Alex Berenson - The Midnight House

“Of course we were close to the ISI.”

“Senior officers.”

“In some cases.”

“Did you communicate regularly?”

“Yes. In fact—” Bin Zari broke off. “I’ve answered all your questions. But this I can’t speak about.”

At first Jim smiled, joked, cajoled bin Zari to talk. But after an hour of questions, Jim grew irritated. Finally, he ordered the Rangers to take bin Zari back to his cell. “No supper,” he said. “Take tonight, sleep, and wake up ready to talk.”

The next morning, Jim appeared outside bin Zari’s cell carrying a tray. He tilted it so bin Zari could see what it held: three biscuits and a bowl of honey. The sweet, hot smell of the biscuits filled bin Zari’s nostrils, made his mouth drip. Bin Zari wondered where they’d come from. He’d not seen food like this since they’d captured him.

“You must be hungry after missing supper,” Jim said. He dipped a biscuit into the bowl of honey, ate it carefully, one small bite after another. “Remember, in the other cell? How hungry you were?”

Jim dipped the second biscuit into the bowl. “So, you’ll tell me what you meant, about the ISI?”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t get to decide. You answer my questions, or I’ll put you back in that place. Just as soon as I’ve eaten this breakfast.”

“You promised.”

“And you promised to be honest with us, Jawaruddin.”

“Please.”

Jim seemed to lose interest in the conversation. He kept eating. And when the third biscuit was gone, he turned away.

“That’s it, then,” he said. He didn’t even seem angry. “I’ll send the soldiers for you. Please don’t fight.”

“Don’t.”

Jim began to walk away.

“All right,” bin Zari said.

Jim stopped.

“I’ll tell.” Bin Zari explained that he’d once taped a meeting that showed him talking over a terrorist plot with a senior member of the ISI. He refused to disclose the details of the meeting, saying that Jim wouldn’t believe him. “You’ll think I’m lying, and I fear what you’ll do,” he said. “You must see it yourself.”

He’d stored the video on a laptop, and hidden it at a farmhouse that belonged to distant cousins of his in the Swat Valley. They didn’t even know it existed, he said.

“Why make this tape?” Jim said.

“In case the ISI ever decided to betray me. Or Ansar Muhammad.”

“If you’re lying—”

“I’m not.”

“And you can show us where to find it?”

“Yes.”

That evening, Jim came to his cell holding a Quran. “For you.”

Bin Zari didn’t thank Jim. He hadn’t fallen that far yet. But he took the beautiful book, with its gray cover and intricate silver filigree, gratefully.

That night, as he read, he wondered what the Americans planned to do with him. Would they find the laptop? And if they did, would they send him to Guantánamo? Or simply kill him? He no longer cared.

But he knew that in the next world, Allah would see fit to torture these Americans, just as they’d tortured him. For eternity. No matter how much they begged for forgiveness, how loudly they screamed their mistakes. For this vengeance Jawaruddin bin Zari prayed as he read his holy book.

MOHAMMED PEEKED THROUGH the bars of his cell. The corridor ran forty feet, past four side-by-side cells. Mohammed was housed in the second cell, Jawaruddin in the fourth. Past Jawaruddin’s cell the corridor ended in a concrete wall. On the far end of the corridor, two gates controlled the entrance to the cell block. A pair of chairs were positioned outside the gates. Usually a guard or two was stationed there to watch the corridor, an American during the day, one or two of the others at night.

But for the first time in Mohammed’s memory, the chairs were empty. Now, the djinns told him. Now.

Mohammed squatted low and flipped the cot up against the wall under the vent. He unscrewed its sharpened leg, careful not to slice his palm open on its edges. When it was loose, he touched its blade with the tip of his thumb and was pleased to see blood rise from his brown skin.

He pulled himself up the side of the bed and squatted on its edge. With his free hand, he loosened the screws that held the vent. A bigger man would have knocked over the cot, but Mohammed’s lack of size worked to his advantage. The cover came loose. He pulled it free and jumped down. He left the cover on the floor and peeked out the front of the cell. Still no guards.

It’s time, the djinns said.

BIN ZARI CLOSED his eyes and tried to sleep. Though for some reason that little monkey Mohammed was scraping around his cell. Normally Mohammed didn’t say much, just stared whenever bin Zari walked by. Bin Zari wished the Americans would send the boy to Guantánamo or back to Pakistan. Wherever. He was strange, and bad luck. A fierce sour smell came off his greasy, tangled hair, and his eyes were black stones that gave no hint of what, if anything, he might be thinking.

Bin Zari knew Mohammed wasn’t responsible for their original arrest, but he blamed the boy anyway. He’d never been close to being captured until that night in Islamabad. “Little monkey,” he yelled. “What are you doing?”

UPSTAIRS, THE VIDEO WAS DONE.

“Remember it,” Terreri said. “You’re never gonna see it again. I shouldn’t have shown it to you, but we are a team, we’ve always been a team, and we will always be a team.”

“Even you, doc,” Fisher said.

“I feel so much better now,” Callar said.

“What happens next, Colonel?” This from Jerry Williams.

“We’re going home,” Terreri said. “Unless you want to stay awhile while, hang out in Poland.”

“Sir, that’s not what I meant.” Humor wasn’t Williams’s strong suit. “I meant with the prisoners.”

“Yes, Muscles, I know. Hasn’t been decided. What you just saw, that could cause a lot of problems with the Paks. Only a few people back in D.C. even know about it. Even fewer know how we got it. And they don’t want Jawaruddin to get to Gitmo and start bitching about how he’s been treated. ’Specially if along the way he mentions the video. And we can’t exactly send him back to Pakistan, either. So, it’s complicated.”

“We ought to leave them here, let the Poles have ’em.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t care if they spent eternity and a day downstairs. But no, they won’t be staying here. When we go, the Midnight House is done.”

“We oughta just kill ’em,” Fisher said. He looked around the room. “I’m serious. Much easier.”

Terreri puffed his cigar, blew a perfect ring. “You mean it, don’t you, Jack?”

“That man downstairs is a human roach.”

“You’re sick,” Callar said.

“All your complaining, you’ve been here every step,” Fisher said. “Little late to be holding your nose.”

“Wish I could agree with you, Jack,” Terreri said. “But that’s not how we do.”

“You sure? One hundred percent? If I went downstairs right now and did it myself, I’ll bet none of you would turn me in.”

“I would,” Callar said.

“Would you, now, sweetheart?” Fisher stepped toward her, blew a stream of smoke in her face.

“Enough, Jack,” Terreri said. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Good. And on that happy note, let’s go outside, take a couple pictures. Something to remember when we’re old and gray.”

DOWNSTAIRS, MOHAMMED PULLED HIMSELF atop the cot, wormed his head into the vent. The tube was cracked and rusted, the air inside hot and stale. He wanted to pull out his head. He wanted to lie on the floor and close his eyes and sleep. And wake up in the room in Haji Camp he shared with his brothers, wake up before the Jaish had touched him. He was so tired.