Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office (40 page)

A car came and collected him from the base housing promptly at 7:30 a.m. The security protocol didn
’t allow for him to drive there himself for the first few weeks, although those could be relaxed later to allow a staff car. The driver raced through Rawalpindi, past the airport and onto the Islamabad Highway, traveling for about twenty-five minutes before coming to a stop inside a disused warehouse parking area. Kamal emerged from the back seat of the car and pulled his Wayfarers from his eyes to glance around the nearly empty lot. At the entry door to the facility sat a large burly man, reading an Urdu daily, seemingly unaware of his arrival. The driver motioned to Kamal to join him as he walked toward the man, who put his newspaper down as they neared.

“Oh Baba, you better have my thousand rupees,” the man said to the driver as they approached. The driver stopped dead in his tracks and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. He had forgotten again about the bet he had lost on the Pakistan cricket match.

“Yaar, I forgot again,” he said as he approached the security desk. “I’ll bring it tomorrow when I bring him again,” he commented motioning to Kamal.

“
Good morning, Kamal,” the man said, reaching out his hand to introduce himself. “Aftab.”

“Hello, Aftab,” Kamal replied shaking his hand. “How do you know my name?”

Aftab swirled around and used the back of his pen to tap the clipboard that was hanging there. He pulled it down and quickly flipped the pages until he found Kamal, showing him the page with his photograph and name. There was no mention of his military rank, instead there was a list of numbers that he didn’t recognize.

“What are the numbers?” Kamal inquired.

“Detainee numbers and interrogation rooms,” Aftab answered. “No names for security purposes.”

“Are these kept on file somewhere?”

“No, they are burned at the end of the day. The only records we maintain are locked inside the facility, but those only stay here twenty-four hours.”

“Ok, where do I start?” Kamal asked. “Do you buzz me in?”

“Do you see a button?” Aftab asked sarcastically. “Thumb scan for entry. If it opens, down the hall, fifth door on the left. They will guide you from there.”

“Last time, I was at the seventh door,” Kamal said. “Must have changed things since.”

“Last time?” Aftab asked confused. “You’ve been here before?”

“Once, about three or four months ago for an interrogation.”

“I’m on the door, but don’t remember seeing you before.”

Kamal shrugged, indifferent to the answer. “No loss for either for us,” he said pressing his thumb to the reader until he heard the door buzz open. He went in alone, as the driver walked back to the car. He caught a glimpse of him walking away just before the security door slammed shut. Turning, he walked down the quiet corridor until he reached the fifth door. He took a deep breath before turning the knob and pulling it open to find a room full of file clerks.

“I was told to come here,” Kamal said confused. “Am I supposed to be someplace else?”

The four clerks looked over at him from their file cabinets. One of the clerks walked over to the desk nearest Kamal and sat down. The other clerks went back to filing their stacks, while the clerk behind the desk shuffled some files looking for something. Unable to find it on his desk, he spun around in his swivel chair and pulled a binder from the shelf behind him.

“Name,” he asked pulling his glasses to his face.

“Kamal Khan.”

The clerk found the tab for K and quickly started hunting for Kamal’s information. Finding it, he looked up at Kamal, pulling his glasses down again before slipping them back on to read the insert.

“Rana,” he called across the room. “Give me 8645061.” While Rana looked for the file, he picked up the wireless walkie-talkie and repeated the number to someone on the other end. “Put him in IR5.” By the time he had finished speaking, Rana had found the file and placed it on his desk. The man picked up the file, confirmed the number and handed it to Kamal. Confused, Kamal looked at him for instruction on where he was supposed to do with the file.

“Down the hall, turn right. Go through the red door, third door on your left,” he said with a sigh. “Why do they send you newbies to me first without any instruction?” Kamal opened his mouth to answer, but the man went on wearily. “I don’t really care. There will be someone outside the room when you are done with your next file. Now go,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Kamal stepped out the door.
What a prick
, he thought, reading the file as he moved down the hall. Shahid Aleem, alias Ahsanullah Ahsan, age 25, captured at Jamia Binoria in Karachi. He was suspected of car bombings in Peshawar and Lahore that had killed a politician and fifteen others, along with his ties to the terrorist network. The file was sparsely filled with mostly assumptions and circumstantial evidence; he had to get the confessions and details on any other acts Shahid had carried out. Kamal reached IR5 and closed the file. There were two guards stationed outside. He stopped, searching his pockets for some change before asking one of the guards to get two cups of sweet tea, a packet of
naswar
and a plate of samosas, before opening the door and entering. He stopped inside to do a quick assessment of the man that he would spend the next few hours with. Walking across the room, he put the file on the table and sat down.

“So what do I call you?” Kamal asked sitting down on the corner of the table.

Shahid looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. His face and clothing were covered with dirt. He looked younger than his age, but tried to puff himself up in front of Kamal to look older and stronger. He was diminutive in size, his torso mostly hidden behind the table where he was chained. He didn’t fit the profile of a hardened terrorist nor did his hands bear the marks of a bomb maker. He almost looked scared to be there.

“Do you have a name or should I call you Shahid?” Kamal asked again, hoping that repeating his given name would find a space within his psyche that could be leveraged later, but no answer came. “Ok, Shahid it is,” he said opening the file.

“I prefer Ahsan,” the boy said. “No one calls me Shahid anymore.”

“Ahsan? Really? Shahid is the name your parents gave you,” Kamal said. “I think I am going to stick with the name that Allah provided, rather than this one.”

“Why did you ask then?” the boy asked. “If you were just going to call me Shahid, why ask me?”

“I thought you might have some respect for your parent
’s wishes,” Kamal said. “Since you don’t, I will.”

Kamal spent the next few hours playing question and answer with Shahid, finding no new information or leads. He only succeeded in angering the boy a few times.

