Pashtun

by Ron Lealos

  Washington was about to play the next hand. He scowled at me, used to frightening people with his glare. Not today.

  “Maybe we could help each other,” he said. “You get me outta here walkin’ upright, and I’ll try to take you to the real bad guys. But you gotta realize, I don’t know much. I picked up the money at a drop. Never saw anybody. Never touched the dope except as delivery boy. Got all my orders from email.” He was too proud to beg, even if he was coming close. He would know Finnen and I could shoot him anytime we decided he wasn’t of value. Or that he was lying. He’d be reported as another unfortunate casualty of war.

  “What about the munitions?” I asked.

  “Don’t know nuthin’ about that,” he said.

  Finnen laughed.

  “Now don’t be startin’ that,” he said. “Those little lies tend to breed more offspring. Like the Papists do back in Kildare.”

  The Ka-Bar slid easily back into its sheath at my waist.

  “We’ll make this simple,” I said. “Every time I think you’re lying, I’ll take out my Ka-Bar. That’ll be a signal you’re about to be cut. I’ll start somewhere not so critical and move closer to the meat as the lies continue. If you change your story and tell the truth, I’ll put the knife away. That way, me and Finnen don’t have to keep insulting you. So, let’s begin again. What about the munitions?”

  This was the hardest question. Trading money for dope was real bad. Trading guns for smack was pure evil and traitorous. It meant someone Washington knew would most likely be killed by a rifle or explosive he directly provided. He shrugged.

  “You can start cuttin’,” Washington said. “I wouldn’t do that. And if I found out someone was, I’d grease him myself.”

  No hesitation. I sliced through the leg on his camo fatigues and into his calf muscle. The wound wasn’t too deep and might’ve not even required stitches. He tried to kick the knife away and fell backward, chair and all. Blood immediately began to show on his trouser leg. I stood above him.

  “That wasn’t for the lie, just principle,” I said. “If you give the Taliban money, what do you think they do with it? Buy their sweethearts new dresses? Spend it on spiffing up the cave? A vacation in the south of France? Ordering in pizza? Even if you don’t hand over the grenades, somebody we know is gettin’ blown away.”

  Finnen moved beside me.

  “Now, now Morgan,” he said. “You’re not playing fair. Didn’t you believe him?”

  The good guy. Finnen could play any role demanded. He helped the squirming Washington back into his chair and pulled the bleeding man’s pants away from the gash.

  “That’s a bad cut,” Finnen said. “You must have slipped and fell on something sharp.” Finnen smiled and patted Washington on the shoulder.

  Once, on a mission somewhat similar, involving the need to gather intel and not just garbage take out, Finnen had stuffed his backpack with a pork sausage, wooden prayer beads, a picture of the target’s mullah, a copy of the Koran, photos of naked young Arab women, a cartoon drawing of two bearded men having sex labeled “An Afternoon with Mohammed” in Arabic, a bottle of wine, and a snapshot of a recently beheaded US aid worker in Afghanistan that appeared on Al Jazeera. We were in another mud house in Jalalabad next to a mosque. The clay walls were thick enough that the target’s screams would only echo in this room, not penetrate outside. Before we started the day’s interrogation, Finnen lined up all the items in front of the bound mujahedeen.

  “You look hungry,” Finnen said. “And parched. I’ve got a little snack for you. Some premium pork sausage from real corn-fed hogs in Iowa. That’s in the U S of A, if you didn’t know. Couldn’t get any of the Olhausen’s Finest Irish Sausage custom-made in Dublin. It’s the tangiest. Now, you do know where Dublin is, don’t you?”

  The man, tied with duct tape to a chair, stared ahead as if he didn’t understand a word. We all knew he spoke English, and the dance was just beginning.

  “Don’t fret, laddy,” Finnen said. “I won’t hold it against you.” He cut off a slice of the sausage with his Ka-Bar and pinched the man’s nose. “Here’s a wee bite,” Finnen said, pushing the sausage into the target’s mouth. “Chew it well. My mum always said it’s good for the digestion and the taste blossoms like a spring rose.” He pushed the man’s jaw up and down to make sure he was enjoying the essence of pork. “You do know they add in the hoofs and all that good stuff that grows between the pig’s toes. Flavoring tis it.”

