But the threat hadn’t changed, Karp thought. Just because Al Qaeda hadn’t pulled off an attack on American soil since 2001 didn’t mean it had stopped trying. And Pakistan was more volatile than ever. If it fell to an Islamist coup, Al Qaeda would have a nuclear bomb within its grasp. Karp sometimes thought that his mission was to make himself the most hated man in America, because he’d be hated only as long as the threat seemed unreal.
So, Karp counted himself lucky to be at the Midnight House, where he could operate the way he needed to. The top guys at the agency, the army, they
KARP STEPPED close to Mohammed, stood over him.
“Mohammed.”
“Who are you?” Mohammed said in Pashto. “Why do you bother me?”
Karp picked him up, shoved him against the rough wall of the cell. Mohammed’s muscles twitched, and Karp wished the kid would fight him a little, come back to earth. But he didn’t. His black eyes were dull, his breath bitter, as though something inside him was rotting. He had left Poland, gone somewhere Karp couldn’t reach.
“You know who I am,” Karp said. “What’s my name? Look at me. Tell me my name.”
“You say your name is Jim. But I know that’s not your name.”
Indeed, Karp used “Jim” as his alias with detainees.
“Why do you say that?”
“The others, they tell me.”
Karp controlled his surprise. No one else in 673 spoke Pashto. And no one should have told Mohammed about the aliases, anyway, though most prisoners guessed.
“Who? ”
“The ones that come when you go. They talk to me. They tell me you stand up too straight.”
“Stand too straight? What are you talking about?”
Karp let him go. Mohammed slumped down the wall. When he reached the floor, he raised his head, locked eyes with Karp. He seemed to be back in the cell, at least temporarily.
“Are you a dancer?”Karp said.
Mohammed shook his head.
“You know what I’m asking, Mohammed?”
“No.”
“A dancer, that’s someone who says whatever comes into his mind, doesn’t tell me the truth.”
“I tell the truth, sir. Always.”
“What’s my name?”
“Ishmael.”
“Ishmael.”
“You’re a prophet. Like me.”
“You’re right,” Karp said. “I’m a prophet. And I predict pain for you, you keep this up.” He reached for Mohammed—
“JIM.”
Karp turned to see Rachel Callar outside the cell.
“I need to talk to you.”
Karp seemed about to argue but instead turned and walked out, locking the cell. She led him into the empty unlocked cell next to Mohammed’s.
“Doctor,” Karp said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You need to be careful with him.”
“How’s that again?”
“He’s in trouble, Ken. He’s got an axis-one disorder, and it’s getting worse.”
As she’d expected, Karp had no idea what she meant, though she knew he would sooner submit to a night in the punishment box than admit his ignorance.
“Axis one. Schizophrenia, major depression with psychotic symptoms. Severe mental illness. The way he sits in the corner, talking to himself. The way he won’t take care of himself. He’s coming unglued.”
“How would you know? You don’t speak Pashto.”
“I’ve picked up a little, the last year. Anyway, it’s obvious.”
“He could be faking.”
“He’s not smart enough.”
“I’ve seen more of these guys than you.”
“And I’ve seen more schizophrenics than you.”
“Congratulations.”
Callar shook her head. Blowing up at Karp wouldn’t serve her. Doctors in general and psychiatrists in particular were supposed to stay serene.
But now she wished she felt as calm as she looked. This relentless antagonism, not just from Karp but from Terreri and Jack Fisher, was grinding her down. Last night she’d dreamed that she stood atop an endless tightrope, nothing below her, not a net or flat ground or even a canyon, nothing but a black void. Nothing to do but keep walking. And then she fell.
She hadn’t had that dream since medical school.
“Ken. Let’s just talk it out. Mohammed hasn’t given us anything.”
“Not yet.”
“And when you talk to him, he doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Sometimes.”
“And odds are he doesn’t have much for us. Given his age, given his probable role in the bombing—”
“We won’t know unless we ask.”
“This place is incredibly stressful for him. He knows he can be punished at any time. He has no control over his sleep, his eating—”
“It’s called prison.”
“Even if you’re mentally healthy, prison is difficult. And that’s if you know how long you’re in, where you are. I don’t know whether it’s genetic or whether he had some serious trauma as an adolescent, but he’s in no shape for this place.”
“Serious trauma as an adolescent.” Karp actually laughed. “Like every other kid in Pakistan. Doc-tor”—Karp made the word sound ridiculous—“this kid shot one of our guys. He’s a
“I’m not saying he’s not.”
“Good. Then let me do my job. You have an objection, talk to the colonel.”
And Karp walked out.
A flush rose in Callar’s cheeks. She tilted her head, looked at the chipped concrete ceiling, and counted seconds until her emotions vanished and she turned clear as a plate-glass window. Steve had been right. She shouldn’t have taken the job. But she couldn’t let it beat her, couldn’t let them beat her. She couldn’t fail. Not again.
KARP LOOKED INTO Mohammed’s cell. The kid lay on his cot, his eyes closed, his chest barely moving. Karp reached for the cell door and then hesitated. The truth was that the shrink was half right. Mohammed didn’t belong here. Not because he was crazy, whatever nonsense he was sputtering.
“Axis one, my ass,” Karp mumbled in Callar’s direction. Trying to assert her authority with this psychiatric mumbo jumbo. Of course Mohammed was stressed out and paranoid. He was supposed to be. He was here for an interrogation, not spa treatment.
No, Mohammed didn’t belong here because he didn’t know anything. The CIA had traced him to a madrassa