“You know I read your file, but it doesn’t sound at all like the boy sitting in front of me,” Kamal said, giving him a pitying look. “You’re just a scared little boy.”

“I
’m not a little boy,” he said jerking at the restraints. Unable to get any movement, he slammed his open hand down. “Take these off and I will show you who is the little boy!”

“Do you want to stamp your feet on the ground as well?” Kamal asked with a smile. He had always been entertained by the displays of strength from these terrorists once they were caught. Every one of these guys had a misplaced sense of machismo, probably from the mullahs and criminals that had taught them their craft. “You sure you want to dance with me, little boy? I
’m not one of the little girls that you torment with your friends.”

“Take them off,” he yelled. “You people are all so tough when we
’re locked up. But on the battlefield, you cry for mercy when we put the sword to your throats,” he growled.

Kamal reached across the table and smacked Shahid hard across the face. Before he could get his senses back, he slapped him again, this time drawing blood. “If your father had done this, maybe you would be a man today instead of a coward pretending to be a man.”

“Take these off! I’ll kill you,” he screamed at Kamal. Kamal sat back and laughed.

“Come on Shahid,” Kamal leaned back casually in his chair. “You wouldn
’t be able to do a
qurbani
. It’s all talk with you,” Kamal jeered, pushing him to admit to something.

“
Khaar bachiya! Spee bachiya!
” he yelled again. “I have killed five soldiers just like you. I watched the blood pour from their neck after I cut their heads off. I’ll do the same to you,” he cried, trying to reach Kamal.

“At least they are Shaheed now,” Kamal retorted. “Allah gives them a special place in Jannat. Do you know where you are going? Do you have any idea how many souls will attack you during your
azab-e-qabar
? Your father says you are a coward, unable to fight like a man. Your family says that they don’t even want your body. They told us to burn it when you die,” Kamal mocked him. “That’s why you make bombs right? Too afraid to fight like a man?”

There were two things Kamal had learned about these people during his deep cover assignment. They gained respect by boasting about the deeds they had done. Those with the most spectacular kills had the most respect. They also had the mental strength of children when cornered. They were trained to fight, not withstand the mental abuse that good interrogators used. A young terrorist could be broken faster with mind games than torture and Shahid was proving that point.

“My father is a weak man,” Shahid spat back at him. “I don’t care what he says about me.”

“Weak man? You ungrateful son of a bitch,” Kamal said, patronizingly. “He works everyday to earn an honest living. He doesn
’t kill people. He doesn’t kidnap them. He earns his money through hard work. You call that weak?”

“He doesn
’t stand up for Islam. He doesn’t fight against injustice. He fears the police,” Shahid yelled back.

Kamal smiled.
“Your mother said… let me find it…” Kamal said flipping the pages in the file. “Ah yes, he’s not my son anymore. I prayed for a son, but now I pray that he dies a death worse than the ones he has made others suffer. I wish he had not been born now.”

That comment hit him harder than anything Kamal could have said. His facial expression changed from an angry boy to a hurt child. No Pathan son could accept their mother wishing they were dead. No matter how long they had spent with the terrorists, the attachments to mothers were unbreakable.

“Tell me what you did, Shahid,” Kamal said. “Let me tell your mother that you made a mistake, but when we asked, you helped us.”

Shahid sat quietly looking at Kamal and then away for a few minutes before turning to Kamal. “They will kill me if I tell you,” he said quietly, his voice full of fear.

“You tell me and I’ll make sure you go back to your parents,” Kamal coaxed him. Granted, he didn’t tell him that it would be in a box. There was a knock at the door and the guard entered with the items Kamal had requested. Kamal reached across the tray and cupped the
naswar
in his hand while picking up a cup of tea. Placing it just out of Shahid’s reach, Kamal pulled a cigarette from his pack and placed it alongside. “Tell me about the bomb you set off in Peshawar,” Kamal asked quietly.

“They haven
’t fed me anything all day,” Shahid said, attention focused on the plate of samosas, hands shaking. “Could I have one?”

“Answer my questions and I
’ll give you one,” Kamal replied. “As a reward. Each question you answer, another samosa,” he said reaching over the table to take one himself. Personally, he wasn’t a big fan of samosas, but this was all about the show, as he pulled it apart letting the steam escape. “Best when they are hot, Shahid,” he said. “I wouldn’t wait too long.”

Shahid
’s mouth watered and he licked his lips, imagining the taste of the samosa in his mouth. His eyes glazed from the hunger of not being fed all day and sub-standard meals of previous days that had contributed to his stomach problems. Struggling with the words, Shahid stammered out, “I… got… a call… they… told me to prepare.”

“Prepare for what?” Kamal asked taking another bite of the samosa.

“They said I would be traveling to Peshawar,” Shahid said, eyes focused on the food. “I would get more instructions there.”

“Guard!” Kamal called. Shahid cringed, eyes bulging out in fear, wondering why the guard had been called. “
Unhook him,” Kamal said when he entered. The guard looked at him, questioning the change in interrogation protocol. “It’s ok,” Kamal said. “We have an understanding, right Shahid?” Shahid nodded in agreement. The guard hesitantly unlocked the iron restraints around Shahid’s wrists, making a point to squeeze them tighter before releasing them. Kamal didn’t appreciate the guard’s behavior, watching Shahid wince, but wouldn’t confront him in front of the detainee. They needed to command fear among them otherwise the interrogator’s jobs would be much harder.

Shahid reached for a samosa, but abruptly stopped with his hand mid-air. He looked at Kamal for approval, a product of the behavioral conditioning program at the detention center. He waited for the approval to come before continuing towards the sustenance. Kamal hesitated, watching Shahid
’s expressions and body language, before nodding his head. Shahid swept up a samosa, devouring it in seconds.