CHAPTER 11
STATION BRAVO, BAHRAIN
BARRI PRISON
20 JULY 0215 HOURS
FRED Leighton stood at his office window, looking down on the compound. Barri Prison had a stark, antiseptic appearance behind the razor wire and guard towers that rose off the desert floor. The white buildings with yellow trim were square, monotonous, and bland to the senses. But it wasn't designed to be an architectural masterpiece; this was a place of confinement for two-hundred-plus Arab prisoners swept up in various operations, not only throughout the Middle East but in other parts of the world as well. A few had been yanked off various airline flights after their names were discovered on lists of terrorist suspects; others had been policed up for some deadly mischief in Europe. Like those captured in places such as Afghanistan and Iraq, these were brought to this place of confinement at the far western end of Station Bravo. The facility, fast taking the place of Guantanamo Bay, was isolated from the rest of the garrison by continual motor patrols keeping a 24/7 surveillance on the immediate area.
This was Leighton's base of operations--not only because he was the area's principal CIA operative, but also because his fluency in Arabic put him on call for various interrogation tasks that popped up. His language skills gave him a psychological edge over the detainees during periods of intense questioning. Leighton had only the slightest trace of accent, and his complete knowledge of the Arabic tongue included not only the academic, technical, scientific, and military aspects, but also the latest slang and political rhetoric. As a boy growing up in several Middle East countries where his father worked as an oil field operations supervisor, Leighton spoke to every social class of Arab that existed, from intellectuals right down the social gamut to the rough-tough guys who did the muscle-work out on the derricks.
His phone rang, and he turned around to answer it. The few words spoken informed him that the prisoner he requested had been taken to interrogation and was waiting for him.
'Right,' he responded, then hung up.
HAMZA Qazi was alone in the room, sitting at a table with an empty chair on the other side. He could tell this place was for informal or even friendly interrogations, in contrast to other areas where he had been taken. For the first few times when he faced questioning after he arrived at the prison, there was nothing in the stark chambers except for the inevitable bright light in the ceiling. At those times Hamza would be wearing clothing much too large for him. This put him at a serious psychological disadvantage, since he had to make an effort to keep his pants from falling down. Additionally, he was forced to stand and wait for hours until a visitor appeared. The man usually brought a chair with him, and the man made himself comfortable while conducting the interrogation. Then another man would appear--sometimes friendlier and sometimes much more hostile--and take over the procedure as Hamza's legs trembled with fatigue and he struggled with his baggy attire. Eventually this second interrogator's place would be taken by the first or perhaps a third in a rotation that seemed endless.
The door opened slowly, almost gently, and a man entered whom Hamza recognized, although he didn't know his name. The visitor smiled, saying, 'Kaeyfae haelik?'
'I am fine, shokran' Hamza replied.
Fred Leighton sat down. 'Would you like some coffee? I can have some brought in.'
'That would be nice,' Hamza said, relaxing now.
Leighton got up and went to the door, opening it and speaking some words in English, then came back and sat down again. 'It's been a while since we've chatted, Hamza.'
'Yes, effendi'
'How have you been? Are you getting enough to eat?'
Hamza nodded, feeling more encouraged by the considerate questions. 'Please, effendi, how long will I be here?'
'I cannot say, Hamza,' Leighton replied, noting that the prisoner did not include his friend Rahmat Nahayan in the question. 'It depends on how you behave and cooperate.'
They were interrupted when an MP guard rapped on the door, then stepped into the room. He sat a thermos pitcher of coffee on the table with a tray holding cups, sugar, and milk, then made a silent exit.
Leighton poured the coffee and gestured to Hamza to help himself to the sugar and milk. 'Some of those guards are nice fellows, aren't they?'
'Yes, effendi,' Hamza said. 'And some are very strict and unpleasant.' After dumping in three servings of sugar and a generous pouring of milk, he stirred his coffee.
'Yes, you are right,' Leighton said. 'Have you found any who are particularly friendly and helpful to you?'
'Only one I can truthfully say I like,' Hamza said.
'Oh? And who might that be?'
'Arjumand Allawi,' Qazi answered. 'He is a sergeant.'
'I see,' Leighton said. 'Do you and Arjumand talk a lot?'
'Yes,' Hamza said. 'He was born in America but he speaks Arabic just like I do. His parents are from Syria.'
'What do you talk about?'
Hamza shrugged. 'Many things, effendi. He tells me about his home and I tell him about mine. Or sometimes we talk about football. Arjumand likes to play as much as I.' He smiled modestly. 'I was quite good back in my hometown league.'
Leighton knew he was talking about soccer, not the American brand of football. 'I guess you miss the excitement of the games, lae?'
Hamza grinned, saying, 'It was my fondest dream to play in the World Cup.'
Leighton smiled back. 'Perhaps someday you will.' He let a moment of silence slip by as they both sipped their coffee. 'Did Sergeant Allawi ever ask you about the circumstances when you were captured?'
'Oh, yes,' Hamza said. 'He was very interested in that.'
'What did you tell him?'
'I told him what happened,' Hamza said. 'I told him how my friend Taqqee tried to run away and escape but was bitten by a snake.'
'Really?' Leighton said, feigning surprise. 'How unusual. What happened?'
'The Americans that captured us could not save him,' Hamza said. 'Taqqee was in great pain and dying. He said his prayers as loudly as possible as if he would have to shout for Allah to hear him. So one of the Americans had to shoot him so he would not suffer more.'
'It must have been a very large snake,' Leighton said.
'Oh, yes, effendi,' Hamza said. 'It was a cobra. People cannot survive such a serpent's poison. It is a sure awful death.'
'How terrible for Taqqee,' Leighton said. He poured them each another cup of coffee. 'Tell me more about your friend Sergeant Allawi. He seems a very nice fellow.'
The conversation settled into a pleasant chat, and Leighton paused after a while to go back to the door and request some pastries to go with the coffee.
.
SEAL BASE CAMP
THIRD SECTION BUNKER
21 JULY 2010 HOURS
PO3C Chad Murchison came in from his stint on the second dog watch, going over to his living area. After setting down his M-16 and bandolier of ammunition, he knelt to pull some MREs out of his rucksack.
Guy Devereaux, lounging on his foam mattress with a paperback Western, looked over at him. 'You got a letter, Chad. It's over in Greene's area. He said he left it out where you could find it.'
'Thanks,' Chad said. He walked over to his team leader's sleeping place and found it with some other letters for members of Foxtrot Fire Team. It was from his girlfriend, Penny Brubaker. 'Ah, shit,' he said.
Guy chuckled. 'What do you have there? Something from a bill collector?'
'Naw,' Chad said. 'I don't know why I said that. It's from Penny.'
'That should put you in a good mood,' Guy said. All the men in the detachment knew Penny Brubaker, having met her in Afghanistan when she worked for UNREO in a relief effort for the indigenous people. 'I heard she's taken
