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No response whatsoever.
Silence filled the room and she could hear only her heartbeat, as she tried to remain calm, thinking of the weapon and the hours counting down until it was used.
“Obviously this is a very awkward situation. Certain officials are extremely embarrassed about what’s happened and are willing to offer, what we could call, reparation for your inconvenience.”
He continued to remain silent but she could tell he was listening to every word.
She scooted the chair closer and sat, leaning forward. “Mr. Be
Claire knew that he made the equivalent of fifteen thousand euros as a professor and another twenty as a journalist.
“I can order all of this done immediately. Your lawyer can monitor the transaction. All you have to do is sign a release agreeing not to sue.”
Silence.
Then she continued with a smile, “And one more small thing…I myself have no doubt that you have been wrongly targeted but…the people who have to authorize the payments, they want just a little more information about the people you met with. The ones in Tunis. They just wish to be reassured that the meeting was i
Be
“They don’t need to know anything sensitive. Just a few names, that’s all. Just to keep the money men happy.”
Is he agreeing? she wondered. Is he disagreeing? Be
When he said nothing she realized: he’s negotiating. Of course.
A nod. “You’re a smart man…. And I don’t blame you one bit for holding out. Just give us a bit of information to verify your story and I can probably go up to a hundred fifty thousand euros.”
Still no response.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you name a figure. Let’s put this all behind us.” Claire smiled coyly again. “We’re on your side, Jacques. We really are.”
Friday
At 9:00 a.m. Colonel Jim Peterson was in the office of the rehabilitation center, sitting across from a large, dark-complexioned man, who’d just arrived from Darfur.
Akhem asked, “What happened with Claire?”
Peterson shook his head. “Be
Akhem took this information with interest but otherwise unemotionally—as if he were a surgeon called in to handle an emergency operation that was routine for him but that no one else could perform. “Has he slept?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“Good.”
There was nothing like sleep deprivation to soften people up.
Akhem was of Middle Eastern descent, though he’d been born in America and was a U.S. citizen. Like Peterson he’d retired from the military. He was now a professional security consultant—a euphemism for mercenary soldier. He was here with two associates, both from Africa. One white, one black.
Peterson had used Akhem on a half-dozen occasions, as had other governments. He was responsible for interrogating a Chechen separatist to learn where his colleagues had stashed a busload of Moscow schoolchildren last year.
It took him two hours to learn the exact location of the bus, the number of soldiers guarding them, their weapons and passcodes.
No one knew exactly how he’d done it. No one wanted to.
Peterson wasn’t pleased he’d had to turn to Akhem’s approach to interrogation, known as extreme extraction. Indeed, he realized that the Be
There were those who said, no, you don’t. That it is better to be morally superior and to suffer the consequences of letting the event occur. By stooping to the enemy’s techniques, these people say, we automatically lose the war, even if we militarily prevail.
Other said that it was our enemies who’d changed the rules; if they tortured and killed i
Peterson had now made the second choice. He prayed it was the right one.
Akhem was looking at the video of Be
He rose and left the office, gesturing his fellow mercenaries after him.
But three hours came and went.
Jacques Be
In waterboarding, the subject is inverted on his back and water poured into his nose and mouth, simulating drowning. It’s a horrifying experience…and also one of the most popular forms of torture because there’s no lasting physical evidence—provided, of course, that the victim doesn’t in fact drown, which happens occasionally.
“Tell me!” Akhem raged as the assistants dragged Be
“Where is the weapon. Who is behind it? Tell me.”
Silence, except for the man’s coughing and sputtering.
Then to the assistants: “Again.”
Back he went onto the board, his feet in the air. And the water began to flow once more.
Four hours passed, then six, then eight.
Drenched himself, physically exhausted, Akhem looked at his watch. It was now early evening. Only five hours until Saturday—when the weapon would be deployed.
And he hadn’t learned a single fact about it. He could hardly hide his astonishment. He’d never known anybody to hold out for this long. That was amazing in its own right. But more significant was the fact that Be
Subjects always begged and cursed and lied or offered partial truths to get the interrogators at least to pause for a time.
But not Be
“Again,” Akhem a
Then, at 11:00 p.m., Akhem sat down in a chair in the cell, staring at Be
Akhem dried off and looked over the subject. He then walked into the hallway outside the cell and opened his attaché case. He extracted a large scalpel and returned, closing the door behind him.
Be
The subject leaned away.
Akhem nodded. His assistants took Be
Akhem took the subject’s fingers and leaned forward with the knife.
“Where is the weapon?” he growled. “You don’t have any idea of the pain you’ll experience if you don’t tell me! Where is it? Who is behind the attack? Tell me!”
Be
The interrogator moved the blade closer.
It was then that the door burst open.
“Stop,” cried Colonel Peterson. “Come out here into the hallway.”
The interrogator paused and stood back. He wiped sweat from his forehead. The three interrogators left the cell and joined the colonel in the hallway.
“I just heard from Washington. They’ve found out who Be