The Prince of Bagram Prison (14 page)

After the nonstop activity of the previous two days, all of Kat's colleagues who could were taking advantage of the lull in detainee arrivals to sleep, and Kat, suddenly exhausted, kicked herself now for not having done the same.

Except for one other interrogator, a Lebanese-American kid from Brooklyn, who, like Kat, was one of the unit's few Arabic speakers, the Interrogation Control Element, or ICE, as Kat and the other interrogators referred to it, was deserted.

“Can't sleep?” the kid, who went by his last name, Hariri, asked, looking up from the interrogation report he was working on.

“Those goddamn howitzers,” Kat complained, pouring herself a cup of coffee and slumping into a chair.

Hariri smiled. “You get used to it, believe me.”

“So what are you doing here, then?”

“Just getting a jump on things.”

A New Yorker and an Arab, Kat thought, looking at the kid, two awfully big burdens to carry in this war. She took a sip of the coffee and winced. She liked the high-octane variety, but this stuff was so thick she had to chew it.

“You hear about the Iranians?” Hariri asked.

“The pair who came in last night?” As far as Kat knew, Jamal's traveling companions were the only Iranians in custody.

Hariri nodded gravely. “One of them's dead.”

“What happened?” The well-being of their prisoners was something all the interrogators took very seriously, and from the look on Hariri's face Kat could tell that he took it personally as well.

“I don't know all the details. Apparently the guy suffocated.” He lowered his voice and glanced quickly around the room. “It was out at the civilian facility. You know what kind of stuff goes on out there.”

The salt pit, Kat thought, nodding to reassure Hariri that she did in fact know what went on with the civilian interrogators. Now she understood why the SBS guys had been so testy with her in the British mess: the Iranians had been their prisoners.

“S
URELY
,
BROTHER
,” the man who called himself Ahmed said, resting his hand on Abdullah's shoulder and glancing pointedly at Jamal. “Your good works will not go unnoticed by Allah.”

Ahmed, dressed in an imam's traditional brown robe and skullcap, was like so many others Jamal had known. Dutiful men, men of the mosque, pious in their declarations, if not always in their actions. Like Bagheri, or the two men with whom Jamal had left Abdullah's the first time.

Those two, also Moroccans, had approached Jamal one day near the ferry docks, promising a way out where Jamal had imagined none. Three good meals and a safe place to sleep, little brother. And Jamal, weighing the demands of piety against those of Abdullah, had hesitated only briefly before making his decision. After three months of Abdullah's late-night gropings and the shame and pain that inevitably followed, Jamal had been more than willing to sacrifice his soul to whatever god those men believed in for the preservation of his body. Though if he had known the extent of that sacrifice at the time, his choice might have been a different one.

Abdullah nodded beatifically. “It is true. I am like a father to these boys. By the will of Allah.”

It was a hollow invocation, God's name spoken not out of piety but in the pursuit of whatever business opportunity Ahmed had to offer. There were people, mostly those who had never had to suffer the depredations of the flesh, who believed in the integrity of the soul above all else. But Jamal was not one of them, and neither, he knew, was Abdullah.

Abdullah turned to Jamal. “You will bring us tea,” he commanded. And then, softening his tone for the benefit of the other man. “Brother.”

Bowing slightly, Jamal turned and let himself out into the hall. Body or soul, he thought, as he made his way down the stairs to Abdullah's kitchen. So little was left of both, and yet it was clear to Jamal that if he stayed he would have to make the same choice again, that Abdullah had no intention of helping him leave Algeciras.

He reached the first-floor landing and stopped, contemplating the door to the kitchen, and at the opposite end of the hall, the one that led out onto the street. Body or soul, he reminded himself. His alone to squander or save.

If he was going to run, now was the time.

Stuart Kelso paused in front of a kebab shop on Albert Road and watched the tall figure skate behind him in the window's reflection. He was fairly confident the man was following him, but it was always hard to be sure about these things and, with the costs of misjudgment what they were, it was better to be absolutely certain before making even the slightest gesture of acknowledgment. Especially in a place like Portsmouth, where practically every third person was a sailor, and where rumor could travel quickly to the wrong ears.

Stuart waited, watching the man duck into a Boots pharmacy on the next block without so much as a single glance back. Wrong then, he told himself, feeling a twinge of disappointment as he started off down the street again. The man had been just his type, clean-cut and athletic, as Stuart himself was. But not a sailor from the looks of him. A student more likely, as was nearly everyone in this part of the city.

Over the course of the past year, with the trial looming, Stuart had made the trip south more times than he would have liked, and he'd gotten to know Portsmouth in the process. He had discovered the university neighborhood of Southsea and Albert Road while trying to clear his head after one of his first meetings with his lawyers, and the cluster of head shops and curry restaurants had quickly become his favorite escape.

As Stuart passed the Boots, the man emerged again and fell in step behind him. Stuart felt a surge of adrenaline. It was not unlike the feeling he got on patrol when he knew something bad was about to happen. A mixture of fear and excitement—the relief, finally, of action, after hours or days of anticipation.

Stuart stopped again and the man moved on ahead, this time looking quickly back to confirm that Stuart had understood before turning off Albert Road and onto a smaller, residential street. There was no mistaking the message now, and Stuart felt his pulse rise as he strode along after the man, then followed him up a small flight of steps and through the door of a slightly ramshackle walk-up.

“I love you navy boys,” the man said when Stuart stepped into the building's narrow foyer. He was wearing a leather jacket, new evidently, for the close space was heavy with the musty smell of it and with the fainter, slightly spicy odor of cologne. “All that hiding and seeking. Brings back some of the romance of the old days, doesn't it?”

