Bill stood and stretched. “So, let me make sure I have this correct?” He put his hands behind his back and, head down, approached Mark. “You went to Afghanistan with a confirmed member of al-Qaeda, but you deny any involvement?”
Desperation rose up and spilled out. “I never heard of al-Qaeda until the attacks. I swear to God. I never talked to anyone.”
Bill sighed. “I wish we could believe you. Really. I do.”
“The FBI guys in Chicago took all my negatives, all my photos-check them out. You’ll see. This is all a big mistake.” Mark looked from Bill to Jim, willing them to believe him. Sweat drenched his body and he could smell the acrid scent of his own fear.
“Oh, we will. Preliminary reports state some photographs of the Sears Tower were found amongst your files.”
Mark searched his memory. He took thousands of pictures a year. It’s likely at some point he had taken some pictures of the building. Who in Chicago hadn’t?
Before he could reply, Bill motioned to the guards. “Set him up for position three.”
Position three? What the hell was that? A guard circled in front of him and released Mark’s hands from the chain that connected to the one between his ankles. The guard attached a longer chain on the end and passed the end over Mark’s shoulder to another guard behind him. The wooden chair scraped across the floor, and Mark turned to see the guard behind him stand on the chair and pass the end of the chain through an eye bolt jutting out of the ceiling. Dread flooded him and he looked to the men seated at the table. The two writing had set their pens down and the other one sat back with his arms folded. Were they just going to sit there and watch?
Seconds later, Mark’s arms jerked as the chain tightened until his arms were pulled up and behind his head. In front of him, the first guard secured a short chain to a bolt in the floor. His shoulders began to ache almost immediately and when he tried to step back to ease the tension, the chain connected on the floor pulled tight, and he had the sensation of falling backwards. A knife-like kind of pain shot across his shoulders as they bore all of his weight for those few seconds. The position forced him to keep his feet forward while his arms pulled him back. It didn’t take long before the ache turned to an unrelenting burning.
Mark hung with only the balls of his feet touching the floor. If he pushed with his toes, it relieved the pressure in his shoulders a tiny bit, but created a new pain in his calves.
They didn’t need to do this. His breaths scraped out, harsh and loud. Sweat dripped, stinging his eyes. He tried to swipe his face on one of his shoulders, but they were pulled too far back. A groan escaped him and Jim looked up from the file, his face impassive.
Mark looked at Bill. Maybe he would show some mercy. He licked his lips, ready to plead with the man, when without warning, a hood descended, cutting off Mark’s vision. He shook his head, knowing it was futile but the pain and sense of suffocation forced him to react.
His hands went numb even as his shoulders and legs shot bolts of agony though his limbs. He tried to stay quiet-tried not to let them hear how much it hurt. He didn’t want to give the bastards the satisfaction. Despite his resolve, his head sagged forward and every gasping breath ended in a moan. He couldn’t help it. His eyes watered and he was almost glad for the hood. At least that shame was hidden.
Occasionally, sounds in the room would register as the men spoke to each other, or a chair creaked, but for the most part, he was lost in his own little world of pain.
A long time later, the chain holding his arms went slack. Mark groaned and collapsed, his legs unable to hold him. He lay on his side and his muscles quivered uncontrollably. The floor felt cool against his body. He grit his teeth at the needles of feeling that returned to his limbs. Nobody touched him, and exhausted, he lay limp. He didn’t think he could move at that moment even if they held a gun to his head. The thought that might actually be their next tactic crossed his mind. He wouldn’t put it past them, so when the footsteps approached, he tried to muster his energy to stand.
“Get the hood off him.” Mark recognized Jim’s voice. He hoped the tears had dried.
When the hood was lifted, Mark took a deep breath. In all his other misery, the suffocating heat in the hood had been the least of his worries, but now that it was gone, he sucked in the fresh air. It felt wonderful. His hair was plastered to his head, and with a groan, he swiped his forehead on his shoulder, but it did no good as every part of his body was soaked with sweat.
Jim leaned over him, his face unreadable. “Stand.”
Mark turned and pushed up from the floor. His legs wobbled, but he made it to a standing position. His chest heaved with the effort.
Jim paced in front of him, then circled Mark, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Next time we ask for answers, I hope you’ll be more forthcoming.”
Mark couldn’t reply. His throat was raw hamburger, but he shook his head. How much more could he say? What did they want him to say? If only he could figure it out. They demanded a confession and it was the one thing Mark couldn’t give them.
He collapsed on his bed. He should splash water on his face and get at least some of the sweat off his body, but before the thought could fully form in his mind, he slept.
The light was still just as bright when he woke up and a tray of food sat on the floor. He swung his legs over the side and grunted at the stiffness in his body. He felt like someone had taken a bat to his shoulders, and his calves cramped when he attempted to stand. Mark sucked in a breath and bit his lip as he slowly straightened.
The food beckoned and he shuffled over and took it back to bed to eat. It was an odd combination of eggs and chicken, canned fruit, a slice of bread and tomato juice. He hated tomato juice, but drank it anyway, washing it down with the juice in the fruit cup. After finishing the rest of the meal, he filled the juice cup up with water from his sink and guzzled it.
The water and food revived him a bit and after shoving the tray back out into the hall, he did his best to wash up in the sink. He didn’t have a towel and had to use his blanket to dry off. He even rinsed his t-shirt and wrung it out, hoping it would dry before he had to go on any other excursions.
Mark lay curled on his side with the blanket wrapped around him. The time in the interrogation played over in his mind. Until then, he had believed that they would realize their mistake and that he would be released. The brutal treatment shoved that notion out of his head. He shivered, and pulled the blanket tighter.
The thing that shocked him most was Mo’s statement that implicated him. They had been friends. Maybe they weren’t best friends, but Mark had felt nothing but pride in the book Mo had written. Pride that he had been a part of something that tried to bring an injustice to light. Now, he doubted that there had ever been a book. Why had Mo dragged him along? Just as a cover?
The more he thought back on that trip, the more things he had shrugged off began to make sense. The two days Mo had left him at the hotel to go meet with a family. Mo had told him that the family didn’t want their pictures in the book, and that he was going to use an alias for them. Mark could remain at the hotel. It had made sense at the time. That was when he had gone exploring the city and found the bazaar. If only he had known what a turning point his life would take after that trip.
He rubbed his eyes and wished that they would turn off the damn lights. The constant glare made his head hurt. Mark swung his legs off the bed and stood, dropping the blanket in a heap. His shoulders ached and he knew that his legs would be sore in the morning. Or evening. Or whenever the hell it was.
A window high in the wall teased him with its blacked out rectangle. At first, he thought it was nighttime, then he studied it, noting that the small rectangle of plexi-glass had been covered on the outside with something black. He balled his fists in fury as he recognized how intent they were on breaking him. Even daylight was forbidden.
Mark stalked to the door and pressed his face to the window, angling his head to look to the right. If there was a window at the end of the hall, he might see sunlight streaming through it. Nothing. Just dim artificial light. Frustrated, he pounded on the door a half dozen times. The side of his hand stung, but the door was so solid, it didn’t even yield a satisfying thunk when he hit it. Shit!
With no way to vent, his anger built, and he braced his hands against the door. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rein in the violence threatening to explode out of him. It would do no good. He leaned against the door, taking deep
