Chapter 38
Mercifully, the beatings came to an end.
The screeching music that had rendered him practically deaf, as well as driving him mad, stopped.
The searchlight aimed at his face for hours was turned off.
When the room was finally quiet, and the ringing in his ears began to lessen, he was able to sleep. And so he slept.
The four additional waterboardings promised by his captor were now over, or at least seemed to be.
They had produced no knowledge that could benefit anyone.
As Paul had screamed a thousand times, he knew nothing and had nothing to give.
The hours of hanging by his wrists had wrecked his arms and shoulders and he could no longer lift his hands above his head.
The electric clamps placed on his testicles and jolted with current had left scabs, but the bleeding had stopped. That had been the worst of it.
That and the constant hunger, which also seemed to be ending.
On the day the music stopped and the lights went out they fed him twice, for the first time.
A bowl of gruel in the morning with some dates and plums, and a generous serving of warm bread, butter, and soft cheese in the afternoon.
They gave him clothes—pants, sandals, and a shirt, so for the first time in months he was covered.
He’d lost so much weight that his pants slid down.
There was no belt, though he asked for one.
The hideous crate some twisted soul had designed and built for the torture chamber was back on the wall, with another, waiting, he guessed, for more victims. He was given a small cot and the remnants of a blanket.
The temperature inside now was always hot and muggy.
He was allowed to move around and inspect his little prison, but after half an hour his curiosity was cured.
There were two blacked-out windows high off the floor.
After three days of relative freedom and more food and water, he was getting restless. His head and eyes still ached from the noise and lights, but the pain was slowly dissipating.
Franco and Ninja entered and told him to sit at the table. A hood went over his head. “Keep your hands down,” Franco growled. Time for another chat with the boss. The door opened and closed. The chair across the table scraped the floor.
After a long silence, Nabeed said, “You will be moved to another cell.”
In his darkness, Paul shrugged, said, “Okay, then what? What’s the endgame here? How long do I stay in your little, whatever you call it?”
“Camp Echo.”
“Right. After Guantánamo.”
“I was there for eight years. Then I was released with no warning, no explanation. I was taken away in the middle of the night, flown to Cairo, dumped on the streets without a penny. Eight years in a terrible prison for nothing. I was never even charged with a crime.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“Why do Americans always ask that question? Is it because you speak no other languages and you don’t understand how we do it?”
“Just curious. I have plenty of time to think about more questions.”
“Arizona State.”
There was a long pause after each response, as if each man needed time to absorb what was said and think of what was next. “You went to Arizona State?”
“For two years, to study botany and floriculture.” A pause as Paul tried to think of a reply.
Nabeed continued, “I had to leave and return home after two years because my father died and I had to support my mother and family. That’s why I was in Afghanistan when I was captured by the Americans.
I was working for an Egyptian company building a hospital, my brother and me.
Near Kabul. Your soldiers were looking for Arabs because they were certain that all Arabs supported Al Qaeda. Such idiots.”
Paul had nothing to say and did not respond.
“I was captured in 2002. You were at the Naval Academy. Were you aware that your soldiers were torturing and killing innocent boys in Afghanistan?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I have no control over what you believe. Do you kill me now or kill me later?”
“I haven’t decided. Nothing will happen soon. I spent eight years in Guantánamo, wasted years. Doing nothing but being abused. So you have many years to go, Lieutenant.”
“I’m here for eight years?”
“I survived. You can too. Alan has been here for three years.”
“Who’s Alan?”
“Another American soldier.”
Paul’s chin dropped and his shoulders sagged.
For a second it was good news that a comrade was there, then the reality hit hard: This is a well-organized operation with its own soldiers who pull off kidnappings and hide their prisoners where they cannot be found.
A worse thought was that other families were enduring the same nightmare.
“How many American soldiers are here?”
“Only three.”
“And we’ve all been sentenced to eight years?”
“Undecided, Lieutenant, and I wouldn’t tell you if I knew.
There’s a complicating factor that I will tell you only to give you something else to think about.
My younger brother, just a kid, was tortured and killed by American soldiers at Kandahar prison in Afghanistan.
