Chapter 28
Because of the hot, dry climate, flowers are cherished by the people and grown with great care. The florist grew up in the shop, which was owned by his father and grandfather before him.
His name was Nabeed. He was thirty-five years old, still single, and he lived in a small house not far from the center of Béchar.
He opened his flower shop each day around nine and managed it with the help of Moira, a local girl.
He greeted his customers, took orders by phone, and when things were slow he stepped through the curtains to the rear where he kept a small greenhouse filled with his favorites, especially his orchids.
His grandfather, an old Frenchman, had taught him how to raise and nurture the temperamental flowers.
Although he was a local boy from a modest family, he was well known throughout the town. Years earlier his family and friends had been thrilled when he announced he would enroll in university, in America! Later, tragedy struck and he became a prisoner.
The compound was hidden beneath tunnels and tarps, large camouflaged configurations anchored by concrete posts and built to withstand the fierce desert storms. Nothing was visible by satellite, especially after dark.
Only a handful of people, Nabeed and his men, knew the compound existed.
One road led in and out, and it was watched by men with guns and surveillance monitors.
Since it was built three years earlier, not a single trespasser had ventured near the compound.
There were half a dozen square flat buildings of various sizes, all painted the color of the sand, all under camouflaged tarps. Nabeed parked near one of them, spoke to a guard, and entered a building. It was dark inside and he stayed in a corner, almost hidden. He nodded at the two guards.
Franco turned on the water hose and began spraying Paul, who was hanging by his wrists.
The daily shower, the daily ritual of washing away dried blood and shit.
For good measure, Franco hit him in the face with a stream.
Once he was thoroughly drenched and shivering, he was lowered, removed from the cage, and strapped to the board.
“No, no, please,” he begged. “Please, not again. Tell me what you want.”
As always, neither Franco nor Ninja said a word as they went about their ritual of tightening the Velcro so tight he could barely breathe.
“No, please.”
Nabeed took a few steps closer, to enjoy the moment. He was pleased to see the ribs of his latest catch. It reminded him of his own starvation, and the taunts of the American soldiers.
He nodded and the pouring began. Paul flinched and groaned and again tried not to swallow, but, soon enough, he was groaning and twisting in agony. Drowning once more. Could this be the last time?
Nabeed knew exactly how it felt.