Terminal Rage (16 page)

Beltagi finally gave in and snapped the order to remove the black cloth bags. Underneath, two stunned faces were revealed. The light in the room was unbearably bright for the two men, who squinted hard while their pupils adjusted. Smythe was appalled by their appearance. They looked nothing like their pictures during the trial, which he had reviewed on the flight in. Their beards and heads had been shaved off. Both men were at least thirty pounds lighter, with their eyes sunken in their sockets. Their skin pasty, almost grey in color. A large scar ran from Nabulsi
’
s forehead to the base of his skull. Smythe couldn
’
t fathom how anyone could incur such a perfect, unidirectional wound. The whites of Madi
’
s eyes were jaundiced, suggesting some sort of liver disease. Maybe hepatitis contracted while being someone
’
s prison bitch.

As their eyes adjusted to the light, the sight of so many people in the room must have confirmed their fears their day of reckoning had arrived. They both began reciting the Islamic testimony and verses from the Quran, which made Beltagi chuckle uncontrollably. Smythe looked at Sobhy, cueing him to translate what he was about to say.

“I think these men both speak English, Mr. Smythe. It might be better if you address them directly.”

Relieved, Smythe turned to the two prisoners. “Are you men Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi?”

Both men rotated their heads sideways, their eyes meeting. It must have been the first time they had seen one another since their trial six years ago. Clearly they had been prohibited from speaking or asking questions since they were transferred to the holding wing, waiting for something to happen. The suspense must have exacerbated their already frail state of mind.

Smythe asked again, “Are you men Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi?” They turned their heads at the same time, almost in sync, and gawked at Smythe.

He pulled out his iPhone and looked at their photos to tell them apart. He walked up to the man he thought was Nabulsi and put his hand on his shoulder, then asked him again in a warm, gentle voice, “Is your name Tarek Nabulsi?”

The Jordanian closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded.

Smythe did the same thing with the other guy, who barely managed to whisper back, “Yes. I am Hassan Madi. Today I die?”

“Not if I can help it. Listen carefully. Both of you.” Smythe maintained eye contact with the two men, who were becoming more lucid as he addressed them. He was hoping the humanity in his voice would engage them faster by offering a sharp contrast to the roaring insults and raining physical abuse they were used to at The Devil
’
s Throat.

“You men have been pardoned for your crimes. You are being released into the custody of the US government. Your lives have been spared. You will be exchanged for an American citizen being held by a number of your associates. Once we confirm your identity through your fingerprints, my men here will get you ready for the journey.” Smythe pointed to the Delta Force operators.

“We
’
ll dress you in civilian clothes and attend to any wounds or pain you may be experiencing, in preparation for the journey. You
’
ll then be transported by helicopter to a nearby airport. We
’
ll all board a private jet heading to an undisclosed location where the exchange will be made. Any questions?”

Madi and Nabulsi appeared stupefied.
Had they even processed anything I just said
. But who could blame them? A torrent of emotions must have flooded and clogged their systems. They had been catapulted from the resignation of certain death to the sliver of hope that freedom could be at hand. Madi broke out in tears, and it was left to Nabulsi to confirm to Smythe that both men had understood everything they just heard.

“Even if you are lying, even if we die today, death is a welcome change from this living hell.”

Smythe pulled out a small portable fingerprint reader from his shoulder bag and attached it to his iPhone, then placed it on the table in front of the two men. He navigated to the specialized app that operated the device, pulled out a small piece of microfiber, and wiped the surface of the reader clean. He started with Nabulsi, putting every digit of his right hand on the device, followed by this left hand.

The application beeped on the iPhone, indicating a positive match to the prints he had downloaded earlier courtesy of the CIA
’
s database. This was only the second time Smythe had used this device. Three years ago, the FBI had launched its first portable fingerprint system called Quick Capture. It weighed around twenty-two pounds, and was compact enough to be lugged in a backpack and transported into remote or hazardous places. But the first generation Quick Captures communicated with the FBI
’
s fingerprints database via satellite and required a line of sight. Oftentimes agents didn
’
t have that luxury when operating in fortified prisons across the world. So a mobile version was developed to communicate over Wi-Fi or cellular networks. And like today, when even that was not an option, the mobile versions could be pre-loaded with fingerprint profiles in advance to verify specific identities regardless of connectivity. Although FBI agents in the field were typically assigned a BlackBerry for maximum band compatibility, exception was made to carry an iPhone, specifically for the mobile application of the Quick Capture.

By way of habit, Smythe pulled out a portable travel-size antiseptic gel and gave it to Nabulsi to clean his hands. The Jordanian didn
’
t respond to the gesture so Smythe did it for him. He opened the plastic bottle and squeezed some in Nabulsi
’
s hands and instructed him to rub them. Smythe then repeated the fingerprint verification with Madi, who also checked out. He looked at Beltagi and nodded. “It
’
s them. We
’
re ready.”

Beltagi clicked his fingers at one of his assistants, who pulled out two release folders, one for each prisoner. Smythe scribbled his signature and the date on both forms, and then gestured to the Delta Force operators. “Let
’
s go!”

