Chapter 40 #2
As exhaustion set in, for Nash anyway—Major seemed ready and able to hammer away for hours—the two guards returned with the hood and cuffs.
The prisoner was returned to the same cage, where he began standing and waiting again.
The silence was shattered by a speaker hidden in the ceiling.
Screeching songs in what he thought to be Arabic howled through the cages.
They were interspersed with Muslim chants, and it became clear they would not go away anytime soon.
A searchlight was aimed at him and penetrated the dimness with a harsh glare.
Stuart began to question his motives. He knew he could start yelling and demand to be released. The game would be over. He would flunk the course, get the hell off The Farm, and say farewell to Rae Claire and her “operation.”
He knew they were watching. He hoped they were suffering through the same noise. The mental drain was tiring and the physical pain was only getting worse. His back, thighs, and calves were stiff and any slight movement made him ache.
Time was irrelevant. Minutes seemed like hours. He needed sleep but even nodding off was impossible.
—
The cage opened and he stepped out, without a hood or cuffs.
He wanted to curse the guards but again refused to give them anything.
They led him to another room and sat him at a table where he waited for half an hour.
Sitting was a relief, but he refused to stretch or rub his sore legs. They were watching.
Sherman was the next interrogator, another tough guy with as much warmth as Major.
He asked if Nash was hungry and he said no, he was accustomed to fasting and found it quite healthy.
The sarcastic response seemed not to register with the guy.
He handed over a bottle of water and Stuart took one sip.
He really wanted a gallon but that would show weakness.
Sherman began with questions about his work at Justice in Atlanta.
Routine stuff and he seemed to already know the answer to every question.
This dragged on with no drama until he finally got around to Stuart’s work prosecuting detainees at Guantánamo.
How many times had he gone there? Who was his boss and who was on his team?
It seemed unusual for a rookie prosecutor to get himself involved in Gitmo.
Every military prosecutor had jockeyed for a chance to nail Al Qaeda.
Why was Stuart Nash allowed to take part in the prosecutions?
He threw out the names Al Awari Hassan and Sayman al-Darbi and asked if Stuart had actually met them. Hassan yes, al-Darbi no.
Like Major, Sherman seemed immune to fatigue and boredom, and Stuart worked hard to stay focused. But he was starving and in pain. Had he witnessed any physical abuse of the detainees? Did he participate in it? No and no.
Sherman called him a liar several times and Nash returned the insult. The verbal sparring dragged on until Sherman abruptly stood and left the room. One of the guards entered minutes later with a tray of fruit and water. He sat it on the desk without a word and left the room.
—
Rae Claire’s captivity wasn’t quite as harsh. Over the past few months, the FBI had quizzed Chelsea Tanner, Beth Snyder, and Milly Stockman at length. Rae Claire had reviewed the transcripts and videos. Chelsea and Beth had agreed to be videoed; Milly would not.
All three were treated in remarkably similar ways, which, in the opinion of Rae Claire and her team, was another mistake by the kidnappers.
The descriptions of the room, or “cell,” where they were kept were virtually identical.
Rae Claire was convinced it was the same place.
All three had been heavily drugged and had not seen the exterior of any building.
Technicians had arranged a similar cell, which wasn’t much of a chore.
A narrow room, about twenty feet by twenty, with no outside light, pitch-black, so dark it was often difficult to see their hands.
But then, they had been sedated. A narrow cot with a blanket as thick and coarse as burlap.
At first Rae Claire liked the idea of receiving a knockout dose, but decided not to.
She spent forty-eight straight hours in the room with no contact, no light, and nothing to eat but two apples.
She knew that CIA interrogators could verbally abuse her to the point of admitting anything, but the three wives, the real victims, had not been subjected to such abuse.
Other than being drugged, bound, and kept in a hole for three days, they had not been mistreated.
She hoped her experience would be the same. Leave the rough stuff for Nash.
Late Sunday afternoon, she was hooded, led from the room, and allowed to change into her street clothes. She debriefed with a colleague, then got in a van for the two-hour ride back to D.C.
Her fiancé would spend another night in a cage.
—
Four days later, they met after work in a Georgetown bar and managed to share a laugh.
Nash was still nursing sore legs but refused to complain.
His handlers gave him high marks for his mental and physical toughness.
He never broke, never gave the real secrets of his cover story.
He stuck to the training maxim: Let ’em peel away the onion, give ’em something but not the truth.
With a laugh Rae Claire said, “You just might make a real spook.”
“No, thanks. That’s your world, not mine. I’ve been tortured enough.”
“What was the worst part?”
“Sleep deprivation, with the horrible music and lights in my eyes. After an hour of it I felt like I was cracking up. Then I sort of got numb to it. My ears are still ringing.”
“You know we have to do it again.”
“So you say,” he shrugged. “I don’t care. I learned a lot about myself. I can take anything and survive. By the third day I was able to turn it off and drift away to another world.”
“Where was that?”
“I was inspired by the POW, the old guy. He mentally escaped to his boyhood farm in Indiana. So, I went back to my childhood, to my Little League baseball days in North Carolina. A lot of good times there. I still have friends from those teams. I replayed game after game, and of course I was always the hero.”
“Of course.”
“It worked.”
“Well, speaking of North Carolina, it’s time to meet the families.”
“Oh no. I’d rather go back to The Farm.”
“We will, believe me. I think I can convince my mother to visit here for a weekend. You can say hello then.”
“What about your father?”
“He’s really not in the picture.”
Rae Claire rarely talked about her parents and sister, and Stuart assumed it typical of intelligence officers.
“Will you invite him to the wedding?”
“Sure. If he shows up he won’t be a problem. Have you thought about your family?”
“Yes, a lot. I like the idea of going to Charlotte for a weekend. They live an hour away and I’ll get them to come over for dinner.
That’ll protect you from some nosy aunts and Mom’s friends.
After my brother and sister hear the news they’ll hustle up here to examine you.
You’ll like them. Not so sure about my parents. ”
“Your parents won’t approve?”
“I really don’t care. My parents eloped when they were twenty years old and both families were horrified.
The marriage got off to a rocky start and really never improved.
As I’ve told you, Rae Claire, my parents should have divorced many years ago.
They haven’t lived under the same roof in a decade, and that’s a smart arrangement. ”
“Why not divorce?”
“Well, we certainly believe in divorce, don’t we? We’ll get one next year, assuming I don’t get my throat cut.”
“You’re gonna be fine, Nash.”
“Easy for you to say.” He took a sip of bourbon. “It’s complicated. My parents truly love each other but they cannot get along. They’re just too different and incompatible. That’s why they should never have married.”
“Why did they elope?”
“Well, my sister, brother, and I have always suspected that Mom thought she was pregnant. There have been a couple of hints over the years but no actual verification, because that would require transparency and honesty and my family would rather revel in secrets and cover-ups.”
“Welcome to our world.”
“I guess it comes natural to me.”
“No pregnancy?”
“No. I was born three years later, the first. We know that she miscarried at least twice before I was born, so maybe there were more. Anyway, it will never be discussed.”
“Mum’s the word. You know where I work.”