Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

Ann looked away from the camera.

“Please do what they ask. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

The screen went blank. The man stood up.

“I’m going to give you time to think, Ali. I hope Miss O’Hearn is right about you. When I come back, I will ask you questions. If you answer them, it will go well for you. If you refuse to answer my questions, you will be stripped naked, and I will go to work. If that happens, you will suffer in ways you cannot imagine.”

The man left the room, and the guards faded into its corners, silent and out of sight. Ali was terrified. His village, the camp in Somalia, even the safe house where he had spent the past months seemed like dreams. These concrete walls were his reality. Terror was his new companion.

Ali was having trouble breathing and he was sweating. Hunger made it hard for him to think. The man’s family had died at the hands of al-Qaeda; his wife, his children, his brother. There would be no mercy, and he knew he would talk eventually. Even brave men broke at some point.

Ali thought about Ann. Why had he tried to save her? Would he have warned her if he truly believed in his mission? If he had died, there would have been no remorse, no guilt. He would have been with Allah in paradise. But he had not died, and he had to face the consequences of failure, and the consequences were captivity and unspeakable pain that would end only when he did what his captors asked. Why endure any pain when he was certain he would give in? Would Allah forgive his cowardice? Would he be barred from paradise if he gave the enemy what they wanted?

Ali felt tears form. He was weak, he was a coward. While he was in his cell, he had heard his companions scream. They had resisted. But for how long? The man said they had given him Ali’s name, he said they had answered all his questions. Had they held out to save face, knowing they would give their tormentors everything eventually? Had any not broken?

Ali didn’t want to be hurt. He did not want to be burned, to have his bones broken, and to be drowned over and over and over. When the man returned, Ali was sobbing. When he stopped crying he begged for mercy and agreed to answer every question.

“My name is Alan,” the interrogator said as soon as Ali agreed to cooperate. Of course, Alan was not his real name, but that didn’t matter. He had given Ali a name so he would appear to be less threatening.

Alan ordered the guards to remove Ali’s restraints. He wasn’t worried about being attacked. He was very adept at self-defense, and the guards were younger and faster and even better than he was.

Moments after Ali’s restraints were removed, the door to the interrogation room opened and a cart with a meal composed of food and drink from the area where Ali had grown up was rolled in.

“If you’re wondering how we knew the location of your village, one of the other prisoners told us.”

Alan gave Ali this tidbit of information to make him unsure of what the FBI did and did not know. While Ali ate, Alan emphasized the importance of complete cooperation and the consequences to Ali if Alan discovered that he was lying.

When Ali was finished eating, Alan threw him some softballs. He asked Ali what it was like growing up in the mountains of Pakistan. Alan listened to Ali’s answers attentively. At first, Ali answered reluctantly. His shame at being broken was obvious, but it was easy to talk about the village and his family and his school. As he and Alan bonded, he began talking freely. Alan asked him how he was recruited. After that, it was an easy transition to a discussion about the camp, his trip to America, and the mission.

“Your friends told me that you were the only one trained to use explosives,” Alan said.

Ali looked wary, but he nodded.

“The people at the camp must have valued your intelligence.”

Ali blushed.

“I also understand that Steve took you along when he picked up the dynamite and the blasting caps.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

Ali recounted the journey. Alan asked him to describe the van and the logo. He asked for a description of the men who had given Steve the explosives.

“Did they say how they got them?” Alan asked.

“They said something about a mine in West Virginia.”

“Did they tell you the name of the mine?”

“No. Steve asked where they got the dynamite, and Bob said it came from a coal mine in West Virginia.”

Alan smiled. “A coal mine. Thank you. Now, we’ve talked about Steve a lot, and you’ve given me a very good description. Did he ever mention his last name?”

“No, never. He never said anything about himself.”

“So you don’t know where he lives or works?”

“No,” Ali answered. Then he hesitated. Alan could see that he had remembered something useful that he was reluctant to give away.

“You know we’re going to give you a lie detector test so we can be certain that you’re being completely truthful. Don’t hold anything back, Ali. You’re doing very well, and I’ve come to like you. I do believe Ann O’Hearn. I do believe you’re different from the others. Don’t prove me wrong. I don’t want to think about what will happen to you if I find out you’ve been playing me for a fool.”

Ali licked his lips. He looked down. “There is one thing,” he said, the shame of betrayal evident in his voice. “Steve picked us up from the freighter in a station wagon. He drove us to the safe house. I saw the license plate number of his car when he drove off.”

“Do you remember the number?” Alan asked as if it was of no importance.

Ali repeated the number from memory. Alan wrote it down.

Half an hour later, Alan stood up.

“We’ve been talking for a while, and you must be tired. We’ll wrap this up. You’ll be returned to your cell while we check on the information you gave us. If it checks out, you’ll be transferred to much better accommodations.”

The moment he was alone, Alan pulled out his cell phone and dialed Harold Johnson.

“We may have caught a break, Harold. Ali Bashar has a knack for remembering numbers, and he memorized the license plate of a Volvo station wagon that was driven by the American who called himself Steve.”

“I’ll get someone on this right away,” Johnson said as soon as he wrote down the number.

Alan hung up. He was exhausted, but he allowed himself a tired smile. He was an expert on breaking men, and he had succeeded once again without spilling a drop of blood. The story about 9/11 and the screams Ali had heard were psychological ploys to unnerve his subjects. The screams had been duped from horror movies, and Alan’s wife and children lived in a pleasant suburb in Maryland. He wished he could be with them, but he would be bunking here tonight. In the morning, Ali would be given a polygraph examination. If he passed, Alan would milk him for more information, although he suspected that Ali had told him everything of importance.

Alan stretched. There was a room on another floor in the facility with a comfortable bed. He’d get a bite to eat before sacking out. Tomorrow he would work on the last member of the cell.

A lan was in a deep sleep when the light in his room went on and a guard told him to wake up. It took him a second to get oriented. His mouth felt gummy and everything was out of focus. He sat up and put on his glasses.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Bashar killed himself. You better come with me.”

Alan put on his pants, shirt, and shoes and took the elevator to the basement where the cells were. Another guard was posted in front of the open door to Ali’s cell. He stepped aside to let Alan in. The scene that confronted him was straight out of a slasher film. Ali was sprawled in a pool of blood, and spatter patterns resembling a Jackson Pollock painting decorated the walls and floor of the cell. There was even blood on the ceiling.