David Ellis: In the Company of Liars

Ram Haroon looks toward the rear of the truck, where the sheath covering the back is flapping open. He sees small flashes from the red-orange gasoline fire two trucks behind.

Haroon races for the exit as the gunfire erupts-thepop pop, pop pop from the M4s, therat-a-tat-tat from the stationary machine guns-lead splitting the canvas exterior of the cargo cabin and hitting skulls, torsos, bone. Haroon extends himself horizontally as he dives through the sheath, trying to minimize himself as a target, trying to freeze out the sudden smells of blood, of bowels releasing, of death.

He lands on the hood of the third truck, slamming his head onto the cold surface, and everything goes dark.

First he dreams in smells: the odor of burning gasoline, the copperlike scent of burning flesh. Then he dreams of dust filling his mouth, of wounded cries and urgent prayers before death. He dreams of his mother and sister. He dreams of his leg on fire.

He dreams of a man talking to him in broken Arabic, and Haroon’s eyes open. Two sets of boots, two sets of legs, two M4 rifles within inches of his cheek.

“Irka,”one of them shouts. “On your knees, fuck-face.”

U.S. Army Rangers, working in pairs, searching for survivors and confirming the dead. One of them steps back, training the rifle on him, while the other pats Haroon down for explosives. Then he grabs Haroon’s shirt and pulls until Haroon is on his knees. His shirt is violently ripped from his body, his hands zip-tied behind his back.

He knows why they attacked and who they wanted. Their high-value target. Muhsin al-Bakhari.

Haroon struggles to gain his bearings, his body limp from the assault and his mind in chaos. He is in northern Sudan. It is early June. It is close to midnight.“Kiff! Kiff!” the Ranger says to Haroon, yanking him to his feet. A blindfold is wrapped over his eyes, and he moves forward tentatively, his legs unreliable, assisted by a Ranger’s hand cupped under his armpit.

Don’t let them take you alive, he has been told.They will torture you. Corrupt you. Take you to Guantбnamo Bay and make you turn on your brothers.

Die with dignity, they have told him.

But resistance is obviously futile. This whole thing was timed perfectly. The Americans did not plan for a gunfight. They planned for a massacre.

Ram Haroon recalls other instructions as well, outside the presence of the leaders.Show them your hands and they won’t kill you.

He hears thethwop, thwop of the rotors of a Chinook helicopter as he is marched forward, forced into a jog. He feels a wash of air as he approaches the Chinook, and a hand on his head pushes it down, even though Haroon knows the rotors are well overhead.

He is turned around. A hand on his shoulder forces him to sit on a cold aluminum floor. He shivers. The rotors spin faster and louder, the copter shakes-even sitting, he lurches to one side and bumps into the barrel of a rifle pointed at him. The copter shakes again and rises.

He feels a boot pushing against his arm.“Hal Tatakalm Alingli’zia?” an American shouts at him in passable Arabic.“Ma Ismok?”

“Zulfikar,”he answers wearily.“Sorirart Biro’aitak.”

A moment passes. The Americans are speaking to each other in excited voices. This is a moment of celebration for the Rangers. Nausea overtakes Ram Haroon, the jerky movements of the helicopter and the smell of burning flesh, still lingering in his nostrils, combining to launch the bile to his throat. They are enjoying themselves, these Americans. A moment for which all Americans have waited for years-the capture of Muhsin al-Bakhari. A story they will share with their grandchildren someday.

Where he will go now, he does not know. They have quickly whisked away the few survivors, including the one whom the Americans prize the most. Left behind is a massacre; over thirty Islamic soldiers dead.

And then it comes to Ram Haroon. He remembers the woman at the airport in America four days ago.McCoy, that was her name. Yes. The woman at the airport knew this was going to happen.

Haroon shakes his head, silent. He will probably be sent to Guantбnamo Bay, along with the others. He will never see his homeland again. His life will never be the same.

He wonders what has become of his partners in the States. He assumes that they will soon be in U.S. custody as well. And if they have gotten so far as to coordinate this attack, they have probably learned what really happened to Allison Pagone, the American novelist, as well.

McCoy knows almost everything about him. She knows his names-his real one and the one he is using. She knows one parent is listed as Pakistani, the other as Egyptian, and that the paperwork all the way back to Islamabad will show that. She knows that the CIA files will show that he is an operative with the Liberation Front, an organization responsible for the death of more than nine hundred civilians in the past five years. She knows he will deny that if asked. She knows that he is studying for a graduate degree in international economics at the state university. She knows when he flew into the United States. She already knew, before receiving the call, that he had booked a flight to Paris. She knew about ten minutes after he bought the ticket.

Jane McCoy stands with her partner, Owen Harrick, and the BICE agent in charge at the airport, a guy named Pete Storino, in a small room with monitors along a high shelf.

McCoy has spent the last ten minutes babysitting Storino, explaining why she couldn’t tell him squat, giving him numbers to call to clear all this. Storino doesn’t like it and he doesn’t like her. The BICE guys aren’t the happiest these days. With the reorg under Homeland Security, Storino’s agency is now the Bureau of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. They don’t like it because people call them “BICE” agents. FBI agents don’t like it because they think of their agency as “the Bureau” and don’t want another one. The agencies left out of the BICE acronym, like the Coast Guard and Border Patrol, were pissed off because, well, they were left out. Word is, they’re going to change it to the Bureau of Investigations and Criminal Enforcement, keeping the acronym but giving it a more general connotation, but McCoy will believe it when she sees it.

“I’m going to make those calls,” Storino says to McCoy, sounding like a wounded child who’s going to call his mom.

“Great,” she says. “I’m going in soon. If that’s all right.” She winks at her partner with that last comment.

“Do what you’re gonna do.” Storino closes the door behind him.

McCoy leans forward and watches the monitor covering the small room where the subject is seated. He is cool, his legs crossed, his hands resting on the rectangular table, occasionally checking his watch and shaking his head. He is no dummy, this one. He knows he’s being watched. He wants to be a Pakistani student offended by the racial profiling, not a bad guy who’s nervous about what the G is going to ask him.

McCoy and Harrick leave the room and walk down a narrow corridor to the door in question. McCoy takes a breath, nods at her partner, and opens the door.

“Mr. Haroon,” she says, walking in and taking a seat. “I’m Special Agent Jane McCoy. This is Special Agent Owen Harrick. FBI.”

Ram Haroon is thin but muscular. He has ink-black, kinky hair and a long, coffee-colored face. He looks the age that is on his passport: twenty-six. He studies each of them with coal-black eyes but says nothing.

“Headed to Paris,” she says.

He stares at her like the answer is obvious. He has a business-class ticket for a flight that is scheduled to depart in forty-five minutes.

“What’s in Paris?” she asks. “And don’t say the Eiffel Tower.”