Switched On

by Franklin Horton

  Mohammed chose to remain silent from that point and focus on the right and left turns. He was familiar enough with this area that, for a while, he was able to keep track of their direction of travel. It became clear the driver was attempting to confuse them, and he eventually succeeded.

  The drove aimlessly for hours before Mohammed found himself standing on the packed dirt floor somewhere in the city. He assumed the location to be an abandoned factory or warehouse. The city was full of them. All he could tell with his senses muted by the hood and the noise of the van was they’d entered through a pair of rolling doors and parked inside the structure. When the engine was turned off, the van doors were opened and they were shoved out into a heap.

  When the hoods were yanked from their heads, the roommates found themselves staring at six robed men seated in folding chairs. Propane lanterns were scattered around the room, providing a bright yellowish light that created long shadows and did nothing to reduce the grave appearance of the seated men. Mohammed recognized two of them. One was their handler, the man who came to the roommates for progress reports and updates. He was the man who brought them their instructions, the man he assumed carried news of their progress–or lack of it–to the leaders of their organization. If he were a betting man, Mohammed would assume these unfamiliar men in front of him were part of that senior leadership, fellow Syrians from back home.

  The other man he recognized was the Imam, the prayer leader from the local mosque. Dressed in traditional robes and with a long gray beard, the Imam kept his hands folded in his lap, his eyes moving between the faces of the roommates. To the side of the seated men was a crude wooden table. A cast iron kettle sat atop a small stove, flames spilling out around it as the kettle heated. Mohammed did not expect they were going to offer him a cup of tea.

  A man Mohammed had not met before addressed him. "Do you know who I am?"

  Mohammed nodded, a slight bow of deferral. “We have not met, but I think I recognize you.” He thought the man was a leader within his organization. Perhaps a man named Miran.

  "Do you know why I am here?" Miran asked.

  Mohammed shook his head.

  Miran stood. He appeared to be in his forties, beginning to gray but still dangerously strong. He moved like a soldier, efficient and powerful. He walked to the wooden table and lifted the wire bail from the lid of the kettle, peering inside. He appeared to be satisfied with what he found as it brought a slight smile to his face. He looked from the kettle to Mohammed.

  "Did you know an apartment with four of our brothers was raided yesterday?"

  Mohammed nodded. "I saw the story on the news.”

  Miran left the table and stood directly in front of him. Mohammed didn’t feel as if he’d done anything wrong but this man made him question that. This was a man who would not hesitate to kill someone who had failed him.

  "Their arrest makes you our most senior group in the field. That’s unfortunate for us because you've not produced any fruitful results. It’s unfortunate for you since the pressure of a successful mission now lays upon your shoulders."

  Mohammed did not know how to respond.

  “We do not have the deep pockets some organizations have,” Miran said. “We cannot support people living in expensive city apartments and not producing results. Many men work hard to allow you to live this life in the city, to allow you to work with computers instead of stone and concrete.”

  “We are working hard too,” Mohammed said. “Work is all we do. Exactly as we were instructed. As we were trained.”

  Miran tilted his shoulders in a gesture that indicated he thought the sincerity of the statement was questionable. He gave Mohammed a disbelieving look. “Well, I think not all of you work as you should.”

  “We do,” Mohammed assured him.

  “Are you willing to stake our life on that?” Miran asked.

  Mohammed looked down. “I assume it to be so. I do not look over every shoulder.”

  “Wise decision, not staking your life on it,” Miran said. “Your fellow man will disappoint you as often as he will impress you.”

  A pop from the kettle drew everyone's attention. Miran smiled at Mohammed and rubbed his hands together. "Ah, it’s ready. Finally."

  Miran went back to the table, peering into the top of the kettle again. He reached into a pocket of his robe and drew out a potato. From a sheath on his belt he drew a traditional dagger, its point curved and wicked. He placed the potato on the table and cut it into slices. All eyes were on him, some curious, some terrified.

  Miran stabbed the tip of the dagger into one round slice of the potato and dropped it into the kettle. There was a hiss and pop.

  “Oil,” he explained. “If you thought I invited you over for tea, you are to be sadly disappointed.”

  Miran walked back around the table and faced the three roommates. “Which of you is Machmud?”

  “Why do you ask! I’ve done nothing!” Machmud burst out.

  Mohammed turned and regarded his roommate. Why was the man so agitated?

  Miran approached Machmud and smiled broadly. “Why are you so upset, my brother?”

  “I feel like I’m being accused,” Machmud sputtered. “I’ve done nothing.”

