The terrorist, p.12
The Terrorist, page 12
The interrogator started off by asking Zaharia the same questions the man from Texas had asked at every interrogation session. Why did Zaharia hate America? Did he know all the innocent people he was causing to suffer? When had he joined al Qaeda? Did he know this man? Did he know that man? Had he ever been in Pakistan? Did he know Louis Morgon?
Zaharia no longer protested his innocence. He no longer sought or offered explanations for anything, since none of the questions they asked touched him, except the one about Louis Morgon. When he was asked whether he knew Louis Morgon, he always said yes. Except this time. This time he said, “no.”
Zaharia did not know why he said no. It might have been the new interrogator; it might have been boredom. The interrogator gave him a puzzled look, and Zaharia repeated himself. “No.”
He waited for the two torturers to step forward and put his head in the toilet. Maybe this time they wouldn’t let him up. Except they did not move. They stayed where they were.
The interrogator smiled. “No,” he repeated, and wrote something on the pages in front of him. He studied Zaharia. “Zaharia,” he said, “how old are you?”
Zaharia actually had to think before he could answer. “Almost seventeen.”
“Really,” said the man. He shook his head sadly. “I have a son. He’s fifteen, almost sixteen. He likes video games. Do you like video games? I hate to even think of him being in a situation like yours. I can’t imagine how you got caught up in all this. It must be a terrible mistake.”
Zaharia did not respond.
The man smiled. “I know you can’t possibly be a participant in any of the things that are written here.” He smacked the sheet of paper in front of him with the back of his hand.
The man’s high voice sounded like the silly voice of hope. Do not respond to the voice of hope, Zaharia told himself. Do not listen to the voice of hope.
“This information about you must be incorrect,” said the man. “It can’t be true. How can it be true? I don’t believe it’s true. Is it?”
Zaharia did not respond.
“I would like to send you home, Zaharia. We all would.” Zaharia looked at the two torturers standing there. Did they really want to send him home?
Zaharia did not respond.
“I believe that you are innocent of any wrongdoing, Zaharia. I don’t believe you did anything wrong.”
“Then why don’t you send me home?” said Zaharia. He was sorry he had spoken as soon as the words were out of his mouth. There had been a pleading note in his voice. He could feel the dam of his resolve giving way. And so, he was certain, could the interrogator.
“We’re going to, Zaharia. We’re going to send you home.”
“When?” said Zaharia. Then, before the man could speak, Zaharia answered his own question. “I know,” he said. “As soon as,” he said. “As soon as. Am I right?”
Zaharia was taken back to his cell. The next morning he was taken from his cell back to the interrogation room. Only the two torturers were there. Zaharia’s head was shoved into the toilet. That was the moment he resolved to die.
He did not struggle. Instead he breathed in. The water burned his nose and throat. His body convulsed from the pain of drowning. The two men pulled his head out of the toilet. Zaharia lay on the floor choking and gagging and vomiting. One of the men pushed hard on Zaharia’s chest a few times and water ran from his nose and mouth. When his body stopped jerking about, the two men stuck his head in the toilet again. They had to make certain he was not pretending. Zaharia was carried back to his cell and laid on the bed.
Zaharia did not have a belt or shoestrings or anything else he could use to hang himself. Early in the morning, when he supposed the guards weren’t looking, he lay with his back to the door and tore his pants into strips, which he quickly twisted into a rope. He stood on the edge of his bed and looped the short rope through the cage covering the light and then around his neck. He made sure it was tight. The door of the cell opened. The guards had been watching after all.
Still Zaharia hurled himself with force from the bed. The guards let him dance and choke for a while before they lifted him down and dropped him onto the bed.
When Zaharia woke up, he could not move his arms. They were in a heavy canvas harness that was strapped across his body and tied to the bed. His feet too were tied to the bed with canvas straps.
