he would have done to me if we had been alone. I pleaded for him to not make me do any more of his horrible acts and just let me go home. He said that after Pier 39 he would arrange for me to get back to Saudi Arabia, and he promised they would leave me and my family alone forever.”
“They? Jibril and who else?”
“The one-eyed man.”
Naheed saw Khadi’s head pop back up and Hicks’s eyes widen. Idiot, she thought. You’ve said too much!
“Did this one-eyed man have a name?” Hicks asked, suddenly very impatient.
“No, I’ve never heard it. He was no one really. So, when Jibril promised—”
“Wait,” Hicks interrupted. “Go back to the one-eyed man. Have you ever met him before?”
Naheed tried to dismiss him with a wave of her hand. “Really, he’s no one. I remember meeting him only one time when I finished my training.”
“But you said ‘they’ would leave you alone. Tha
t makes me think that you have reason to believe that he might still be involved in the Cause?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Hicks. Like I said—”
The sound of Hicks’s chair sliding across the floor cut through the room as he thrust himself forward. Forget the compassion, forget the softness, forget the games. No longer was there any doubt who was in charge. Even as his hand slammed down on the table, he yelled, “Think! Is this one-eyed man the head of the Cause?”
Truly frightened, Naheed answered, “I don’t know! I mean, Jibril never came right out and said it, but his reaction when I asked made me think that maybe he was.”
“That’s not good enough! I need more! Do you know where this one-eyed man is now?”
“I know nothing about him except what I’ve told you.”
“You better think hard one more time,” Hicks said, leaning across the table and grabbing hold of one of her wrists, “because, if I find out you’ve been lying to me, we’re going straight to plan B! Now, do you know where this one-eyed man is?”
“I don’t know! I swear it, I don’t know!” Tears were streaming down Naheed’s cheeks as she attempted to pull her arm out of the man’s iron grip.
Naheed saw Hicks look at the man behind her. Then, deliberately releasing her wrist finger by finger, he nodded his head slightly and calmly said, “You’ve done well, Naheed. I’ll be back in a little bit and we’ll talk more. In the meantime, I’m afraid Agent Ross is going to have to secure you to your chair again.”
Her arms were pulled roughly back behind her. She felt cold metal encompass her wrists and heard the rapid clicking of the cuffs being locked down.
The three agents exited the room quickly, leaving Naheed alone with her thoughts. She sniffed hard to control the flow from her nose but could do nothing about the tears. Oh, what have you done, you stupid fool? You’ve shown how weak you are, and now they know how to get what they want from you. Why did you say so much? Why didn’t you hold on to the one-eyed man story? They would have paid dearly for that information. Face it, little girl, you thought you had the upper hand, but you were beat by the master.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 7:30 P.M. PDT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Even though Scott’s legs were a good six inches longer than Hicks’s, he still had a hard time keeping up with his boss. Trying to keep pace with Scott was Khadi, who was almost in a full sprint. As they ran, the thick cloud of Hicks’s profanity-laced mutterings surrounded the two analysts as it blew back and assaulted them. It was not unlike the agony of being trapped behind a cattle truck on a narrow country road.
“Where are you going?” yelled Niko Garisyan as he popped his head out of the room where he had been monitoring the interrogation.
“Your office! I’ve got to make a call,” Hicks shouted back.
“Sure, be my guest,” Garisyan said sarcastically.
“You can bet I will,” Scott heard Hicks mumble.
“Hey, Hicks!”
Hicks stopped and spun around to face Garisyan. Scott could see that the red he had spotted on his friend’s clean-shaven neck carried around to his face. A vein in his forehead was visibly throbbing.
When Garisyan saw Hicks’s look, he dialed his tone way back. “What do you want me to do with the girl?”
Hicks turned back around and continued down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “I’m done with her! Interrogate her some more, then ship her off to Langley or Guantánamo or some prison where she can accidentally get mixed in with the general population and get a shank in her gut! I really don’t give a rip!”
When he reached the office, Hicks swung open the door and sat in Garisyan’s chair. Scott and Khadi sat across from him. “Close the door,” Hicks growled. “I don’t want anyone eavesdropping.”
Scott got up and did as Hicks had asked. When he came back, Hicks had his head in his hands.
“Okay, tell me why I have this sick feeling in my stomach telling me that al-’Aqran is our one-eyed man? Even though I know he’s supposed to be safely tucked away in a black-site prison, somehow he’s wrapped up in this.”
Khadi leaned forward in her chair. “I’ve got the same feeling. His involvement could answer something that’s been bugging me for a couple of weeks now. You know how much I’ve studied the Cause over the years. There is no one I know of in their organization who could have stepped up in leadership this quickly and pulled off what we’ve seen—especially with the Washington, D.C., bombing today and this near miss.”
“Maybe there was more reason for your CIA buddy’s evasiveness the other day than just the typical Langley secrecy,” Scott added.
