Page 8 of Whisper
Kris hitched his duffel higher on his shoulder. “I’m here to see Abu Tadmir.”
Nothing. It was like the FBI agents were statues.
One agent glared, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You CIA guys have anything you want to pass along? You know, anything you haven’t shared that might save lives?”
The man’s words eviscerated him, sliced him from belly to heart. Everything in him wanted to scream, to vomit, to rip his hair from his head. The names of the hijackers flashed in his mind, cartoon exclamations that followed his every footstep.
He forced his voice to remain steady. Forced steel into his spine when he just wanted to collapse and beg for forgiveness. “I am here on the orders of the president of the United States to get information from Abu Tadmir. I am here to do my job.”
The FBI agents both snorted. “You guys really did a hell of a job already.”
“I am here to help the president.” Fireballs bloomed behind his eyelids. A scream hovered on the edge of his mind. “You can either help me or you can get the fuck out of my way.”
The FBI agents shared a long look.
“The time for blame will come later,” Kris whispered. And when it came, it would come for him.
“You’re Goddamn right it will,” one of the agents said.
They grudgingly led him into the prison, a dank square building of chipped concrete and cinder block. Sandstorms had blasted the dingy mustard paint to shreds, and dust-covered bare bulbs hummed behind rusted cages. Only every other bulb was lit. Down a long hallway, two Yemeni guards waited outside a door marred with black char marks and pocked with large dents.
Kris spoke to the FBI agents’ backs. “I need to secure a confession that al-Qaeda is responsible for the attack.”
“We already know they’re responsible,” one agent snapped as they stopped.
“The president needs this for the international coalition, and to pressure the Taliban.”
“Anything else you CIA types think you can magically summon from Tadmir?” the second agent snorted.
“We need to know everything about the al-Qaeda camps in Afghanistan. Their armaments, their personnel. Capabilities, locations, numbers. Everything, for the invasion.”
“We’ve had this guy for a year. We’ve been questioning him. Everything he’s given us, we’ve sent back to Washington. He hasn’t given up much, and, no offense, but I doubtyouare going to be the one to crack him.” The first agent looked him up and down, a cold glare etched on his face.
Kris bristled. Indignity pulled his shoulders back. “Things have changed since you captured him.”
“The attacks? Yeah, they made most of the jihadis jubilant. Victorious. Hardened their resolve. You’re not going to get anything.”
“I’m going to try. You can participate or not. Observe or not. I don’t fucking care. But I have my orders.”
“Well, we’ll go in after you’re done. See if we can salvage the night.” The agent shoved the door to the interrogation room open for Kris.
Abu Tadmir, whosekunya, or jihadist name, meant “father of destruction”, strolled into the interrogation room in the company of two Yemeni prison guards. He was clean, his beard trimmed, and he was fat. Tadmir was obviously doing just fine. Yemeni prison agreed with him. He wasn’t afraid.
The guards wore masks over their faces, hiding their identities, seemingly fearing Tadmir, or fearing him learning their identities.
Tadmir leached arrogance, power, intimidation. Kris had seen it all before, a world away.
Tadmir had been arrested by the Yemenis in a roundup of al-Qaeda suspects following theUSS Colebombing, at the behest of the FBI and the fusion cell working the case. He hadn’t given up much in the year he’d been behind bars.
Tadmir pulled out the rickety metal chair on his side of the interrogation table and dropped into it, slouching. Kris stayed seated, silent. He let Tadmir stare and ignored the way he grinned, laughing, dismissive.
Kris pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Tadmir. Tadmir took one.
“As-salaam-alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum as-salaam.”
He flicked his lighter, igniting the end of Tadmir’s cigarette. After, he lit his own and took a deep inhale. “My name is Kris. I am with the CIA.” He spoke in Arabic, the words rolling off his tongue, clear and strong. Stronger than he felt.
