Page 83 of Whisper
Zahawi shook his head. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Have the Americans invaded Iraq yet?”
Kris frowned. “Iraq? Why would America invade Iraq?”
“It’s next, in the prophecies. To fall. The armies of Khorasan will come through Iraq. The final battle with the West will be there. America is going to invade.”
“I don’t think—”
Zahawi shuddered, and shame filled his gaze. He looked down as a smell wafted from him. He groaned. “I am broken,” he whispered. “I am shamed. I cannot—”
Kris grasped his hand. “You are healing.” Zahawi had soiled himself. A dark stain of urine spread on the sheets. “It is not shameful. We will help you.” He waved to the cameras.
David walked in again, with towels, a bucket of water, and clean sheets. Together, Kris and David lifted Zahawi from the bed, wiped him down, and changed the sheets. Zahawi curled against David’s chest, hiding his face. “Shukran, brother,” he whispered. “You are Muslim?”
“Nam,” David said, gently settling Zahawi down on the clean, remade bed.
Confusion tangled in Zahawi’s eyes. “AndAmerican?”
“Yes.”
“Rest, Asim.” Kris gathered his notes and Zahawi’s diaries. “We will talk again soon.”
CIA Black Site
Detention Site Green
Thailand
May 2002
“He’sexpectingbrutal treatment! They all are! They live on the worst fears and conspiracy theories about the US, and they expect to be proven right. If you want to rock their world, then you give them what they’re not expecting. Humanity. Compassion!”
It was an endless argument,theendless argument, at Site Green. Every day, Kris had to defend his approach to questioning Zahawi.
Kris, David, and Naveen stood on one side of their messy command center’s worktable, completely covered with the detritus of the interrogation so far. Stacks of folders, Zahawi’s bagged and tagged possessions, his diaries, transcripts and tapes of the interrogations, follow-up intel, leads chased from Zahawi’s information. Names of his former recruits. Graduates of the training camps sent to America and Europe. Targets al-Qaeda were surveilling. Plans that were still in the dreaming stage, but had to be checked.
Photos and charts hung on the walls, a cornucopia of intelligence and information, all gifted from Zahawi.
Paul, a senior officer fresh from Langley, snorted at Kris. “There’s no compassion for these animals. They’re murderers. Every last one of them. And here you are, becoming best friends with him. Caring for him!” He sneered.
“I am getting information out of him. He is cooperating!” Kris waved to the stacks and stacks of intelligence piling around their command center. “He’s giving us actionable intelligence.”
“He’s playing you,” Paul snapped. “He’s giving you what he wants to give, to keep you happy. To keep sucking on the American tit.”
“Paul—”
“Why is he even on pain medication? Who authorized that?”
“You would withhold medical treatment?” David pushed off the wall, where he’d been standing in the background, half in shadow. Arms crossed, he stormed to Kris’s side. “That’s torture. Keeping someone purposely in pain. Interfering with their medical treatment. You know that, right?”
“What constitutes torture is an open question. The definition is up for debate,” Paul said smoothly.
“No, it’s not!” Kris cried. He shot a glance across the table to Agent Naveen, his FBI partner for the ongoing interrogations.
Naveen had a scowl on his face, his lips pressed firmly together, eyes narrowed as he stared at Paul.
Kris glared. “The US has signed treaties against torture. Wedon’ttorture people.”
“You won’t be making that call.”