XIII
The sun was a silver disk low in the gray winter sky. It was cold in Saint Leon, but at least the wind was not blowing. Louis insisted on sitting outside. Pauline sat with him. They sat at the battered metal table with their backs to the house. Louis wore a heavy sweater and a shawl around his shoulders. They warmed their hands around cups of tea. Pauline was pleased to see that Louis’s face had taken on more color. The infection had subsided, thanks to the antibiotics. “I feel better,” said Louis.
“Good,” said Pauline. “It shows.”
“I feel stronger,” said Louis.
“Good,” said Pauline. “I can tell.” She knew where this was leading. “You still need all your strength to deal with the effects of the chemotherapy.”
“It’s true, it knocks me out.”
“It would knock anyone out.”
“But I have to go…”
“I know you do,” said Pauline.
“Soon,” said Louis.
“When you’re better,” said Pauline.
“I’m well enough to travel,” said Louis.
“I don’t think you are.”
“There’s no other way,” said Louis. “I’m better. I’ve waited too long already.”
“Too long? A week?”
“A week in the life of a boy in prison,” said Louis.
“I know,” said Pauline. “But if you relapse in Newark you’re no help to anyone, certainly not to Zaharia. Anyway, what do you expect to find in Newark?”
“I don’t know. But something. I don’t even know enough to know what to expect. Is Fareed Terzani an al Qaeda operative, as Abu Massad said, or is he the model citizen everyone else says he is?”
“Or is he both?”
“Or is he both? At least in Newark I’ll find out. All I’ve found so far is a couple of peculiar file folders and a few possible phone numbers.”
“And that’s enough to take you there? If you go to Newark, how do you expect to find him?”
“Finding him will be easy. He went to the research laboratory there. I already know that. They called Alain Dupré and said he had been there. He’s got a cousin in Newark. I’ve got names, addresses, and numbers. Fareed Terzani is not very good at hiding.”
“If you go, then I will go with you.”
Louis turned in his chair and looked at her. “Why?” he said.
“Maybe I can help,” she said.
“You mean pick me up when I collapse? Hold my head when I vomit?”
“I may pick you up,” she said. “But you’ll have to vomit alone. And there will be other rules.”
They took a hired car to the airport. They flew business class. Those were some of her rules. “It’s a waste of money,” said Louis.
“It is if you don’t enjoy it,” said Pauline. As if to demonstrate, she lowered her seatback and raised the footrest and took a nap.
Their passports were scrutinized and then scanned in the JFK customs hall.
A hired driver got their baggage from the carousel and drove them into Manhattan. Pauline had reserved a room at the Metropolitan Hotel on Fifth Avenue. They were on the eighteenth floor overlooking Central Park. “How much is this costing?” said Louis.
“Less than a hospital room,” said Pauline.
Louis took off his clothes and went to bed. “Today is the fifth. Maybe we’ve got five days until Sanchez discovers I’m not in Cairo.”
“And what if he finds out sooner?” said Pauline. She waited for his answer. But Louis was asleep. He slept deeply through the rest of the afternoon and through the night.
He woke up at seven thirty. The just-rising sun cast long shadows across the frosty park. The buildings on the west side of the park were orange and crimson in the early light. Puffs of magenta steam rose from their tops into the clear blue sky.
Pauline sat gazing into the park. The rising light shone through the cloud of her hair. It almost looked on fire. She turned when she heard Louis stirring. She smiled at him.
Pauline picked up the telephone and ordered breakfast. Louis could not recall that he had heard her speak English before. Breakfast arrived on a little cart a short while later. The plates were covered with gleaming silver domes. There was a shiny silver coffeepot, and a carafe of juice. Pauline lifted one of the domed covers to reveal eggs, bacon, potatoes. For the first time in a long time, Louis was ravenous. They sat at the small table by the window and ate.
Pauline looked up to see that Louis had stopped eating and was looking at her.
“What is it?” she said.
“It’s you,” he said. “Being here with me. I have been single-minded about Zaharia Lefort, about doing whatever I can to pursue his release.”
“As I would expect you to be,” she said.
