Andrew Kaplan - Carrie's run

When her father finally got on clozapine, he tried to reconnect. It was as if she had never really known Frank Mathison, the Frank Mathison who had been in Vietnam-and she hadn’t even known that about him till she found a photograph in a box in his closet, him shirtless, looking incredibly young and skinny, cradling an M14 in a jungle clearing with two friends, all of them grinning at the camera, shitfaced on whatever they were smoking, the Frank Mathison her mother had married before it all got really bad. He had moved in with her sister, Maggie, and Maggie’s husband, Todd. He was in therapy, basically normal now, according to Maggie.

“He wants to see you,” Maggie had said. “He needs to reconnect. It’s important for his process.”

“His process? What about mine?” she’d snapped.

She wouldn’t let him get close. If she saw him at Maggie’s house, she’d say, “Hello, Dad,” “Good-bye, Dad,” and that was all. Because she couldn’t forget; her bizarre childhood a Ping-Pong match between gibberish and silence. And because he might seem normal, but she knew the craziness was hiding in him, waiting to get out the second you turned your head away.

And what about her? Her craziness?

Son of a bitch, she needed a drink. And jazz. She got her iPod ready. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

It was Dempsey, filling the doorway. Still in his service shirt and pants, a few drinks further to the wind than he had been at the Baghdad Country Club. The way he looked at her thrilled her to her core-Damn, he was a good-looking man.

“I want the truth. Are you married?” she asked.

“What difference does it make?” he said, not taking his blue eyes off her.

“I don’t know, but it does. Are you?”

“I’m between,” he said, as if marriages were military assignments, temporary postings, and then you moved on to the next.

“Oh shit,” she said, the two of them coming together like atoms smashing, tearing off their clothes as he came into the room, kissing each other like the world was ending. They stumbled to the bed and as she wrapped her legs around his hips, feeling him push himself inside her, some part of her heard a pair of loud explosions this side of the river followed by a renewed outburst of automatic-weapons fire.

Abu Ghraib Prison, Anbar Province, Iraq

They brought Abu Ammar, a.k.a. Walid, in manacles into the interrogation room where Carrie was waiting. The room was bare: concrete walls and two wooden chairs facing each other, nothing else. She gestured for him to sit down and after a moment, he did.

“ Salaam alaikum, ” she said to him, gesturing to the two U.S. soldiers who had brought him to leave. Walid didn’t respond with “ Wa alaikum salaam ” as Arab courtesy demanded. He was a thin man with close-cropped hair and a ragged beard in an orange prisoner’s jumpsuit with a nervous tick that caused him to jerk his head slightly sideways every few seconds. She wondered if it was natural or a result of his imprisonment and past interrogations.

His eyes flicked over her for less than a second, taking in her blue hijab , jeans and USMC hoodie, then moving away. He didn’t have to say anything. She understood. She was the enemy. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. She made sure to sit still so the recording equipment and hidden miniature video camera she was wearing got a good image.

“You know the hadith of Abu ’Isa al-Tirmidhi reporting of the Messenger of Allah, peace be upon him, who said, ‘The best of you is he who is best to his family,’ ” she said in Arabic.

He twitched his head, but he never stopped watching her. His eyes blinked multiple times like a bird’s.

“So, no electrics or waterboarding this time. You must be ‘the good policeman,’ ” he said in Iraqi Arabic.

“Something like that.” She smiled. “I need your help, Assayid Walid Karim. I know you would rather die than do this, but think. A word from me-and you will be free of this place.” She waved vaguely at the walls.

“I don’t believe you. Even if I did, I would rather die than help you. In fact, I think”-he twitched-“I prefer the electrics and waterboarding to your stupidity,” he said.

“You will believe me, Walid Karim. That is your name, isn’t it?” Although he tried not to show it, she could see he was shocked that she knew his name.

“I am Abu Ammar,” he said.

“And what of poor Yasser Arafat, who wants his kunya back?” She grimaced sarcastically. “Listen, this will go much better if we tell the truth to each other. You are Walid Karim of the Abu Risha tribe and a commander in the Tanzim Qaidat al-Jihad fi Bilad al-Rafidayn, known to us poor American infidels as al-Qaeda in Iraq. You come from Ramadi, from al-Thaela’a al-Sharqiya, south of the river, near the hospital.”

Karim stared intently at her, barely breathing, twitching. It had taken her and Warzer, using all his family and tribal connections, three difficult, secretive days hiding in Warzer’s uncle’s house in Ramadi, Carrie in a full abaya , her eyebrows colored brunette, wearing brown contact lenses and never breaking her disguise, to uncover Karim’s real name and the house where his family lived. Then she visited Karim’s family, bringing Warzer, who claimed to have been imprisoned in Abu Ghraib with Karim, so they would trust her.

“I’ve been to your house,” she said. “I’ve spoken with your mother, Aasera. Your wife, Shada. I held your children, your daughter, Farah, your boy, Gabir, with these hands.” She held up her hands. With every word, she could see how appalled he was that she knew so much. “Your son, Gabir, is beautiful but too young to understand what it is to be a shahid , a martyr. He misses his father. Say the word, and I promise, you will be home and holding him yourself in a couple of hours.”

“You lie,” he said. Twitch. “And even if not, I would rather see you kill them than help you.”

“God is great. I would never kill them, ya Walid. But you will,” she said.

His face twisted with disgust. “How do you say such a thing? What kind of a woman are you?”

“Remember the hadith of Abu ’Isa. I’m trying to save your family.” She bit her lip. “I’m trying to save you, sadiqi .”

“Don’t call me that. We’re not friends. We’ll never be friends,” he said, his eyes fierce like those of an Old Testament prophet.

“No, but we’re both human. If you don’t help me, the Tanzim will cut off your children’s heads-and I won’t be able to stop it, may Allah forbid it,” she said, holding up her right hand.

“My brothers would never-”

“And what will they do to a traitor, a murtadd ?” She spat out the word, “apostate,” into his horrified expression. “What would they do to his family? His poor mother? His wife and children?”

“They won’t believe it,” he snapped.

“They will.” She nodded. “They will when they see the American Marines bringing gifts, new big flat-screen televisions, and money, fixing and painting the house. When we have members of the Dulaimi and Abu Risha tribes whispering across the Anbar how you helped the Americans and are even thinking of becoming a Christian. They won’t want to believe, but they will see the gifts and the protection from the Americans and they will know. And then, one day, the Americans will suddenly be gone. Then the Taksim will come to administer justice.”

“You whore,” he muttered.

“What of the hadith of the Prophet of Allah on that day? Or you can go free of this terrible place today. Go home, Walid. Be a husband to your wife and a father to Farah and Gabir and never worry about money or safety again for as long as you live. You need to choose,” she said, looking at her watch. “In a little while I’ll leave-and whatever you decide, there’s no going back.”