  When Finnen took his hand from the struggling man’s nose, the hadji tried to spit the sausage out. Finnen watched, smiling, and cut another slice while the man drooled and choked.

  “Now, now,” Finnen said. “It might be an acquired taste. It’s not that bad, though. I’m insulted.” He grabbed the man’s nose again, shoving another piece between the man’s teeth. “Try some more. This time, I’ll let you hold it in ’til you swallow and capture the true zest. You understand, they put all the leftover body parts into sausage, including the pig’s ass.” Finnen kept his fingers clamped tight on the man’s nose and worked his jaw.

  The man’s name was Jamil Farooq. Assets in the community clearly pointed to Farooq for much of the Taliban resurgence in Jalalabad and spoke of his contact with al-Qaeda. The proximity of his house to the mosque meant he was quite influential in the mullah’s latest dictates that no girls or women were allowed outdoors. Several offenders had already been publicly whipped. Farooq was responsible for the beheading in the picture Finnen displayed.

  After a minute, Farooq’s eyelids were about to disappear into his forehead. He was strangling on pork, but most of the meat had found its way to his stomach. Finnen released his grip and stepped back.

  “So, enjoyed that, did ya?” Finnen asked. “Now for a little California Pinot Noir to wash it down. I’ll just pop the cork and you can have a few sips. My taste goes more to Guinness, but I hear the 2006 was a very good vintage.” He had brought a wine opener and screwed out the cork, making sure there was the right amount of “pop” to keep Farooq’s focus.

  The picture of the beheaded woman was in his pocket. Finnen took it out and held it in front of Farooq.

  “While you’re savoring the Pinot,” Finnen said, “I’ll have you gaze on this. She was a fine, red-haired lass. Bernadette Jenkins. I met her once when she was delivering medicine to the refugee camps. She was a nurse and said she came over to help with the health crisis caused by the Taliban displacing so many of their countrymen. Remember Bernadette, Farooq?”

  When Farooq’s eyes went to the photo, Finnen jabbed the open end of the bottle into Farooq’s mouth and squeezed his nose shut, tipping the bottle so it drained toward the back of his mouth. Red wine spilled from the sides and stained the white tunic covering Farooq’s upper body. He gagged, again, but Finnen wasn’t about to let Farooq spew the Pinot. He thrashed, and Finnen held tight until the wine was nearly gone. Pulling the bottle away, Finnen moved aside and let him sputter until the hadji’s head dropped to his chest.

  “That must have quenched your thirst,” Finnen said, pulling Farooq up by his beard. “When you were sipping, did you get a chance to recognize Ms. Jenkins? Surely you remember. Or did she look different with her head on her shoulders?” Nothing from the bound hadji. Finnen smashed the Pinot bottle against the side of Farooq’s head.

  From the back of the darkened room, I watched Finnen and the door, my H & K on full auto. We had indisputable evidence Farooq was guilty of both the beheading and other atrocities committed in Allah’s name. Voice recordings, photos, and human intel. The only question was why it had taken so long to dispatch Finnen and me to dump the trash. The choice for Farooq was whether to give us the information we wanted on his associates and receive just a little pain or hold out, knowing the seventy-two houris were nearby. Finnen was in the “softening up” phase of the interrogation, with vengeance driving him. He had seen Ms. Jenkins more than once—the grapevine told me it was many times—and their Irish roots had helped them bond. I w
atched, mostly to make sure Finnen didn’t totally lose it before we got what we needed from Farooq. Then we could leave him as an example for his brothers in the mosque.

  While Farooq dozed, Finnen arranged the rest of his party favors on the floor, picking up the cartoon of Mohammed and holding it in his left hand. He slapped Farooq with his right until he wakened.

  “You don’t know the lass?” he asked. He put the cartoon in front of Farooq’s face. “I’ll bet you know these guys. It’s your prophet doing the chocolate jig with one of his followers. Don’t get a boner, Jamil. You won’t be able to enjoy it.”

  Finnen took out a knife smaller than his Ka-Bar while he held the cartoon close to Farooq’s nose. Then, in a blur, he nailed the comic strip face up to Farooq’s thigh using the blade. The hadji started to scream, but Finnen covered the man’s mouth with his hand until Farooq calmed. Tears were in the hadji’s eyes, and sweat ran down his forehead. Finnen reached into his pocket and took out the photo of the naked Arab girls, shoving the picture in Farooq’s face.

