The Midnight House

days later they got angry. They told me they knew I was lying and that I wasted their time. And they said they were going to send me someplace I wouldn’t like. Then the next day they put a hood on me and tied my arms and gave me a shot—”

“With a needle—”

“Yes, with a needle. And I fell asleep, and when I woke up I was on a plane. And then I was somewhere very cold.” Alaa shivered at the memory. “I don’t know where. Since I got out, I tried to figure it out. I think somewhere like Germany. But maybe not.”

“They never said.”

“No. And I couldn’t see anything about it, where they kept me. If I ever left the building, they put a hood on me. But it was Americans who ran it, I’m sure of that. It had a special name. They told me. They were proud of it. They called it ‘The Midnight House.’ ”

“Midnight House.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why they called it that?”

“They said it was always midnight for the prisoners.”

“Were there a lot of prisoners?”

“Not that I saw. Mostly, I was alone.”

“And they hurt you?”

“These men, they were much different than the ones in Iraq.” He closed his eyes, took a slow, deep breath. “I know I must talk about it, what they did, but—”

He broke off. The room was silent, the only sound the faint buzzing of the bulb overhead. Somewhere outside, a dog barked fiercely.

“They told me, it’s very simple to hurt you. And it was. They make me stand all the time with my arms out, make me stay awake, hit me with the electricity. They put me in a very small cell, so small I can stand only like this—” Alaa hunched over. And even though he held the position for only a few seconds, his face went slack in fear and pain, the muscle memory overwhelming him. He stood up, slowly.

“Nothing that ever left a mark,” he said. “I would look at myself and wonder if I had dreamed it all. Yes, sometimes, when they stopped, brought me back to my cell and I fell asleep, I thought the sleep was real and the torture was the dream. I said, ‘Allah, Allah, help me, help me escape these evil dreams, sleep in peace.’ But he never helped. And you must see, they never stopped. Not like Iraq. In Iraq, the guards and soldiers, they came and went. They had many prisoners. But in this place, this house, it was only me, and they never stopped. And after a while, I don’t know how long, maybe three weeks, I couldn’t resist anymore. I didn’t know if they would kill me or send me back to Iraq or what they would do, I only knew I couldn’t resist.”

“Anyone would have done the same,” Wells said. “But what I don’t see, even now, is why you protected this man who sent you to Iraq at all.”

Alaa laughed, low and bitter. “Not to protect him. To protect my family. Do you know who it was, the man I drove? Samir Gharib. He owns half of Heliopolis”—a wealthy neighborhood in northeast Cairo. “His daughter is married to Mubarak’s grandson.”

“And it was his son who sent you to Baghdad?”

“Do you see now, Kuwaiti?” the imam said.

Wells saw. The American government supported Hosni Mubarak, for all his flaws, because he was viewed as a reliable ally against radical Islam. If his family had been connected to the Iraqi insurgency, the outcry in Washington would have been immediate and intense. Congress might have ended the billions of dollars of aid the United States gave Egypt every year. And Mubarak would have lashed out, setting his men on Alaa’s family. Angering a pharaoh was never wise.

What Alaa hadn’t realized was that his confession would be so toxic that the agency and the army had no alternative but to bury it. Then, with no reason to keep him, they’d told 673 to let him go.

Amazingly enough, the truth had set Alaa Zumari free.

IN THEORY, Alaa might still be responsible for the 673 murders. But why? His captivity had lasted only a few months and had ended with his regaining his freedom. Now he simply wanted to be left alone. Nonetheless, Wells figured he should ask about the murders.

“Are you angry with the Americans?” he said.

“The ones who hurt me? Sure, I’m angry.” Though Alaa’s voice was even. “I wish that they would see how it feels. But not the woman. She was kind.”

“The woman.”

“One was a woman. A doctor.”

“Did she talk to you?”

“Only a few words. I don’t think she knew so much Arabic. But she had a kind face. That’s the only way I know how to say it.”

“Do you know what’s been happening to them?”

“What do you mean?”

“This unit that held you.” Wells paused. “They’re dying.”

“I don’t understand.” The surprise in his voice was genuine.

“They went back to the United States. And now someone is killing them.”

“I don’t believe it,” Alaa said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Wells was sure now that Alaa hadn’t been involved in the killings. He couldn’t be a skilled enough actor to fake this.

And then a distant high-pitched whistle breached the room, a long, warning cry. The imam stepped forward, cupped a hand around the wound on the back of Wells’s head. “They’re coming.”

“I swear on the Prophet it wasn’t me,” Wells said. “Hani saw the note you sent. He works for them.”

The imam’s silence was answer enough. Wells wondered if they had time to escape. If the mukhabarat had seen the note, they knew he was headed for the Northern Cemetery but not exactly where. They had put a bug and a tail on Wells, figuring it would be easier to follow a Kuwaiti than the imam and Ihab, who knew the local streets. But Wells had lost his bug and his pursuer. Now the police were regrouping. They had tracked him to the sheesha cafe and were going from there.

“Leave,” Wells said. “I’ll go the other way, draw them off.” But the imam seemed frozen.

Wells heard the distant thumping of a helicopter high above. Would the mukhabarat bring in a copter for this op? Apparently so. And no one would be surprised when Alaa was killed during the arrest. A suspected terrorist died early this morning in a counterterrorist operation in eastern Cairo, Egyptian authorities reported.

No. Wells wasn’t going to help the Egyptians kill this man, or send him back to prison. Alaa had suffered enough. Wells wondered briefly what the agency would make of his helping a fugitive who’d been connected to the Iraqi insurgency, and decided he’d care later.

Another whistle, this one closer. Wells stood, braced himself against the wall. He didn’t know how far he could run, but he’d have to try. “Follow me or don’t,” Wells said to Alaa. “But decide.”

Wells stepped out of the hut and found himself in the alley where he’d been sapped. Alaa followed. A helicopter buzzed overhead, but Wells couldn’t see it. Good. Like the bumper stickers on eighteen-wheelers said, If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you. American helos had see-through-walls radar, but Wells didn’t think that technology had come to Cairo yet.

He pulled himself up to the roof of the one-room house where he’d been held, then squatted low and oriented himself. Alaa followed. They were in a tough spot. The cemetery was a long rectangle that ran more or less north-south. Its east and west perimeters, the long sides, were hemmed in by broad avenues that formed natural bulwarks, easily patrolled and defended. Getting to the northern or southern edges, where the cemetery blended more naturally into the the city, meant running a half mile or more through the alleys full of police, or over the rooftops — in full view of the helicopters. Two lurked over the cemetery, one to the north, one to the south, shining their spotlights in tight circles.

Despite the helos, Wells thought their best bet was to stay high for as long as possible. The rooftops were filled with debris and scrap metal. The police would avoid them and stick to the alleys. If Wells and Alaa could just