“That’s just it,” he said. “That you would expect I would be. I marvel that you would expect I would be, and that you would allow it without complaint.”
Pauline laughed. “You know there are few Frenchmen who could come up with such a convoluted sentence as that. Your French is quite remarkable.”
Now Louis laughed. “Well, appreciating the unexpected and the undeserved requires … convolutions. Is there such a word?”
“I don’t know,” said Pauline. She spoke in English. “But your single-mindedness in this matter is really something wonderful. I adore you for it.”
Louis gave her a puzzled look. “Oddly enough, ” Pauline said, “I find it easier to speak of matters of the heart in English. That is contrary to all the conventional wisdom, I know. But for me English is the language of love.” Louis’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Can you forgive me for that?”
They both rose laughing. They embraced each other. They lay down across the bed. Pauline’s robe fell open. Louis kissed her up and down her body.
Later they dressed and went downstairs. As they walked across the lobby, Louis said, “I need to sit down. Over here.”
They sat in side-by-side armchairs with their backs to the lobby. “Are you all right?” said Pauline.
“Perfectly,” said Louis. “Look in the mirror.” Pauline looked. “Do you see that man—keep facing me as though we’re having a conversation—he’s at about ten o’clock, reading a magazine.”
“With the glasses? What about him?”
“He was on the plane with us.”
“Are you sure? Who is he?”
“Phillip Dimitrius is my guess.”
“Who?”
“He’s the CIA agent who’s been following me. According to Sanchez, he’s the one who got Zaharia arrested. I do not know whether that is true or whether they are working in concert.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Louis smiled at her. “I may have to,” he said. “Eventually. First, though, we’ve got to get rid of him.”
Phillip Dimitrius watched over the top of his glasses while Pauline held Louis Morgon’s arm and slowly walked him back to the elevator. A clerk came from behind the desk and took Louis’s other arm. Louis had to stop more than once before they reached the elevator. Phillip watched while the elevator rose to the eighteenth floor.
After a reasonable length of time, Phillip Dimitrius rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor. A do not disturb sign hung from Louis’s door. Phillip pressed his ear to the door. The television was on. By the time Phillip returned to the lobby to resume his vigil, Louis and Pauline were in a cab bound for the Lincoln Tunnel.
As they neared the tunnel, the cab rolled to a stop, rolled forward, stopped and waited, then rolled forward again. Finally they were in the tunnel. Pauline leaned close to Louis. “Why is this Dimitrius following you?” she said. She spoke French.
Louis whispered in her ear. “He may believe I am a terrorist.”
The French, thought the driver. Even when they get old, they’re still lovers.
In Newark the driver found the Intex laboratory easily enough. Arthur Blumenthal told Louis everything he knew, but it wasn’t very much. “Is it you Fareed is afraid of?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Louis. “Why? What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. But he was terrified when he learned I had spoken with Alain Dupré.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Fareed said I shouldn’t have told Alain that he was coming to Intex. He was terrified. He ran out of here like a shot.”
“Has anyone been here looking for him?” said Louis. “Or asking questions?”
“No. Nobody.”
Lillian looked through the curtains at the couple standing on the porch. They had already knocked twice. Junior had come running and barking. The man had immediately made friends with him. Damn that dog. Lillian decided to wait until they went away. Except they weren’t going away.
The man sat down on the top step, and damned if Junior didn’t lie down next to him and lay his big, stupid head right on the man’s lap. The woman sat down next to the man on the other side. She put her hand on his back and asked him something. It sounded like French. The man was pretty old and didn’t look in the best of health.
Lillian opened the door. “May I ask what you folks are doing on my porch?” The man got to his feet as best he could. The lady helped him up. They were neither one of them spring chickens. “Can I help you with something?”
“I apologize if we startled you,” said the man. “I knocked, but you must not have heard it.”
I heard it, thought Lillian. And you know I heard it. “ No, I guess I didn’t,” she said.
“My name is Louis and this is Pauline. It is very urgent that we speak with Fareed Terzani.”
