Page 118 of Whisper
“Nation of Islam, great news!” the man in black boomed. He read from a script that he held in both hands. “The signs of dawn have begun and the winds of victory are blowing!”
“It’s him.” Kris fought back a gag. “I know the voice.” He reached for David.
“You’resure?” George hovered over Kris’s right shoulder, General Ramos over his left. “Wehaveto be sure.”
“It has all the hallmarks of Saqqaf’s messaging. It’s his style.”
“Why the orange jumpsuit? Saqqaf doesn’t keep prisoners,” Ramos asked.
“It’s because of Abu Ghraib.” David, finally, spoke. “In Abu Ghraib, you put prisoners in orange jumpsuits. He’s drawing a direct line between the two.”
Ramos glowered at David. “When you say ‘you’, do you mean the military, or do mean Americans? Because I thought you were American.”
David blinked at Ramos.
The video kept playing, churning onward in George’s office. Saqqaf issued a blistering tirade, berating the Americans and their occupation.
“How can a free Muslim sleep soundly while Islam is being slaughtered, its honor bleeding and the images of shame in the news of the abuses of the Muslim men and women in the prison of Abu Ghraib? Where is your zeal and where is your anger?”
David’s gaze bored into Ramos.
“O, to the president of the Great Satan, I deliver this warning. Hard days are coming to you. You and your soldiers are going to regret the day that you stepped foot in Iraq and dared to violate the Muslims. The dignity of the Muslim men and women in the prison of Abu Ghraib and others will be redeemed by blood and souls! You will see nothing from us except corpse after corpse, casket after casket, of those slaughtered in this fashion.”
Saqqaf drew a machete from his belt and grabbed the prisoner’s hair—
Kris slammed the laptop shut. “I’m not fucking watching this.”
He shoved back from the desk, toppling his chair. Ramos and George jumped out of his way, giving him space. He ran to the line of garbage cans by the door and heaved. Gagging filled the office, retching.
David stared at the marble floor, the cream and beige tiles.
Kris rose, wiping his lips. He glared at George. “I fucking told you,” he hissed. His voice shook. “I fucking told you we shouldn’t torture anybody. I fucking told you, I fucking told Director Thatcher, and I fucking told the Goddamn vice president!” His shaking finger pointed at George’s closed laptop. “You, and everyone who sanctioned the detainee program, who sanctioned torture, caused this. This blood is on you.”
General Ramos stared out the windows, his eyes narrowed as he watched the setting sun beyond the Tigris. George’s jaw pulsed, clenching and unclenching.
Kris ripped open George’s office door. David followed him down the marble hallway.
“He’s got a new nickname,” George called after them. “The ‘Sheikh of the Slaughterers’. We’ve got to take him out, Kris. I’m fucking begging you. We’ve got to get this son of a bitch.”
“I can’t unfuck what’s been fucked, George.” Kris stilled, but didn’t turn around.
“The White House is serious now. And the president wants to hear what’s going on, from you. We’re going to DC. They are going to put everything behind you, Kris. Everything.”
Washington DC
June 2004
“Donot, under any circumstances, shoot your mouth off.” George growled into Kris’s ear. “Do not make a scene in front of the new CIA director. Do not, for the love of fucking God, say ‘I told you so’.”
“I wasn’t going to say it. My plan was to do a tap number on the center of the table, belt out, ‘I fucking told you so’ at the top of my lungs, and end in the splits in front of the VP. So he could suck my dick.”
George gaped at him.
“Do you think I should do an opera rendition, or should I stay more along the lines of Bernadette Peters? More Broadway, you think?”
George’s face slowly turned purple. David smirked behind his hand.
“What do you think the VP’s face willbelike when he sees me walk in?”
