Vince Flynn: Extreme Measures

“There’s nothing we can do about it now.” Rapp grabbed Haggani by the feet again and pulled him through the door, down the hall, and into the interrogation room on the left. Two men were inside, waiting. “Put him in the chair and tie him down,” Rapp ordered. “I don’t want him moving, and if he spits on you, you have my permission to slap the shit out of him.”

Rapp walked back out in the hallway and into the cell bay. Nash was waiting in front of the first cell on the left. There, sitting on the edge of the bed with prayer beads in hand, was Mohammad al-Haq. The forty-nine-year-old senior Taliban member looked more like he was seventy. His hair and beard were almost completely gray. His posture and gnarled hands spoke to the harsh life he had lived while fighting for almost thirty straight years – first as a revolutionary in the seventies, fighting against his own government, then for the Soviets in the early eighties when it looked like they would win, and then for the mujahideen when the tide turned against the Soviets. After the conflict with the Soviets, al-Haq worked with the various factions of the Northern Alliance, including General Dostum, before he yet again switched sides and jumped over to join up with the Taliban as they rolled to victory. Al-Haq was the ultimate opportunist. His past indicated he would be very easy to turn.

Nash opened the cell door and said, “Mohammad, I’m afraid the time has come.”

The bearded man looked up at him with nervous eyes. There would be no spitting or kicking. “For?” he asked in English.

“To reacquaint you with your old friend General Dostum.”

The man looked heavily at his prayer beads, and then, at the urging of Nash, got to his feet. The three of them left the cell bay and entered the other interrogation room. Nash placed al-Haq in a chair with his back to the door. Rapp walked around the other side of the table, leaned over and placed both hands on the surface, and stared into the prisoner’s eyes. In Dari he asked, “Mohammad, do you know who I am?”

The prisoner hesitated and then looked up. His eyes searched Rapp’s face for a moment and then he nodded.

“Do you think you have been treated well during your stay with the United States Air Force?” Nash asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, the party is over, Mohammad,” Rapp said as he moved around the table. “I brought your old buddy General Dostum down here from Mazar-i-Sharif. He is eagerly anticipating your reunion.”

He glanced warily at Rapp and with as much conviction as he could muster, said, “I do not believe the general is here. If he was, he would be standing in front of me right now.”

Nash and Rapp shared a look that al-Haq construed as nervous. The terrorist wiped his sweaty palms on his jumpsuit and added, “I have become a student of your country. I see how important it is for your leaders to feel that they are enlightened and compassionate. They would never allow me to be turned over to an animal like General Dostum. The senators I met with earlier in the week assured me that I would be treated humanely.”

Rapp laughed. Nash shook his head. Al-Haq allowed himself a smile at what he thought was a small victory.

“Your thinking,” Nash said, “is not far from the truth, but you left out one important thing. We’re CIA. We don’t play by the rules. Our job, our only job as ordered by the president, is to hunt down and kill you and your merry band of backward, bigoted nut jobs. Now, you may have found some comfort in the assurances of those politically correct senators who visited you earlier in the week, but let me tell you something, they have the shortest memories of any animal on the planet. We have assured the president that in our opinion an attack on the continental United States is imminent. He has talked to each of those senators, two of whom are up for reelection, and asked them how they are going to explain their behavior to their constituents if the U.S. is hit by a terrorist attack.”

Nash was making all of it up. There had been no discussion with the president, and therefore the president had not gone to the senators in question. They were way off the reservation, but the prisoner did not need to know that.

“Those senators bailed on your ass like that.” Rapp snapped his fingers. “So it’s down to two choices for you. You either talk to General Dostum or you talk to us. With us, it’s only going to be as painful as you make it. With General Dostum it will be painful. You will sleep in your own shit for as long as he keeps you alive. He will allow his men to do unspeakable things to you. You will experience pain that you didn’t think possible. You will beg him to kill you, and after he has had his fun, he most certainly will.”

Rapp took a step back, folded his arms, and shrugged. “With us, as long as you cooperate, you will most certainly live. In twenty years or so you will probably be set free. You can even look forward to playing with your grandchildren someday.”

“The choice is simple,” said Nash, almost pleading with the man to make things easy.

The Afghani’s face was pinched in thought, like a card player trying to decide if he should fold or put everything in the pot. After a long moment he looked up and said, “I do not believe you. If General Dostum was here, he would be standing in front of me.”

“Well that can be arranged,” said Nash as he moved across the room. He opened the door and left the small interrogation room.

Rapp smiled at him. “You’re an idiot. The general wants you so bad he’s offered me money. Fifty thousand cash if I look the other way and let him take you back to Mazar-i-Sharif. And you know how much this man likes his cash.”

Nash returned with the general a few seconds later. Dostum approached al-Haq from behind and placed both hands on the man’s shoulders. There was an obvious physical contrast between the two men. Dostum was carrying an extra twenty pounds at least, whereas al-Haq was emaciated from years of living on the run in the mountains.

“Mohammad, I have looked forward to this for years.” Dostum spoke in Uzbeki, which Rapp and Nash did not understand as well as Dari. “I have many things planned for you. There are many of your old friends who can’t wait to see you.”

Nash watched al-Haq close his eyes. He tried to stand but Dostum’s powerful hands kept him in place. Nash cleared his throat. “I think we should allow you two a few minutes alone.”

“That is a wonderful idea,” Dostum said, switching to English. “Please send in my bodyguards.”

As Rapp and Nash started for the door, a terrified al-Haq began pleading with them to stay.

CAPTAIN Trevor Leland stopped outside the door, reached for the knob, and froze with indecision. When you worked for a man like General Garrison, this was one of those moments that could make or break your career. The base commander liked his sleep and had left specific orders not to be disturbed. Leland thought of how Garrison would react to the intrusion and lost his nerve. He withdrew his hand and began walking away. After a few steps, though, he slowed his pace and started to reconsider. He’d been an aide to Brigadier General Scott Garrison for nine months, and found it extremely difficult to satisfy the man. It was by far the most tasking assignment he’d had in his six years in the air force. Garrison, like Leland, was an Air Force Academy graduate. That was about where their common ground ended, however. They disagreed drastically on how to lead and be led.

Leland thought of his own career. The general wasn’t likely to do him any favors, even if he performed to expectations. There was something the general didn’t like about him. Leland thought he knew what it was, but he didn’t want to admit it. He was a charmer. He’d figured out pretty much every CO he’d served under and been able to win them over. Not this time, though. Garrison was a tough nut, and Leland was having a really hard time trying to figure out how to turn things around. He had even tried to win over the other officers on Garrison’s staff, but so far he had received little sympathy.