First Team (19 page)

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.”

~ * ~

eter 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 another.”

“How real is the Chechen rebel stuff?”

“Hard to tell,” said Wilson. “It’s consistent, but maybe he’s just setting up some sort of political line or defense. The Russians didn’t consider him important enough to go after, and a lot of these guys setup shop in Chechnya only because they won’t be targeted by us. His history of attacks are all against the West.”

“Is he telling the truth about the ship?” Corrine asked.

“Maybe.”

“I think he’s lying,” she said. She hadn’t made up her mind until then, but she realized she was right. “He’s too controlled—he’s giving us this information for some reason. Or for a lot of them.”

“Obviously he has a reason,” said Wilson. He held the door open for her, and they stepped out of the building. A pair of Marines nearby snapped to attention so stiffly they could have served as models for a poster. “But I think he’s telling us more or less the truth. Bits of it anyway.”

“He’s telling us what he wants us to believe, certainly,” she said. She stopped short of the waiting Hummer. “I think I’ll skip lunch, Mr. Wilson.”

“But—”

“I want to go back over the interrogation videos, then I have to get back to Washington.”

“You have to eat, too, don’t you?”

She smiled at him. “If you send over a sandwich, I’d appreciate it.”

~ * ~

3

SUBURBAN VIRGINIA—THE NEXT MORNING

Ferguson rested his head back on the vinyl cushion of the sofa in the doctor’s waiting room, narrowing his eyes to slits and trying to avoid looking at any of the three overweight women sitting across from him. The room had all the charm of a bus depot, though the doctors who ran the practice had taken a stab at adding a personal touch—the beige walls were divided about chest high by a strip of corkboard with patients’ photos attached. Most were trying to smile.

A television was mounted in a Formica-clad cabinet at his left, playing an endless loop that alternated segments devoted to cardiovascular distress and the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease. Ferg had sat here long enough to be convinced he had both.

The window at the receptionist station slid open.

“Mr. Ferguson?”

“Ah, the condemned man is called for his supper,” said Ferguson, unfolding himself from the sofa. He ignored the receptionist’s puzzled frown and ambled to the hallway, pushing open the heavily sprung door where a nurse waited to lead him to the examining room.

“You are Dr. Ziest’s patient,” she said, her voice a question.

“Allegedly.”

The nurse gave him an odd look, then led the way to a small room dominated by an examining table and a large medical cabinet. A scale sat opposite the lone chair in the room.

“You reschedule a lot,” she said.

“Classic doctor avoidance syndrome,” said Ferguson, stepping on the scale-and adjusting his weight. He’d lost two pounds since his last visit.

“Dr. Zeist is away,” said the nurse, writing down the weight.

“That’s what they said. Should we check my height? Maybe I’ve grown.”

“Please disrobe.”

“Completely?”

Ferg said it so innocently that the nurse didn’t know how to react. He started to undo his belt.

“Dr. Yollum will be in shortly,” she said, retreating.

“I’ll wait.”

Ferguson took off his shirt but left his pants and shoes on; he knew from experience what the exam would entail. There was a large chart on the door about the different types of diabetes, and an article from
Runner’s Magazine
plastered to the wall beneath a piece of plastic. The article—which Ferguson had read on his last visit— hailed the possibilities of running as a therapy for insulin-independent diabetes. It was long on feel-good pabulum and short on actual medical science, but had exactly the sort of cheerful tone that most doctors, including Zeist, liked to greet their patients with.

Yollum—Zeist’s junior partner—was either too far behind schedule or too inexperienced to offer it. He rapped at the door, then whipped it open, reading Ferg’s chart and swirling inside with the ferocity of one of the SF team members on a hostage rescue. He opened the folder and slapped it down on the cabinet, smoothing it over and tapping the top page before even looking for his patient.

“They gave you a hell of a dose of radiation,” said Yollum, still looking at the chart. He stood about five-three, and his face was out of proportion to his body— large and square and red, as if he’d washed it with a mild acid before coming to work.

“Yeah. I still don’t need a light to read a book,” said Ferguson.

“Dr. Zeist is away.”

“All I really need is the prescription updated. I’m almost out of the sheets I stole.”

“You really shouldn’t joke about things like that,” said Yollum.

“How do you know it’s a joke?”

“It says in your chart. Double funny bones.”

“Yuk.”

“I do my best.” Yollum took his stethoscope and began doing an exam. Ferg flinched as the metal touched his chest—his recent adventures had left him with several large bruises. He was better off than Guns, though—despite his protests, the Marine had been shunted to a Navy hospital ten minutes after a corpsman took a look at him at Guantanamo.

“You have a number of contusions,” said Yollum diplomatically. “Scratches on your face.”

“Bar fights are my hobby,” said Ferguson.

“Cough please.”

Ferg choked, proving he didn’t have a hernia. Yollum went back to his chart. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Aerobics.”

“Mmmm.” Yollum started hunting through the papers. “Your lab work doesn’t seem to be here.”

Ferg stood and reached into his back pocket. “This is a copy,” he said. “They sometimes get lost.”

Yollum, embarrassed, took the sheet.