  “I hear all you Abduls swing both ways,” Finnen said. “So maybe you’ll like this candid shot better. The one on the left looks a little like Rayan, your daughter. It’ll be grand when I meet her. Great tits.”

  Finnen had no intention of dating Rayan. Just another step in the tango.

  This time, he used the Ka-Bar. The bigger knife stabbed deeper into Farooq’s other thigh. He held Farooq’s mouth again. After the hadji settled, Finnen let him breathe.

  “While I’m getting ready for Act Two,” Finnen said, “I want you to look at both those pictures. There’ll be an exam later. I’ll expect you to explain why nobody mentions the twenty-six houris boys waiting for you as promised in the Koran. Are you all in the closet?”

  The little pile on the floor still held a copy of the Koran and the prayer beads. Finnen bent down and picked the book and the subha up, unzipping his fly at the same time. He then pissed on the holy book and the beads.

  “In case you forget your scriptures,” Finnen said, “I brought one along. Sorry if it’s gotten wet. I’ll just let you study the verses for a bit.” He zipped himself and shoved the book hard into Farooq’s balls. Next, he strung the subha around Farooq’s neck, tightening the beads like a wooden garrote.

  Farooq’s legs straightened as he tried to get air, and the comic of the butt-fucking prophet fell to the dirt floor. Finnen lightened his hold after a few seconds and picked up the cartoon and the knife.

  “Oops,” Finnen said. “This wasn’t in far enough.” He plunged the blade, sinking it deeper into Farooq’s thigh. “Don’t want you to lose your homework.” Farooq began to howl and wiggle. Finnen slapped him until he stopped.

  To this point, Finnen hadn’t allowed Farooq to talk. Only ten minutes had passed, and I figured fifteen minutes of safety was all we had left. I didn’t want Farooq to think we were in any hurry, but I nodded at Finnen, signaling him to move it along. Farooq was mumbling his prayers, eyes closed.

  We didn’t have the luxury of torture methods used in Gitmo. No electricity for the cattle prod. No buckets for water boarding. No bright lights to flash in the face. No days of sleep deprivation. No Snoop Dog played at full volume. No television to play Meow Mix commercials over and over. No enemas, even though it smelled like Farooq had soiled himself. Finnen had to work with what he had: pain and insults.

  “So, Jamil,” Finnen said. “You ready for the pop quiz?” He pulled back Farooq’s head using a handful of hair. “Did Mohammed practice boy love? Why else would he promise twenty-six virgin lads to martyrs? How ’bout you? You want to daga me ra wazbaisha?” Suck my dick, in Pashto. Farooq just stared with the wild look of a cornered hyena.

  “Okaaaaaaay,” Finnen said. “Pop quiz over. You flunked. At least you got to go to school. Not like your daughter or any of her friends.”

  Finnen showed Farooq the photo of Mullah Rikiti, the cleric from the mosque next door and Farooq’s spiritual guide. First, he spit on the picture, wiping mucous across Rikiti’s face.

  “Movin’ on to the final exam,” Finnen said. “I want to know who gives Abdul here his orders. Did he have you slaughter Ms. Jenkins? Who runs this sector for the Taliban? Where are you getting your guns? There aren’t multiple-choice answers. You have one minute before I start taking slivers out of you with my knife. We’ve got lots of class time before the bell rings. While you’re thinkin’, I’ll enjoy the rest of the piggy sausage.” Finnen started cutting the sausage, using the wiped-off Ka-Bar he had yanked from Jamil’s thigh as both a fork and a knife. He never took his eyes off Farooq.

  Ten seconds later.

  “Time’s up,” Finnen said. “Who’s the mullah’s commander?”

  The Company and the world already knew Mullah Mohammed Omar was the head of the Taliban. From his hidey hole in a cave somewhere on the border with Pakistan, the strategy he devised was close to the one used to defeat the Russians. Move his men from rock to rock, and make the infidels chase. Eventually, the expenditure of soldiers and money would cause the Americans to leave. Omar was quoted as saying, “What does the life of one mujahedeen compare to the cost of every plane that leaves the ground? We have thousands willing to be martyrs, and that number grows every day. But the Americans have only a limited number of planes. And we have many landmines to take American legs.” Finnen wasn’t expecting to uncover Omar, just get a little closer.

