“How reliable is Mr. Parnelles’s interrogation method?” she asked.
“Extremely.”
“And the May 10 information?”
“They’re not sure whether it’s related. It was contained in a message to be delivered at a mosque. The CIA is evaluating it. The interesting thing is that the language referred to a group that hasn’t been heard from in years. Whether it’s true or not, at this point it’s difficult to tell.”
There was a knock on the door, but McCarthy ignored it. He leaned forward. “I want you to assess the CIA operation. It’s unusual.”
“How unusual?”
“Have you heard of Special Demands?”
Corrine shook her head.
“It’s a small unit of the CIA that was authorized by executive order on the NSC’s recommendation just before we came into office. You were out of the Washington loop by then, helping yours truly win the election. It’s not all CIA. As a matter of fact, it seems to rely a great deal on Special Forces, though it uses a CIA officer as a team leader and is under their operation control.”
Corrine shrugged. “Special Forces and the CIA have worked together for years.”
“On and off, yes. But not precisely like this.” McCarthy paused, the practiced politician cuing his audience to pay attention to what he said next. “I’m worried these people are cowboys. I need someone who can sniff around and report back to me without raising a ruckus. Would you do that, dear?”
“Mr. President. Jon — my job description—”
McCarthy’s laugh would have shaken the walls of a lesser building. “Give me my pen. Let me fix your job description.”
“I’m serious, Mr. President.”
“I’m serious, too,” he told her.
Corrine sighed. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Very good, dear.” McCarthy was instantly serious once more. “We’ll arrange for transportation to Guantanamo first thing tomorrow morning. Best watch what you wear. Some of those poor Marines haven’t seen a good-looking girl like you in a coon’s age.”
2
He was smaller than she expected, stooped over in his orange jumpsuit. His arms and legs were shackled together, and his eyes blinked constantly at the light. With his unkempt hair and beard he looked like a cross between a gnome and a homeless man. He moved meekly, though Corrine had noticed from the tapes she’d reviewed that this was an act; he could inflate his upper body and hold his head erect when he wished. The effect wasn’t quite regal, but the difference was noticeable.
Corrine sat at the wooden table, waiting for him to settle into his seat. When he did, she nodded to the interpreter that she was ready to begin. Two soldiers stood near the door, large batons in their hands; two more stood directly behind the prisoner.
“Are you being treated well?” Corrine asked him.
Kiro — known here as Muhammad al Aberrchmof, the name he had been given at birth — smiled as the translator repeated the question in Arabic, but said nothing.
“Is there anything that you need?” said Corrine.
“Freedom,” said Muhammad al Aberrchmof, in English.
Corrine tried not to look surprised, though the interrogators had told her that he didn’t understand English. They had also predicted that he wouldn’t speak in her presence — as a woman, she was considered about on a par with an earthworm.
“Are there people who should be notified that you are all right?” she said.
al Aberrchmof said nothing.
“Your wife, your children,” she prompted, turning to the translator and repeating the question. “You want them to know that you’re well.”
“I have only myself,” said al Aberrchmof, again in English.
The interrogation team was watching all of this through a closed-circuit television. Though the camera was hidden in the wall, the prisoner probably realized they were watching and intended his performance as a message to them.
But what did it mean?
“It’s a shame that you’re alone,” said Corrine. “Are you willing to cooperate with us?”
“I have cooperated,” said al Aberrchmof.
“You speak English very well,” she said.
al Aberrchmof didn’t respond.
Corrine resisted the impulse to start asking more meaningful questions, fearful that doing so would tip off their importance and complicate the interrogation team’s job.
“Is there anything you would like to tell me?” she asked instead.
al Aberrchmof began speaking in Chechen. The translator, who had been chosen because he could handle Chechen as well as Arabic, pushed his glasses back on his nose as he struggled to catch all of the words.
As he spoke, al Aberrchmof’s voice gradually faded to a whisper. It was impossible to tell if he was really fatigued or if it was part of his performance.
“The Iranians are working with Allah’s Fist to construct a weapon,” he translated. “They will be launching it soon.”
Corrine waited, as if she were considering this information.
“You are not part of Allah’s Fist?”
al Aberrchmof’s head had slid down toward his chest. Now it rose slowly, a contemptuous sneer on its face. “They do not understand the struggle of the Chechen people.”
“It seems you’re only a late convert to that cause,” said Corrine.
The prisoner held her gaze for a moment, his eyes large as if he were trying to plumb her consciousness. Then he blinked, and once more his head tilted downward.
“What sort of weapon?”
al Aberrchmof didn’t answer.
“A bomb?” she prompted.
Again he said nothing.
“How will they launch it?” she asked.
No answer.
“When will they launch it?”
No answer. She waited for a few seconds, then rose and started to leave.
“A ship,” he said in English as she reached the door. “I believe they will use a ship. It is an Iranian plan. We Chechens care nothing for them. Our concerns are with Chechnya.”
Peter Wilson, the head of the interrogation team, met her in the hall.
“What’d you think?” he asked, leading the way to the base commander’s hut, where they were due for lunch.
“He told me about the Iranian ship,” she said. “Pretty much what he said in interview 12.”
“You remember the tape?”
“Of course,” she said.
“The English is new.”
“He was giving you the finger. Were you surprised he talked to a woman?”
Wilson shrugged. “Maybe we’ve broken him down far enough. Or maybe one devil is the same as