  “Perhaps that feeling is the jagged edge of your guilt sawing against your guts?” Miran said, leaning close to Machmud. “Perhaps your body betrays what the mind tries to cover up?”

  Miran walked back to the table and used the blade of his dagger to fish the potato slice from the oil. It was browned to a crisp. Miran looked past the roommates to the silent row of laborers who’d delivered them here.

  “Bring him to me.”

  There was no hesitation on their part. Instantly, a man was at each side and they dragged Machmud forward. He protested and kicked at the men. This was not well-received. One laborer stomped his heavy steel-toed boot sadistically across Machmud’s calf, forcing a scream from the man.

  “I’ve done nothing!” Machmud sobbed.

  Miran ignored the protests. He walked around the table. “Stand him up!” he ordered.

  The men pulled Machmud to his feet but his injured leg would not support his weight. He was weaving and leaning onto his captors.

  “Where were you when you received our text message tonight?” Miran asked. “Where were you when we asked you to return to the apartment?”

  “I was with a contact,” Machmud said urgently. He was sweating profusely and tears cut paths through the dust caked on his face. “I was cultivating a relationship.”

  “What type of relationship?” Miran persisted.

  “A contact. That’s all.”

  Miran grabbed Machmud by the hair and raised the dagger to his throat. “Do you think we are so stupid as to turn you loose with no way to monitor you? Did you not realize you were always on a virtual leash? That we tracked all your movements both in the city and on the internet? That we know every website you go to and every message you send?”

  Machmud’s panic rose another notch and he tried to protest. “I’ve…done…nothing…wrong.”

  “Your job was to make inroads we could exploit. Your goal was to cultivate relationships and nurture those relationships into assets we could manipulate. Instead, all you’ve done is pursue your own deviant pleasure." Miran drew the word deviant out, relishing the way it sounded on his tongue.

  "I did nothing."

  “Do I need to read the transcripts out loud?" Miran yelled, getting in Machmud’s face. “Do you I need to read the messages aloud? Do I need to show the pictures you exchanged?”

  Machmud sobbed and went limp. The men supporting him allowed him to drop to the ground. His hands still flex-cuffed, he curled up and sobbed. "I am sorry. She tempted me and I could not resist."

  "Did she tell you things you liked to hear?" Miran mocked. “Was she a temptress?”

  Machmud moaned. "Yes. Yes!"

  “Then we will make certain you do not hear things that tempt you again," Miran spat. "Hold him do
wn!”

  The men at Machmud’s side slid on thick leather welding gloves which they used hold Machmud down. One of them, a thick man with arms like tree trunks, placed one on Machmud’s neck and another on his forehead, crushing his cheek into the dirt floor. Miran went to the kettle of boiling oil and returned with it. He crouched over Machmud’s ear.

  Machmud whimpered and cried, still not completely certain what was about to take place. He could not see what Mohammed saw. He struggled but he could not gain ground against the strong arms holding him. Miran tipped the kettle to Machmud’s ear.

  Machmud screamed. He kicked and fought like an animal, but Miran continued pouring until the ear was full.

  "Flip him over,” Miran ordered.

  The gloved men did as they were told. As they rolled him over, Mohammed could see Machmud’s eyes wide with pain, shock, and terror. He tried to scream again but no scream could release the explosion of pain inside his head.

  Once rolled to his other side Miran leaned over Machmud and whispered into his ear. "Remember my voice. It is the last you'll ever hear."

  Then he poured the other ear full of the burning oil, deep frying everything within the canal. Miran returned to the table and placed the kettle beside the burner. "Take him away!"

  The gloved men grabbed Machmud by his arms and dragged him away into the darkness. Mohammed wondered what would become of him. Would they kill him? Would they return him home? When Mohammed returned his eyes from Machmud to Miran he found the man staring at him.

  "Have I made myself clear?" Miran asked. "Are you aware now of how serious and how urgent our mission is?"

  "We understand," Mohammed replied.

  "I will return in two weeks. You have that long to develop an actionable plan. Should you have nothing for me, what you saw tonight will look like the easy way out."

  “We will not disappoint you,” Mohammed said.

  Miran’s look indicated he was not convinced. "Get them out of here," he hissed.

  The hood was thrown back over Mohammed's head and he was shoved from the room. He felt a sickness deep inside that made him want to throw up, though to do so with the hood on his head would only increase his suffering. He had not known Machmud well and had not known of his activities on the computer.

  He also had not known they were being monitored so closely. That concerned him. There were times he watched a stupid video to blow off steam and relax. One thing was certain; he would type each word now with the understanding that he might one day have to stand before Miran and explain it. He would type each word with the understanding his life may one day depend on it.