  Nothing from Farooq but wide-eyed wonder.

  It would soon be over. No matter how much Finnen waltzed with Farooq, I knew this was part of our job description neither one of us relished. The torture wouldn’t continue. Finnen would shoot him and pose Farooq’s body for the best psy-ops effect. One more try.

  Finnen took hold of the prayer beads and twisted the subha until Farooq couldn’t spread his mouth any wider and his head began to slump. Then Finnen released the pressure slightly and slapped the hadji to keep him awake.

  “You’re about as much fun as a burning orphanage,” Finnen said. “Oh, that’s right. You’ll remember the scene. If you weren’t there with Rikiti’s boys, you probably saw the pictures of the shish kabob-ed girls. What on earth would justify firebombing an orphanage? Did one of the poor lasses peek out the window? Did the sight of her dark eyes violate your fucked-up code?”

  Finnen quickly pushed the tip of the knife into the hadji’s left eye and twisted. Not far enough to go into the brain, but the hadji wouldn’t be seeing from that side again.

  Farooq began to scream, and Finnen covered his mouth.

  “An eye for an eye,” Finnen said. “Oh, my mistake. That’s the bible. I should have said ‘those who reject the teachings should be dragged into the scalding water and burnt in the fire.’ Sura 40 from the Koran, if you forgot. You and Rikiti can use that one to do most anything, including barbecuing innocent girls.”

  When Farooq stopped squirming, Finnen held the end of the Ka-Bar to Farooq’s right eye.

  “Last chance,” Finnen said. “You won’t be able to find your way to heaven after I take this one.”

  No words from Farooq. So far, just groans, screams, and a few “Allah”s. Now, mumbles.

  Finnen put his ear close to Farooq’s mouth.

  “What are you saying, mate?” he asked. “Speak louder.” Finnen pressed his body closer.

  “Did I hear you right?” Finnen asked. “Was that ‘ustaa moor kay mandam’?” I will fuck your mother. “Gotta give it to you. You’re a tough donkey. My mum used to say, ‘He is scant of news that speaks ill of your mother.’ But, sorry, Mum’s dead. Taken to the angels by the cancer.”

  This time, the Ka-Bar went in deeper, blood squirting onto Finnen’s hand. Farooq was too dazed to shriek.

  “An old Arabic saying,” Finnen said. “‘Life without a friend is death without a witness.’ You’ve got neither. Unless you count Morgan and me as witnesses to your death. We’re not your friends. Anything more, pray tell?”

  Prayers. Sometimes nothing worked. The promise of the ho
uris was stronger than any threat. Farooq was still muttering when Finnen plunged the Ka-Bar directly into the Afghan’s heart.

  Finnen left the knife and arranged the pictures on Farooq’s lap.

  “God is good, but never dance in a small boat,” Finnen said, standing back and looking on the dead hadji’s body. “I think your boat just sunk, Farooq.”

  He put on his backpack and started toward the door, H & K in his hand.

  “God made time, but man made haste,” Finnen said. “Let’s hump, Morgan.”

  The blood from Washington’s wound formed a small pool next to his bush boot. Ants marched in a steady caravan back and forth to a tiny hole in the wall. Finnen sat at the desk, watching.

  Washington was no Farooq. Even if he may have behaved in a fashion worthy of a firing squad, at least he hadn’t beheaded a woman or roasted an orphanage full of girls. And we weren’t absolutely sure of his motives or the payoff. Only the word of a condemned man. I slid the knife back into its home.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” I said. “How were you contacted?”

  Still highly trained, tough, and hopeful, Washington stared as if we were the ones being grilled with our hands behind our heads.

  “Email,” he said. “A message telling me to go to a pick-up point for further orders. Came through from a secure DOD server. You spooks probably know more about it than me. Felt like it was from the magic kingdom you dudes live in. I thought I was takin’ orders. Deleted the message and burned the map and instructions after I read ’em like I was told. You got any water?”

  The .22 Hush Puppy was under my camo shirt. I took it out and aimed it at Washington’s forehead.

  “I won’t even bother with the knife signals,” I said. “That was such a load of bullshit, I may as well save the energy from cutting and let the pistol take chunks out of you.” I pulled the trigger, and a bullet imbedded in the wall behind Washington’s head, grazing his ear on the way by.