Marc Cameron - National Security

They had no idea what he had planned for the vise grips and duct tape.

At the top of the fourth flight of stairs a dusty tangle of dead spiders and a stack of old newspapers lay piled on the concrete at either side of a gray metal door. Zafir smiled to himself. He went through the motions of knocking in the event anyone was watching. It seemed American informants were behind every tree and bush. If he killed ten random people, nine would be kafir — apostates of Islam, in bed with the Americans in one way or another.

A muffled voice came from inside, followed by the shuffling hiss of slippers against a tile floor.

“Who’s there?”

Habit caused the Bedouin to stand to one side of the entry-out of the line of fire. Even meek little lambs sometimes carried weapons, and the more frightened they became, the more likely they were to shoot through a closed door at an unseen threat.

“I am a messenger from the U.S. embassy,” Zafir mumbled in English. He didn’t particularly care if the boy understood him or not. “I have good news.”

“Do you know the code word?”

To his surprise, the door creaked open a fraction, waiting for the code. When the boy saw his caller was not an American, he threw his body against it, trying to shove it closed, but it was too late. Zafir slammed his fist against the startled boy’s nose as he shouldered his way in.

Zafir shut the door behind him so no neighbors would interfere with his methods. Sadiq cowered on the floor, blood pouring from his shattered nose in pools on the chipped tile.

“If you are from the embassy why do you do this to me?” he groaned, hand splayed across his bloody face.

“I am not from the embassy, you idiot,” Zafir laughed. Methodically, he began to unbutton his shirt. “I am a messenger-from Allah. And you have been talking to the Americans.”

“Everyone here talks to the Americans…” Sadiq’s voice quavered. “What are you doing? I’m a student… waiting to return to Baghdad and the university when it is safe… Why are you taking off your clothes?”

Zafir draped the shirt in the seat of a padded chair beside a cluttered table that occupied a quarter of the cramped apartment. “I wish to keep it free of blood-your blood-while I work.” He took the roll of tape from the pocket of his slacks and bound the boy’s wrists behind his back. As Zafir expected, Sadiq held out a pitiful hope that if he complied, he wouldn’t get hurt. Foolish boy. Zafir threw him on the shabby couch under a poster of an American actress wearing a swimsuit. The Bedouin spoke slowly, lips pulled back in disgust, showing yellow teeth. “Malik suspects you have been working with the Americans.”

“Malik is a liar!” the boy shrieked, trying to disappear by sinking deeper into the threadbare cushions.

“Malik is dead.” Zafir put a finger to his lips to shush the boy’s rising whimper. “Now-” He clapped his hands in front of him. “In your university studies do they teach you of the ancient Bedouin custom of Bisha’a? ”

“No… I don’t think so…” Sadiq leaned his head back, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. He sounded like he had a bad cold. “I… I don’t remember…”

“Very well, then.” Zafir nodded. “I will instruct you.” He rummaged through the small basin of dirty dishes until he found a metal spoon, still encrusted with the hardened remains of some past breakfast. He lit the burner on a gas hot plate and placed the bowl of the spoon in flame. Bits of food flared and popped as it burned off in a smoky yellow blaze. “Here’s how it works. I ask you a question… then you will give me an answer.”

The metal spoon glowed cherry red. The rag in Zafir’s hand began to smoke as the heat traveled up the handle and scorched the cloth. “After you have answered, you may prove your honesty by placing your tongue against the hot metal. If you are indeed telling me the truth, it will not burn you.”

Sadiq gulped.

Zafir leaned in with the glowing spoon, only inches from the boy’s face. “Of course, Bisha’a is voluntary. It would prove your innocence, but the choice is up to you.”

“I can’t… I don’t…”

“Very well,” Zafir said, half smiling. “I will take that to mean no.” He tapped the super-heated spoon to the tip of the boy’s nose, bringing a piercing shriek and a puff of acrid smoke as skin seared in a perfect circle.

Turning his back on the sobbing boy, Zafir began to rummage around the cluttered room. He found it better to let people he questioned stew for a time, wondering what was about to become of them. Their fevered brains did much of his work for him. Amid piles of crumpled food wrappers, paper coffee cups, and old newspaper on the yellowed Formica table, Zafir found what he was after, a cell phone. He snatched it up with a sly grin and began to scroll through the numbers.

“This one is interesting,” he muttered, peering up under his wild black eyebrows. He held the phone in front of the boy’s eyes. “It is the country code for America, is it not?”

Sadiq’s eyes twitched, searching the room like a cornered animal. His chest heaved with fear. “A friend who helps me with my English studies… Please, I do not know what you think I have done… I am a poor student, merely waiting to return to my studies.”

Zafir took the vise grips from his pocket and rolled them slowly in his disfigured hand. “So you have said.” He knelt beside the trembling boy. “It is very important that I know exactly what you have told the Americans. You will tell me all about your conversations… and I will demonstrate the agony your friend Malik suffered before his death this very morning.”

Zafir lifted Sadiq’s right ankle. Again for reasons of fear or hope or stupidity, the boy put up no struggle. Zafir bound him to the heavy wooden arm of the couch with four quick wraps of the tape. The boy’s sandal fell to the floor. Tears streamed from his eyes.

“Yes, yes, yes! I have spoken to an American Air Force agent!” Sadiq blurted. Words began to flow like water from a broken vessel. “He… he has killed many of our brothers… a very dangerous man. He would have killed me as well if I had not told him something… You must believe me. I did not wish to talk to him, but he forced me.”

“This American’s name?”

“Jericho.” The boy hardly paused at the question. It was far too easy. “His name is Jericho.”

Zafir raised an eyebrow. “An Israeli?”

“No,” the boy whimpered, chest heaving, eyes darting around the room. “He is American.”

“His full name.”

“I do not know.”

Zafir struck Sadiq across the face with the vise grips. There was a satisfying crunch as his cheekbone cracked. Teeth shattered and gave way.

Sadiq screamed, quivering, trying to make himself smaller. He’d wet his trousers. Pathetic.

“I’m telling you the truth. I… I’m not lying anymore.”

Zafir struck him again. A piece of tooth flew across the room to land in a dirty soup bowl with a tiny clink. A torrent of fresh blood gushed from his already shattered nose.

“I know you are not,” Zafir whispered, leaning in to rest his arm on the back of the couch, looming over the boy.

“S… s… stop, stop, stop,” Sadiq pleaded, shoulders wracked with sobs, spittle covering his chin. “I’m telling you what you want to know…”

“It is much too late to save yourself from all pain…” Zafir spoke slowly as he stooped to tape Sadiq’s free ankle to the center leg of the couch, leaving him spread eagle on the blood-soaked cushion. “But, if you continue your cooperation, perhaps you may enjoy a quicker death. Let me explain how these events will unfold.” He patted the boy gently on the knee. Anticipation of pain brought greater fruit than the pain itself. “First, I will pull the nails from your toes with my pliers… one by one. They come out more quickly than you might imagine so that part of it will not take overly long….”