“What happened? What happened?” the Moroccan asked, his eyes darting around in terror.
“A rat! A rat!” I cried. “A fuckin’ rat ran up my arm!”
Once they figured out why they were cowering in the corner Abdelatif and Theo began to laugh, more at how scared they’d been than at me and my new friend, who made Ben look like a bitch.
After our initial misunderstanding—if you can call something that ended with Theo in a tire and my ankles bleeding a “misunderstanding”—Abu Abdullah worked overtime to make us feel like guests, which has symbolic importance in this kind of situation. One of the things he did to make it up to us was to sing the Koran in this shockingly beautiful voice that echoed through our massive cell. The first time he did this was when the electricity was out, as he was bringing us lunch. He said he was singing so Allah would hear him and bless us with light.
Abu Abdullah was thrilled that I had found Islam. I think it was on our second morning that we heard him coming down the stairs right after the Adhan. Neither the Moroccan nor I had risen, but when the sound of his footsteps reached our ears we were out of our beds like they had ejector seats. I ran over to the kitchen room and immediately began Wudu, the cleansing process all Muslims must perform before prayer. Abu Abdullah had come over to watch and I pretended not to know he was behind me as I stood at the sink washing my arms, face, hair, ears, and ankles, making sure to do it properly to meet his expectations. When I came out I shook his hand, and he motioned for me to take my place on the quilt that served as my prayer rug. The Moroccan tried to insist that Abu Abdullah lead the prayer, but he refused—he was not there to lead; he was there to observe. Just before the Moroccan began the Fatiha, Abu Abdullah placed his bare foot beside mine so that the sides of our feet were touching, a custom I had never encountered during my time with the Alawites. I moved smoothly through the motions of the morning prayer, and by the time it was over there was no doubt in Abu Abdullah’s mind: I was the real-deal Holyfield.
His talent as a singer was exceeded only by his brutality as a torturer, and the sounds produced by the latter were as bone-chilling as his singing was melodic. Once, Theo, the Moroccan, and I were lying in the shaft, staring up at the ceiling as we listened to the endless screams punctuated by gunshots. It was a long interrogation, and almost as soon as the screaming stopped we heard Abu Abdullah on the stairs. When he entered our corner we all looked up at him, without saying a word. He was filthy, covered from head to toe in dirt, and the look in his eyes was black as tar. In his hand was a plastic bag and once he was done looking us over he stepped closer and knelt before me. I noticed that he was panting, out of breath from whatever he’d been doing to the poor soul upstairs. He reached into the bag and pulled out some bread and a round container of cheese, unwrapped the plastic, placed it before me, and then held out his hands as if to say “Bon appétit!” When I reached out to take the garbage from him he shook his head once, held up a finger, and then left, making his way back across the basement and up the stairs.
Nobody said a word throughout this entire scene. A few minutes later, Abu Abdullah was back at work, and the screaming resumed.
As time passed and updates about how great our cases looked turned into promises of rides to the border, we all tried to stay positive and believe we would truly be released. Yet despite the hopeful signs, my mood was at an all-time low—when I wasn’t working out I was walking in circles, making endless, silent laps of our shadowy subterranean cell. It was during one of these laps that I heard the yelling coming from upstairs. I stopped at the entrance and looked up through the ironwork above the door, and a second later I saw Abu Abdullah rushing down the stairs holding handcuffs, the clatter of more footsteps behind him. I ran over to the elevator shaft.
“Abu Abdullah’s coming,” I said. “He has handcuffs.”
“That’s not good,” said the Moroccan.
A second later Abu Abdullah, the Leader, and another jihadi I had never seen before entered the cell and walked over to us. The Leader did the talking; he said we were being moved and that he had no other information. I pleaded with him to let me run over to the clothesline to get my ski cap. It was the only part of my old identity that I’d managed to hold on to; an outline of the States hidden right there on the label, and there was no way I was going to let that go if I could help it. The Leader gave me permission to retrieve the hat, and a few minutes later we were led up the stairs, blindfolded, and then outside into the blazing sun. We had been underground for only eleven days, but the great, dungeon-like gloom of the cell made it feel as if it had been an eternity.
The first voice I heard when we stepped outside stopped me dead, sending chills down my spine.
“Jumu’ah, it’s Abu Dejana,” Kawa’s assistant said cheerfully.
He must have expected a chipper response; it was obvious he thought I hadn’t heard him by the way he repeated himself—just as friendly, but a little louder.
“Jumu’ah,” he said again, “it’s Abu Dejana!”
“Hey, how are you,” I said in Arabic, with a big smile.
A large man came up
