Page 80 of Whisper
“Agent Naveen.” Kris held out his hand. “Good to see you again.”
Agent Naveen, part of his welcoming committee in Yemen, days after September 11, stared him down. Finally, he shook Kris’s hand. “I have heard a lot about you, Caldera. Seems you kept your word. You were there to help.”
Kris lifted his chin. “And I still am. You?”
“This is a CIA-led operation. We were sent here by our director to offer assistance. I’m one of the FBI’s trained interrogators and I specialize in Middle Eastern terrorism. I know how these guys work. How they think. What they expect. I’m happy to lend a hand.”
“What do you suggest would be the best approach to Zahawi?”
“Has his medical situation been seen to?”
“Yes.”
“Then we should engage in rapport building. Try to get a baseline understanding of his motivations. See if he throws up a cover story, and if he does, use meticulous details to break through the eventual lies and double-speak.” Naveen smiled wryly. “You know, like you did in Yemen.”
Finally, Kris had smiled. “Seems we’re on the same team after all, Agent Naveen.”
Having everyone who was anyone there at the facility was both a blessing and a curse. Kris wasn’t used to so many people. So much oversight. So many eyeballs wanting to be read in on what he was doing. He, somehow, still maintained the lead on Zahawi. He was still the targeteer, and thus, the main interrogator. Everyone looked to him for direction on Zahawi’s case.
He waited for someone to try and wrestle his authority away, try to say he wasn’t qualified for the Zahawi operation.
The base was bursting at the seams, and practicalities had to be seen to first. There wasn’t enough space for everyone to have their own rooms. Krisvolunteeredto bunk with David in a tiny, dank hut, built out of corrugated steel and a thatched roof lined with plastic bags. Their shared toilet was an outhouse. Humidity turned the toilet paper soft. Snakes crept into the outhouse, and into their hut. The first time one had, Kris had jumped onto his bed, shrieking, until the security team had busted in, weapons up and ready to fire.
They’d exchanged long looks when they’d seen David and Kris’s metal beds pushed together to make one large bed. Oops.
Kris started questioning Zahawi the third night after they arrived at Site Green.
He started slowly, taking up his vigil by Zahawi’s bedside in the hospital room they’d put together. Zahawi lay on a gurney draped in a mosquito net under a thatched roof. At dusk, monkeys sounded in the trees. In the morning, bird calls echoed for miles in the empty jungle. Vibrant orange extension cords snaked across the wooden floor, over the edge of the half wall, and disappeared into a maze of bundled wires and underbrush. The entire facility was being run on industrial generators, buzzing far away on the other side of the base.
Zahawi lay propped on pillows, hooded. For once, the sheets beneath him were clean, not stained with blood. His chest rose and fell quickly, trembling.
Kris pulled the hood off his head. Zahawi’s hair was still wild, falling in long strands around his face. His beard had grown in, patchy in places. One eye was covered in a green film, clouded and milky. Zahawi stared at Kris.
“As-salaam-alaikum.” Kris pressed his hand to his chest.
“Wa alaikum as-salaam,” Zahawi whispered. “You are still here.”
“I promised you I would be. How are you? Are you in pain?”
Zahawi shrugged. He looked away.
“We are not here to hurt you. What do you need?”
“There is some pain,” Zahawi whispered. His chin wavered, but he held it high.
“Let me get that seen to.”
An entire team was listening to the interrogation through the mic Kris wore, piping their conversation into a dozen different recorders. Cameras watched them from every angle, hung in Zahawi’s secured medical hut. Kris waved to one.
A moment later, David walked in, carrying his medical kit. The Johns Hopkins surgeon had flown home and the CIA medical officer wasn’t allowed to interact with Zahawi while he was awake. David was Zahawi’s medic.
“As-salaam-alaikum,” David said, offering Zahawi a small smile. Zahawi tried to smile back. A tear spilled down his cheek. David prepped a syringe of morphine and slid it into Zahawi’s IV bag. “This should take the edge off. I’ll come back to check on you in a little bit.”
“Shukran,” Zahawi whispered. His fingers played with the edge of his sheet.
David gave Kris a long look before he strode out of the room.
“Is that better?”