Stuart didn't answer. He was mainly ashamed of the subterfuge with which he was forced to conduct his private life, embarrassed that he allowed himself to be made to hide these things.

“Shall we go up, then?” the man said, nodding at the stairwell.

There was something about the man's manner, something beyond just the purpose of their meeting, that made Stuart suddenly and uncharacteristically afraid. His hands were large and powerful, the hands of someone who used them regularly. Not a student, after all, Stuart thought, his fear turning into excitement.

The stranger led him to a small room off the third-floor landing. Not so much a flat as a place kept specifically for this purpose, with a key left above the door. Inside there was one small bed and a single chair, a sink in the corner with a half-used bar of soap on the rim.

Special Forces, Stuart realized, watching the man walk to the only window and pull the shade, recognizing the guarded physicality with which he carried himself. One of his own, though neither of them could acknowledge the kinship.

Stuart took his own jacket off, then turned and laid it on the chair. “I'm meeting a friend in twenty minutes,” he said, wanting to make it clear that this would not be a prolonged affair.

“You might be a bit late,” the man said. He crossed from the window and pressed himself against Stuart, putting his mouth to Stuart's ear.

Then Stuart felt the man's rough hand on his arm and something else. A flush of pain, entirely unexpected. A knife like fire in his gut.

“Sorry about that,” the man whispered, releasing his grip.

Stuart stumbled backward, his arms windmilling frantically, his legs buckling beneath him. It took him a moment to notice the bloody gash, another to understand that it was in fact his body that had been wounded. By then there was nothing to be done.

S
HE KNEW
, Kurtz thought, glancing over at Kat as they emerged from the Algeciras train station onto the Calle San Bernardo. Kat knew about Colin's death, yet she did not want him to know. The thought gave Kurtz no small amount of satisfaction.

“It shouldn't be far,” she said. The four words were almost as much as she'd spoken on the train ride down. “According to Jamal's description, the shop is right on the main tourist corridor, between the train station and the ferry.”

“That is, if it's still here,” Kurtz cautioned, already wondering what they would do if they couldn't find the place. Establishments like this weren't exactly known for their longevity. The boy's information was at least three years old.

Kat looked up, scanning the buildings on either side of the street. “I'm assuming you have some cash to work with?”

Kurtz nodded. Money was not a problem.

“Good.” Kat slowed her pace. “There,” she said.

Ahead of them, a handful of dirty Moroccan boys were spread out along the sidewalk, hawking their services to passersby.

“Money change!” a boy of about fifteen in a faded Harvard T-shirt called out, making a beeline for two young British backpackers Kurtz recognized from their train. “Moroccan dirham here. Ferry tickets.”

Reluctantly, the women slowed and then stopped, listening while the boy gestured to the storefront behind him. One of the women, the savvier of the two, glanced around, then made a move to continue on, but it was too late; the boy had the other one hooked already, and Kurtz knew it was only a matter of time before he had them both.

As he and Kat approached, the pair were already turning to follow the boy, but Kat stopped them.

“Keep moving,” she said. Her voice was flat, pitched with authority. The women gaped, then hurried away. When the boy tried to do the same, Kat caught him by the arm. “We're looking for Abdullah,” she told him in Arabic.

The boy shrugged, but Kat wasn't having it. She glanced over her shoulder at Kurtz and spoke in rapid Spanish. “Here's one for Melilla.”

The boy's eyes widened into two pools of fear at the mention of the immigrant detention center. “There,” he said, pointing to the same grimy storefront he'd indicated while talking to the women. “Mr. Abdullah is inside.”

Kat released the boy and looked pointedly at Kurtz, as if to say, “That's how it's done,” then turned and started for the open door.

“I'll handle the man,” Kurtz told her as they stepped inside.

Deep and narrow and completely empty except for a scuffed counter at the rear, the shop had all the ambience of a long-neglected aquarium. Filthy fluorescents, swarmed by clouds of frantic moths, their shades mottled by the carcasses of the dead, stuttered overhead. The walls, once a common variant of institutional green, had been rendered an even more depressing algal shade by years of nicotine stains. Badly faded travel posters, the pigments dulled entirely to blues and grays, enhanced the aquatic nightmarescape. In the corner, a dead roach lay belly-up. Behind the counter, a television flickered soundlessly, the only sign of possible human presence.

Kat strode to the counter and rang the tarnished service bell. Almost immediately, like an octopus emerging from its lair, a man appeared from the back of the shop.

“May I help you?” he asked, taking the spit-darkened stub of a cigar from his mouth and eyeing the two visitors with no small amount of suspicion. He was grossly, almost perversely fat, his tiny head bobbing on his huge body.

“Are you Abdullah?” Kat asked before Kurtz had a chance to say anything.

The man nodded.

“We're looking for a Moroccan boy,” Kat went on. “His name is Jamal.”

Abdullah looked at Kurtz, and Kurtz could see only contempt in the man's eyes, scorn for Kat's brazenness. For an instant the two men understood each other completely.

“I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place,” Abdullah answered, addressing Kurtz. “As you can see, there is no such person here.”

“We're prepared to compensate you fairly for your time,” Kat said, adding, “We know the boy has been here.”

His eyes still on Kurtz, Abdullah nodded toward Kat. “Tell the woman to wait outside.”

Kat started to protest, but Kurtz cut her off. “Leave us.”

For a moment she didn't move. “Go,” Kurtz repeated without looking at her, and this time she turned and made her way out of the shop.

“What the woman said was true,” he told Abdullah once they were alone. “You are a businessman. I understand that your time is valuable.”

Abdullah smiled, satisfied, Kurtz thought, with both the current proposition and the fact that his earlier request had been so swiftly fulfilled. “Ten thousand,” he said calmly.