The two soldiers who killed him were court-martialed and sentenced to three years in prison.
They were later pardoned. If I don’t find them, then I’ll take my revenge here. Do you understand?”
“Just kill me now.”
—
Hours later, Paul was hooded and cuffed again and led from the building. His first breath of outside air was not that fresh, but hot and filled with dust and tasted like the other mouthfuls of gunk he was forced to suck in under the hood.
He counted steps and the short walk was over in less than a minute. Eighty steps. They entered another building and he was shoved into a small room. They removed the wrist cuffs and hood and left, pulling the heavy door tight.
His new place was just as bad as the previous one, minus the cages and torture equipment.
He stepped-off his cell—twelve feet by fifteen.
A narrow wooden bunk was wedged into one corner and covered with a thin mattress and a dirty sheet.
In another corner was a ceramic toilet with no lid.
He flipped the lever and was surprised when it flushed.
Next to it was a tiny metal basin with a knob for cold water only.
Above it was a small square mirror with a large crack through the middle.
He was shocked by his appearance. Hollow eyes and cheeks. Pale skin that contrasted with a dark beard, one he couldn’t wait to lose, if given the opportunity. His brown hair was shaggy and bangs fell across his eyes. Toothpaste had not touched his lips since Paris.
On a shelf above the bed he found some reading material—a Bible and some old magazines. In a small cardboard box he found gold—a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, and a comb. He took two steps back to the basin, turned on the water, and worked on his teeth for a long time.
Afterward, he tried to nap but could not close his eyes.
The thought that this cell might be his home for years to come was overwhelming.
Dwell on the things you can control. Breathing is one—do it slowly.
Try to clear your mind as you breathe. Control your thoughts.
Everything is overwhelming so ignore as much as possible.
Chelsea is safe so be thankful for that.
The torture has stopped, for now anyway, so be thankful for that.
The hunger is gone, for now, so be thankful for that.
Breathe deeply and survive this day. Tomorrow will be better.
A loud noise startled him. Franco and Ninja were back. “Stand up.”
The hood went over his head and they cuffed his wrists, then shoved him through the door and led him a few steps.
They sat him down in a chair and removed the hood.
It was dark and he was outside in a fenced pen.
He glanced up but did not see the sky. Ninja grabbed his hair and waved a pair of clippers in his face. He growled, “Okay?”
As if he had a choice.
Ninja flipped a switch and a buzzing sound interrupted the night. Paul closed his eyes as his stylist went to work. Ninja had done this before and wasted no time. Paul opened his eyes, looked at his wrists bound together in his lap, and watched his hair collect on his pants and drift to the ground.
Across the compound, Nabeed sat in a chair next to his truck, smoking a cigarette, watching and smiling at his accomplishments. Three Americans, how much could they be worth?
—
Paul stared at himself in the cracked mirror. The beard was gone too. He had seen the horrible photos of the victims of Auschwitz and Birkenau, hairless men being starved to death. He didn’t look quite that bad but he was still shocked by his appearance.
Things will be better tomorrow.
He sat on the edge of his bed and gently rubbed his slick head with both hands.
And he squeezed his chin and cheeks, thankful that the beard was gone.
He wasn’t bothered by the haircut and shaving.
It would all grow back. To survive in this little corner of hell, he could not afford to hate.
He could not waste the emotional energy needed to properly hate Ninja and Franco for their cruelties.
Their boss, still nameless and faceless, certainly deserved all the hatred Paul could muster, but he could not succumb to it.
Instead, he would practice gratitude. Difficult at first, but then he knew that practice would make it easier.
He was grateful to be alive and relieved that Chelsea was home and safe.
He was out of that crate and could move his limbs.
He was getting more food and water. The beatings and torture had stopped.
The floor was stone tiles, about ten inches square.
He sat on it, then squatted on all fours.
Push-ups were impossible because his shoulders were injured, but he managed to suffer through twenty sit-ups.
He could see his ribs. Twenty today, twenty-five tomorrow.
Then squats, maybe pull-ups. His body had been abused and was a mess, but he could put it back together, slowly, day by day.
He was thankful for his youth.