Collision of Evil (23 page)

With a quick surge of movement, the Turk rose and was gone. Ibrahim regarded the blond man, just as the blond man regarded him. The interrogator drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a moment and then stopped. He began to speak a slightly accented but fluent Turkish. “My colleague is right. I have questions for you. Quite a few questions, in fact. But first, I should say a few words about myself, just to provide perspective. You don’t know who I am or where I’m from, do you, Ibrahim?”

Ibrahim did not respond, his silent gaze fluently communicating loathing.

“Okay, have it your way. You can stay quiet for now if you want—for now. Let me tell you a few things you should know. I’m not a Turk, as you have doubtless figured out, smart fellow that you are. Would you care to guess where I’m from?”

Again Ibrahim did not react.

“Okay. I am not from Europe and not from the Germany that you were intending to return to on the flight you unfortunately missed. I’m also not from the United States. As it transpires, I’m from Israel, a small state in the Middle East you may have heard of. I work for the Israeli government. My work for Israel involves protecting its citizens from harm. The agency that employs me is called Mossad. You’ve perhaps heard of it. My colleagues and I travel the world to uncover threats to our country. This brings me to you, my friend, and why I am here.”

The blond man stopped and tried to discern a reaction. Detecting no change of demeanor, the man cleared his throat and continued his monologue.

“As it develops, the organization I represent is quite certain you keep bad company. You’ll probably want to deny this, but that would
be, frankly speaking, a waste of time for us all. We know for a fact that you are a terrorist—from an Israeli perspective—and I believe from the perspective of the Turkish government as well. So, what do you think we should do about this situation that we find ourselves in, with me sitting here and you in those unfashionable chains? Doesn’t look too promising for you, does it, Ibrahim?”

This time the prisoner did react. Extending his neck he hurled spittle at his interrogator and muttered a guttural curse.

The blond man, sitting out of range, frowned disapprovingly and adjusted his magenta tie.

At that moment the door to the room opened and Ahmed entered, bearing a glass of water. He noted the baleful stare of the shackled man and the tension in the room. “Something wrong?” he inquired.

The blond official shrugged, his jacket bunching slightly at his shoulders. “It seems that our friend here is unhappy, not to mention ill-mannered. He doesn’t want to cooperate, sadly enough.”

Ahmet nodded and smiled slightly. “Well, no water for him then.” He raised the glass to his own lips and drank.

The blond man gave a soft laugh and addressed the chained prisoner. “Let’s give it one more chance, shall we, Ibrahim?”

There was no response.

“All right. We have your notes, the ones you took to the airport with you. The writing is in your hand, we have established that from the signature on your passport. The notes have to do with preparation to commit a terrorist act in Germany. This would make you a terrorist courier, Ibrahim. Do you recall these sentences from your notes? ‘Target location will be left up to you. It is vital that locations be selected for mass casualties. Confined spaces are essential for success.’ That strikes me as incriminating stuff, Ibrahim. In fact, it’s astounding that you choose to carry such notes with you.”

Ibrahim could not prevent a trace of surprise from crossing his features.

The interrogator named Ahmed detected it immediately. “Didn’t expect that, did you? You wrote your notes in a code you made up.
The problem, Ibrahim, is that you did it so poorly. You’re an amateur. Our decryption officers turned your sophomoric code into plain text in record time. The only thing the code did was to establish your role as a terrorist. Or perhaps, as an untutored associate of real terrorists.”

The prisoner strained at his restraints and barked curses at the Turk, who, in return, only smiled, further infuriating the shackled man.

The blond man interjected. “Here’s the deal, Ibrahim. If you cooperate, your incompetence as a terrorist will be considered in your sentencing, meaning you might actually go free some day, presuming you renounce your past associations.”

“Never,” the prisoner shouted hoarsely, “
Allah Akhbar.”

“Have it your way,” the blond man breathed, his voice trailing off. “Our alternative plan you will find exceedingly unpleasant.” At precisely that moment a falsetto scream pierced the thick walls of the cell, the notes held in the air for several seconds before fading into electric silence.

The two suited men acted as if they had heard nothing.

The Turkish official looked at his manicured fingernails. “Ibrahim, we have the goods on you. You belong to us. I can assure you that you will talk. The easiest way is to talk voluntarily, but we’re prepared to employ some persuasive techniques to defeat your intransigence. I’ll let you think about this. I’ll even have someone bring you water, as you requested earlier. Sorry I drank yours down. Sleep on it, to the extent that you can sleep in here. Tomorrow morning you will talk, one way or another.”

In an instant the two intelligence officers were gone, leaving Ibrahim alone with his thoughts, which were infinitely dark.

The restless half-sleep into which Ibrahim drifted ended abruptly at ten minutes past six the next morning. The door to the cell swung open noisily. Two large men used keys to open the shackles on his arms and the manacles on his legs. The devices fell to the floor with an angry metal clang. Ibrahim was torn unceremoniously from his
seat and dragged from the cell into a narrow, poorly illuminated corridor, its air stale and moist. He felt fear and could taste it.

He was fast-walked down the length of the corridor to a door at its end. His captors opened the green-painted metal door forcefully, causing it to groan on parched hinges. The room he was dragged into was brilliant with light, like a surgery. The two men pushed Ibrahim toward a wall where, he saw, he was to be manacled. His arms were yanked up and away from his torso and secured to the rusting wall restraints. His feet touched the floor but just; he was almost on his toes to secure adequate purchase. It was over in a moment, and then the two men were gone, the metal door reverberating shut.