“I swear, if I find out they’ve been holding out on us . . .” Hicks reached for the phone. He punched in some numbers, waited a moment, and then said, “Is this a secure line? . . . This is Jim Hicks, director of CTD’s FRRT. Put me through to Charlie Anderson. . . . Yes, I understand he’s busy with the subway bombing. Why do you think I’m calling him at the office instead of at home? Now, please put him on the line. . . . Listen, lady, I’m not sure where you’re getting the idea you have a choice in the matter! Go tell Anderson that Jim Hicks is on the phone—now!”
Hicks closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Scott could see that it was taking every ounce of strength he had not to totally lose control.
Hicks suddenly straightened up. “Anderson, you short-sighted, territorial weasel! What’s going on with al-’Aqran? . . . Listen, you can cut the shadowy spy crap! I’ve got the Hollywood bomber here, and she just told me that a one-eyed man is running the show at the Cause! Now, either they just recruited Sammy Davis Jr. from the dead or there’s something going on with al-’Aqran, so spill it!”
Scott watched as Hicks listened. The older man suddenly dropped back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes. “Unbelievable! How . . . ?” Taking his hand away, Hicks saw Scott and Khadi looking at him. He tore a sheet out of a report that was sitting on Garisyan’s desk, wrote something on it, then slid the paper over toward Scott. HE BROKE OUT was written in large, angry letters.
Hicks began waving for the paper to come back to him. When he got it, he wrote three more words, then gave it back. CHECHEN LECHA ABDALAYEV had now been added to the sheet.
“I know that name,” Khadi whispered to Scott. “He’s the head of the Chechen Freedom Militia. They’re a mercenary group who used to fight to further their cause, but when the money ran low, so did their altruism. Now they just hire themselves out to the highest bidder.”
Hicks’s voice cut through. “So, do you have any idea where he’s at now, or did your super sleuths lose him after he crossed into Ukraine?”
Scott was no longer listening. One of the things that made Scott so good at what he did was that he never forgot anything, and he was a master at tying together seemingly random pieces of information. “It’s like doing connect the dots, only without the numbers,” he had once said.
And now Scott’s mind was racing. He had heard of Abdalayev too, and not that long ago. His mind began processing through all the communications intelligence he had digested over the past weeks. Come on, think. It wasn’t an action report. It wasn’t status. Movement! It was a movement report! Scott visualized the flash report, absorbing all the pertinent information before returning it to the overfilled filing cabinets of his brain.
Scott quickly scribbled, “Abdalayev in Prague—possibly making deal for services” and shoved it over to Hicks, who read it with a nod.
“What’s Abdalayev doing in Prague?” Khadi asked quietly.
“From what I remember, the speculation is that he’s meeting with representatives of the government-in-exile of the Abkhazia Autonomous Republic.”
“Remind me of the background of that situation.”
“The Abkhaz people seceded from the country of Georgia, did a little ethnic cleansing of the Georgian population, and set up camp—all with the help of the Russians. The government that had been in power fled to Western Eu
rope. Since that time, this exiled government has been working hard to get their ducks in a row to try to get their stomping grounds back. Unfortunately, just when it was looking like that might happen, the Russians started aiding the rebel warlords again, stopping any progress.
“Then Russia did that whole invasion of Georgia thing over the other breakaway republic, South Ossetia. Once all the dust settled there, it left the Abkhaz government-in-exile realizing that the Georgian leadership wasn’t going to be able to help them at all. They’re on their own. The thought on Abdalayev was that he and his little merry band of cutthroats were going to be hired by the exiled government to, well, cut some warlord throats.”
Khadi was about to ask another question but quieted as soon as Hicks started speaking again.
“So, the summary of your answer is, ‘Yes, we did lose him.’ Amazing! Three cheers for the greatest spy agency in the history of Western civilization. . . . No, you do have to listen to this, Anderson! We handed you the guy, and you lost him! Now he’s blowing Americans up again. . . . Yes, that is my interpretation, and it’s a pretty accurate one. Now, what about Abdalayev being in Prague? Are you guys going to pick him up for interrogation? . . . Never mind how I know, just answer the question.”
Silence filled the room as Hicks listened and Scott and Khadi watched. The knuckles on Hicks’s hand whitened as he held the phone. Like the terrestrial rumblings before a volcanic eruption, Scott recognized the signs that Hicks was about to blow. He just had time to thank God that he wasn’t on the other end of the line, and then Mount St. Helens lost its top.
“So, that’s how it is, huh? In your great cumulative wisdom, you all made a decision, and that’s how it’s going to be? Well, I hate to burst your bubble, you and your little skirt-wearing debutantes, but I’ve got a different plan! You boys may be too worried about the political fallout to do anything. I, on the other hand, have no such scruples. So get your little CIA boys to clear the path for my team and me, because we’ve got a date to meet Mr. Abdalayev. . . . No, actually you will. And do you know why? Because if you don’t, I’m blowing the lid off this to the press. How do you think it’ll play when the American public finds out that some prisoner got a little too tired of being tortured in some secret prison, so he broke out of the CIA’s slippery grasp and began bombing the crap out of the country? . . . No, you better believe I will, because unlike you, I’m more concerned about protecting our citizens than I am about covering my own backside or whether or not I’m stepping on any other country’s toes.
