“Take them off,” the imam said to Hani.
Hani hesitated, then reached for the cuffs, giving Wells’s shoulder a final tug as he did. With his arms free, the pain was merely agonizing. Wells sat up, his right arm hanging limp. He was in a midsize panel truck. The imam and Hani sat beside him, a skinny middle-aged man in the corner. His hair was gray, unusual for an Arab. Wells recognized him from Alaa Zumari’s dossier. Alaa’s father, Ihab.
“Pop it in,” Wells said to Hani.
“What?”
“My shoulder.” Wells could fix the joint himself. He had before. But very few people had his pain tolerance, and they might wonder how he’d managed it.
Hani looked to the imam, who nodded. Hani grabbed Wells’s arm at the elbow and without hesitation pushed it up and into the socket. Wells’s body became a machine devoted to generating pain, the agony radiating across his chest. Then his arm settled in and Wells could open his eyes. He took two breaths, three, and then was able to move. He squirmed backward, leaned against the side of the truck.
“You are all right?” the imam said.
Hani gave the imam Wells’s Kuwaiti passport and wallet. The imam leafed through them. “You came to Suez. Why not fly?”
“At the airport, every passenger is photographed. It’s best for me if my picture isn’t taken. The pharaoh’s men are everywhere.”
“That man”—the imam nodded at the man in the corner—“is Ihab Zumari. The one you’ve come to see.”
Wells braced himself to stand, but Hani put a hand on his left shoulder. “
“I’m Nadeem Taleeb. I’m sorry to disturb your sleep.”
Zumari nodded.
“Did you see my Web site? The videos?”
Another nod.
“Then you know why I’ve come to you.”
“Tell me,” Zumari said. His voice was low, each syllable measured. His dossier said he ran a small electronics store in a run-down section of Islamic Cairo, but he looked and sounded more like a law professor.
“I want to talk to your son. Interview him.”
“Why Alaa? It must be thousands of detainees who’ve been released.”
“Only a few from the secret prisons.”
Neither Zumari nor the imam looked convinced.
“You wonder why I do this. I’ll tell you about myself. I’m not a jihadi. I pray, sure, but I never hated the Kaffirs. Back in the 1990s, I lived in France. I liked it. But five years ago, a boy I know, a friend’s son, Ali, he went to Afghanistan. He wasn’t really a jihadi. Not very religious. He went with the Talibs for the adventure, I think.”
“Adventure,” the imam said.
“Kuwait, it’s boring. Office buildings, oil wells, desert. These boys have nothing to do but drive around all day. Not even a wife, unless they’re rich. The sheikhs take three, four women each, and there’s none for the rest of us. With the Talibs, they can fire AKs, throw a grenade. Pretend they’re soldiers.”
“You don’t have children.”
“I’m not a sheikh. I didn’t have the money to marry. Anyway, Ali, the Americans caught him in Afghanistan and kept him for two years. Finally, they released him. When he came back, he told me how they kept him in a little cage. I think it made him crazy. He was so angry. At the Americans, the Kuwaitis, his own family.”
“He was like that before he went to Afghanistan?”
“No. He was a regular boy. But once he came back to Kuwait, he wasn’t anymore. He only ever talked of martyrdom. And then he disappeared. I found out later, he went to Iraq, became a fedayeen”—a martyr.
“A bomber.”
“Yes. He killed himself outside a police station in Baghdad. Thirteen police died. And after that, I had the idea for these interviews. So that everyone will know what the Americans are doing. I know about computers and filming. But it isn’t easy to find the men, or get them to talk. They may be home, but they aren’t free. They know our police are working with the Americans and don’t want to be embarrassed. And lots of them are just—” Wells spread his hands out, meaning
“You should go to Saudi.”
“In Saudi the
“You heard this? Who told you?”
“People see the videos, the Web site, and they e-mail me. Most of the time I can’t confirm what they say. But this time I found someone who could.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
Wells looked to the imam. “It is best for all of us if I’m the only one who knows. For the same reason you took these precautions to pick me up.”
“And my son’s story—”
“He tells whatever he likes, as much or as little. I protect him, hide his face. Show just enough of him that people know he’s real. The video takes one, two hours to make. Three at most, if your son has a lot to tell. I send it to the Web site, and you never see me again.”
And along the way I’ll find out if he knows anything about the murders, Wells thought.
“Even if I wanted to help, I don’t know where he is,” Zumari said.
“But you can reach him.”
“I can try.”
“Then please try.”
They were silent as the truck rumbled on. Hani dialed his phone, spoke so quietly that Wells couldn’t hear.
“Do you have anything else to tell us? ” the imam said.
“No.”
The truck slowed, then stopped.
“Kuwaiti,” the imam said. “Your shoulder is all right?”
“I think so, yes.”
The imam handed Wells his passport and wallet. “Then this is where we leave you. There’s a ramp ahead. Take it down, go back to your hotel. Stay away from my house”—the mosque. “If we need to see you again, we will find you.”
“I’m sure,” Wells said. “I ask only this: whatever you decide—” Wells broke off.
“Yes?”
“Decide soon. It will be safer for all of us.”
An air horn blasted through the cargo compartment. Hani pulled up the back gate of the truck. Wells saw they were on a highway, the traffic piling up behind them.
