Chapter 35
The screeching noise suddenly died. The spotlight was turned off.
The dark room was hot and his handlers were back.
Paul’s heart pounded because he knew what was next.
He was delirious and aware that he was mumbling something, but he had no idea what he was trying to say.
Something about death. He had been deprived of sleep and food for so long he wasn’t sure he was still alive.
But his labored breathing told him he was not quite dead yet.
Franco and Ninja appeared and without a word hooked his cage to the lift and swung it around.
Time for another cold shower. Franco took the water hose and began spraying, as always hitting his genitals first. Paul wanted to scream but he was almost to the point of feeling no pain.
When the shower was over Ninja opened the cage and Paul fell to the wet concrete floor.
They dragged him to a chair, removed his wrist cuffs, and placed a bowl of bread and fruit on the small table. Without a word, they left.
With both hands he stuffed the food in his mouth. Then he gulped more of the odorous water from a bottle. He finished the meal in minutes and felt the warm food settle in his stomach.
The beatings were not as frequent now, but his wasted body was still covered with cuts and bruises. They fed him every other day, as if he knew day from night. Days, weeks, months, he’d given up guessing at time. His ears rang like urgent sirens and his eyes ached when he opened them.
Please, someone, just give me the bullet.
He stared at the empty wooden bowl as if more food might miraculously appear.
Then there was a movement beside him, and suddenly a black hood was thrown roughly over his head.
A cord was yanked hard and almost cut into his throat.
“Don’t remove this,” Franco growled. Paul now knew them by their voices, not only their nicknames.
Across the table, a chair scraped the floor as someone sat down. A new voice said gently, “Welcome to Camp Echo, Lieutenant Tanner.”
Nabeed let his words sink in.
Anything approaching rational thought was difficult. Paul’s temples were pounding, his ears were on fire. He heard “Camp Echo” but nothing registered. The voice was calm, the accent slight.
“Who are you?” Paul grunted.
“Don’t start by asking a bunch of silly questions. I’m happy to talk to you but I have no time for useless questions.”
“What do you want?”
“Information. Were you aware that your military was paying cash for alleged terrorists in Afghanistan? Did you know that?”
Paul exhaled as his shoulders slumped. He dropped his head.
“Your military rushed in with buckets of cash and offered it to the drug lords and warlords in Afghanistan. Five thousand U.S. dollars for this Arab, suspicious or not. Ten thousand for that one. Your ignorant soldiers saw Al Qaeda everywhere in the mountains of Afghanistan. Were you aware of that?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you. Everyone knew it. Your own journalists wrote about it. Some of your own politicians objected loudly. Did you see the famous photos of young Arab prisoners being threatened by dogs in Abu Ghraib prison? Did you?”
“Maybe I did, I don’t remember.”
“Perhaps you don’t want to remember. The whole world saw the pictures. There was one in Time magazine, of a skinny kid, bound and shackled, almost completely naked, being bitten by a military dog. Do you remember that one?”
“No.”
“That skinny kid was me, twelve years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that again. It means nothing now. I was at Abu Ghraib prison, then a CIA black hole in Poland, beyond the reach of any military rules or justice. I was beaten, abused, starved, and tortured there. Then I was sent to Guantánamo for eight years.”
“So this is about revenge.”
“Revenge, justice, money. I have plenty of motives, Lieutenant.”
“I did not go to any of those places, I swear. I know nothing.”
“Nor did I. Your people waterboarded me fourteen times and got nothing because I had nothing. I begged them to stop. I swore too, swore I knew nothing. I never met anyone involved with Al Qaeda.”
Paul tried to sit up straight but all of his joints ached. Breathing was difficult. In spite of the pain and excruciating discomfort, he began to realize that a slight, even tiny measure of progress was being made. At least he knew why he was there and who the enemy was.
He asked, “Do you plan to starve me to death?”
“No. That’s not the plan.”
“Then what is?”
“Another bad question, Lieutenant. We’ll talk again, once the procedures are over.”
“Procedures? You mean the torture.”
“As I said, I was waterboarded fourteen times. You are at ten, so only four more to go.”
“No, please, no. I can’t take anymore. Just go ahead and kill me.”
Nabeed nodded at Franco and Ninja. They grabbed Paul by the arms, yanked him out of the chair, and dragged him away.
“No! Please! Stop it! I got nothing. I got nothing.” Paul was screaming again.