Oh my God, thought Lillian. It’s them. It’s al Qaeda. Except, look at them. They don’t look like they could harm a soul. “ Who?” she said.
“Fareed Terzani,” said Louis.
“Fareed?” said Lillian. “I don’t know any Fareed.”
“Well,” said Louis, and he shrugged. “Where else would he go? You’re his cousin, after all. Isn’t Fatima Terzani your cousin? And Fareed is her son.”
“There’s no one named Fareed here,” said Lillian. “Now you folks are going to have to get off my porch.”
“It is very important that I speak with Fareed,” said Louis. “His life may be in danger.”
“Uh-huh,” said Lillian. “Your life may be in danger if you don’t get off my porch.” She reached for the baseball bat she kept by the door. She made certain that Louis saw it.
“Madame,” said Pauline, “do you speak French?”
“Yeah,” said Lillian. “A little. Why?”
“Because,” said Pauline in French, “my English is not very good. Please, madame, Monsieur Morgon and I—I am Pauline Vasiltschenko—we understand you are protecting your cousin. But if we know he is here, then others do too.”
“He isn’t here,” said Lillian.
“We are leaving, madame,” said Pauline. “But please tell Fareed it is important to him that we meet. We will meet with him anywhere and under any circumstances he prefers. We will return tomorrow morning at the same time.” She took Louis’s arm. Junior trotted with them to the gate. Lillian watched them walk up Keyser Street.
The following morning, Louis and Pauline parked their rental car in front of Mimi’s Hair and Nails and walked to Bobby and Lillian’s house. Bobby was waiting on the porch. He stood with his arms crossed on his chest and watched them approach. Junior was nowhere in sight.
“May we come in?” said Louis, his hand on the gate. “We’re not armed.”
“It doesn’t matter if you are,” said Bobby. “There’s a Newark policeman inside that window with his shotgun aimed right at your head.”
Louis opened the gate, and he and Pauline walked through.
“That’s far enough,” said Bobby. “Now, who are you and what do you want?”
Louis told him, as briefly as he could. He explained that he, Louis, had a bad history with the CIA. He explained how Zaharia had been kidnapped, and how he was looking for something to trade for Zaharia’s release.
“You’re looking to trade Fareed for your boy?” said Bobby.
“Is Fareed with al Qaeda?” said Louis.
Bobby considered how he wanted to answer that. “No,” he said finally. “But he knows something about them.”
Now it was Louis’s turn to consider. “What I need is what he knows,” he said.
“And what are you offering?” said Bobby.
“The CIA is right behind me—a man named Phillip Dimitrius and another one named Peter Sanchez. It’s only a matter of time—a day or two, at most—until they find him. I don’t know whether they’re working together or not. But what I’m offering Fareed—and Natalie—is the chance to be safe.”
“We can keep Fareed safe all right,” said Bobby. “So, the way I see it, you’re offering nothing.”
Louis narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Bobby. Bobby took a deep breath. He seemed to get even bigger. “I can see you’re a smart man,” said Louis. “And I don’t doubt your seriousness of purpose. Or your strength. But I can find Fareed in a few hours by myself.
“I know you work at the airport—the sticker on your bumper tells me that. I know you’ve got a friend, or relative, on the police force.” Louis nodded his head toward the house. “You told me that yourself. So, if I follow you, or him”—Louis nodded toward the house again—“I’m guessing I’ll find Fareed. Don’t take this the wrong way, but this is my line of work. And it’s not yours. If you hide Fareed really well, it will still only take me a day or two to find him. The same goes for the CIA guys.
“Now, think about this,” Louis continued. “You have to know by now that I mean Fareed no harm. I gave you a full day’s notice I was coming back. If I was going to harm Fareed, would I have done that? I want to meet him on terms of mutual trust and understanding. If it’s not done that way, it just won’t work. However you want to arrange and organize the meeting is fine with me. All I would suggest is that you make it happen sooner rather than later. For Fareed’s sake.”