When Nabulsi and Madi were unshackled by the Egyptian prison guards, the Americans moved swiftly. One of the Delta Force operators pulled out fresh clothes from a duffel bag for the Jordanians as one of his buddies assisted the two prisoners to undress. With their naked bodies exposed under the light, they looked frail and consumed, and were covered with cigarette burn marks, wounds and scars. Their skin was more like a translucent membrane which could almost reveal their organs when exposed to minimal light. Smythe skimmed through the long history of torture inscribed on the bodies of the two men. He flashed a disapproving glance at Beltagi, who was admiring the obscenity of his work with the satisfaction of a proud artist.

Another Delta Force operator dressed some superficial wounds the Jordanians had sustained. There were no broken bones, which meant they could walk on their own without having to be carried. A fourth Delta Force operator hovered around the prisoners cautiously, looking out for his three colleagues.

“Let
’
s go, let
’
s go, let
’
s go!” The Delta guys led the trail of men walking out of the secure holding wing, with the two Jordanians between them. Smythe and the Egyptians followed a few steps behind. They crossed through the main hall of the prison and then out to the courtyard. A prisoner overlooking the scene from his cell must have heard the English being spoken below and shouted at the top of his voice in Arabic, “Guantanamo!”

The other prisoners picked up on the trigger word and started shouting rhythmically and in chorus.

“
Khodni! Hararni! Ana ayez arooh Guantanamo!
Khodni! Hararni! Ana ayez arooh Guantanamo!”

Smythe couldn
’
t believe his ears and looked at Sobhy.

“Are they saying what I think they
’
re saying?”

Sobhy nodded and looked away in shame.

One of the Delta Force operators nudged Smythe for clarification. “What exactly
are
they saying?”

“Take me. Set me free. I want to go to Guantanamo.” Smythe felt a shiver travel down his spine as he translated the words.

“Holy crap!”

The intensity of the chanting in the prison increased exponentially. The prisoners started banging their metal trays and plates against the doors of their cells. Smythe was concerned things would spiral out of control and wanted to get the Jordanians and his men airborne fast. Within seconds, the chanting and banging evolved into a thundering uproar. The remaining three hundred and ninety-eight prisoners who weren
’
t being freed stamped their feet on the floor, sending vibrations all the way outside to the courtyard.

A loud alarm sound erupted, drowning out the mutinous voices of the prisoners. An ominous recorded Arabic message boomed through the loudspeaker in a loop, but Smythe couldn
’
t make out what it was saying. Beltagi and the other Egyptians had recognized the warning though and dropped flat on their bellies with their hands behind their backs.

Sobhy shouted at Smythe over the wailing sirens, the helicopter blades, and the voices of the prisoners.

“The prison is under security lockdown due to a threat of a possible riot. Please drop to the ground and assume this position, Mr. Smythe, and ask your men to do the same. No one is exempt, even the warden. Look at him!”

A prison guard standing a few feet from the Knighthawk signaled to the pilot to kill the engine.

“You
’
ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Smythe was half squatting, not yet decided whether to obey the command or not. “We don
’
t have time for this—these men need to be on that helicopter now if we are to make it on time. Sobhy, ask the Warden to call it off—”

“He can
’
t! Not even God can call it off. It
’
s triggered automatically and is operated remotely by the Ministry of Interior from Qena. Please Mr. Smythe, you
’
re endangering everyone!”

Smythe looked at his watch and did a quick mental calculation. It was six forty-two a.m. He had less than three minutes to board the helicopter with the prisoners and head to the nearby Wadi Abu Shihat military airport. A Gulfstream IV jet was fueled up and ready to fly them to Naples in under two hours and forty-five minutes. That would leave them a little under fifteen minutes to transfer the prisoners to the Scampia Park where the exchange would take place.

“Major Sobhy—run me through what
’
s going to happen in the next ten minutes.”

“The Ministry is now monitoring the inside of the prison via closed-circuit cameras. They
’
ll perform protocol verifications with the security personnel inside. Then, and in about five minutes, a police helicopter will fly over the prison to make sure there are no escape attempts and everyone in the courtyard is lying face down as we all should be. Anyone moving or not on the ground will be shot. Including you, sir.”

Smythe took a snap decision.

“Major Sobhy, I need a favor.”

“I would not
do anything stupid, Mr. Smythe.”

Smythe scanned the scene. The Knighthawk was ready to fly, and the Delta Force men were hovering over Nabulsi and Madi, who had instinctively dropped flat on their stomachs with their hands on their heads. He looked at Sobhy and assessed one last time if he could trust him. To determine if the Egyptian was capable of doing what he was about to ask of him.

“Listen to me. In the next forty-five seconds, my men and I will get on that helicopter and fly out of here. I want you to run back inside the prison and speak to whoever you need to speak to and explain to them not to fire on us once we are airborne. If at any point we feel threatened, we
’
ll fire first. Do I make myself clear, Major Sobhy?”

“You are insane, Mr. Smythe—you and your men will get killed, I guarantee it!”

“A lot more people are going to die if we don
’
t get on that helicopter right now. Every second counts. You need to trust me, Major.”

Smythe turned and bellowed his instructions to the Delta Force men. “In the Knighthawk! Now!”

“Up, up, up, up!” A Delta Force operator shouted at Nabulsi and Madi as another one tugged at their shirts to get them up and push them along towards the helicopter. The Jordanians clung to the ground like turtles. The prison
’
s security protocol had been hard-coded in them. Smythe had to act fast to break that circuit.

He squatted on the ground, at eye level with them.

“Listen to me! Do you want to spend the rest of your miserable lives in this place?”

Their eyes spoke for them.

“Then get in that fucking helicopter
now
!”

It worked.