Ibrahim surveyed his new accommodations. He was alone. There were other manacles attached to the wall, absent occupants. He winced at the intense illumination and noted that the ceiling hosted batteries of strong rectangular lamps that emitted a slight but steady hum. A metal workbench occupied the center of the room, its surface reflecting the glare of the lights above. There was a folding chair behind the workbench, its beige paint heavily chipped. Ibrahim noticed that the bench top was strewn with various objects. Closer inspection revealed that they were tools; he made out a screwdriver, a wrench, and electric drills. On one of the drills, he could make out the name Black and Decker. Shifting his gaze, Ibrahim saw there was a gurney in one corner of the room. It was equipped with what appeared to be restraining straps. Ibrahim felt confused; he did not understand the purpose of the room, but he very much disliked being in its confines. He wondered why he had been moved here from his cell. The apostates could just as easily talk to him there, as they had the day before.

His lamentations were cut short by a prolonged scream that penetrated the thick, spotted walls. The scream was deeper that the one he had heard the previous day. It seemed to go on for a full minute. When the sound faded, it was followed by a series of lower, but audible moans, redolent with exhaustion and despair. Ibrahim felt nausea play at his stomach and felt an acrid taste of copper take up residence in his mouth. Allah give me strength, he said to himself.

The door to the room banged open. The pale-skinned, blond
haired foreigner who had questioned Ibrahim the previous day appeared, his countenance suggesting an unhappy state of mind. The man glanced at the prisoner fleetingly, moving with deliberation to the table at the center of the room. He opened a drawer underneath the tabletop and withdrew a folded white smock, which he shook open and put on over his neatly pressed olive-colored summer suit. The man surveyed the items on the table while buttoning the smock, and then addressed his manacled guest.

“So, how are we this morning? Well rested? Probably not, I expect, under the circumstances. Let’s try one more time shall we, starting from where we left off yesterday. I want you to talk to me, to answer my questions. It’s that simple. If you comply, presuming I’m satisfied with your answers, life here will become more pleasant for you. I can arrange for you to have decent accommodations, no handcuffs, freedom to walk around your cell, edible food, a Koran, maybe a television. And no abuse from the guards. Given the position you find yourself in, I’d say that isn’t a bad deal. In fact, if you start answering my queries now, I can have you enjoying these privileges by tonight. So, consider carefully, Ibrahim. Will you provide me the information I need?”

Ibrahim did consider the offer, in silence. He wanted a comfortable cell and a bed to collapse in. Still, he knew that he was part of a mission, a member of a company of the just, fighting on the path of Allah. How could he betray them? There would be no forgiveness in this world or the next for such disgraceful behavior.

“I will never help you, Mossad filth,” he heard himself say. “The Jew is never to be trusted. The Prophet himself, peace be upon him, instructed us so.”

“Whatever,” replied the blond man without emotion, his voice barely audible. “Have it your way. But you will talk in the end, it’s a scientific certainty. The gentleman in the next room was stubborn too, regrettably. He forced me to employ technical methods that I find personally distasteful, degrading even. But that was his choice, as it is yours. He’s talking now by the way. You will be talking at some point today, Ibrahim, I assure you. I’ll make you talk, it’s my
profession. Of course, your lack of cooperation, and forcing me to do things I prefer not to do, means that you will get no privileges. Once I’m done, your time here will be an unbroken episode of humiliation and pain. But that’s clearly your preference.”

The foreigner’s words, uttered with detachment, cut at Ibrahim’s psyche like a blade, drawing not blood but fear. He sensed with awful fatalism that very bad things were about to transpire. “Allah strengthen me, be my shield against the infidels,” he muttered.

The blond officer heard Ibrahim’s invocations and smiled without humor. “Too late for that,” he said. “Now where to start?”

The man grasped a pair of pliers in one hand, checking the tool’s heft. He nodded to himself. “Sometimes the best thing is to stick to the old tried-and-true methods. We’ll go with the textbook Mossad employs for occasions like this. We’ll begin with the fingers of your left hand and proceed from there. I presume that you are right handed? You see, in the event that you decide to cooperate after I’ve destroyed your left hand, you’d still retain use of your right hand. I am not inconsiderate. I am a practical interrogator, not some sadist. Left hand, yes?” He gripped the pliers tightly.

Ibrahim was barely aware that he had begun to sob. His eyes were riveted to the implement held by the Mossad officer. He felt overwhelmed by helplessness. There was nothing he could do to defend himself. He was chained to a wall, facing a determined foe who was about to use carpentry tools against his flesh. He would lose use of one of his hands. “Please —” he heard himself implore.

“No,” the Israeli replied.

“Please don’t,” Ibrahim breathed.

“Talk to me.”

“I can’t, you must understand, I can’t.”

“But you will, eventually. Now, I’m afraid we must start the procedure without further delay.”

The man in the white smock crossed to the wall where the prisoner was shackled. Ibrahim thought he detected a hint of sadness in the man’s visage. The foreigner placed the pliers loosely around Ibrahim’s thumb and very slowly began to apply incremental pressure.
“We’ll attain what in my service is called the ‘threshold of pain’ momentarily. That point will be reached precisely when your thumb will be of no future use to you for the rest of your life. We will then proceed to the next digit, and so on, until you talk.” The pliers were now exerting tolerable, but increasing pressure against the prisoner’s thumb.

“Stop! I beg you! I am part of a secret group, a group in Germany. I admit it, just stop!” Ibrahim Baran seemed in awe that it was his own voice uttering this confessional.

The blond man ceased exerting pressure and removed the pliers from the shackled man’s hand. With an affirmative nod he walked back to the shining metal table. “All right, perhaps we’re getting somewhere. It’s a bit early to tell, but we’ll see. If I become disappointed with your level of cooperation, we can always return to coercive methods. I’m sure you agree that simple, candid conversation is preferable to the uncivilized but effective methods of the twelfth century.”