Т Паркер - The Room of White Fire

The next video was again shot in the smokehouse cellar, and again the lighting was poor and the walls were slick and black. A waterboard had been set up on the floor in the middle of the room. At one time it had apparently served as a door. Now there were ropes running through the knob hole midway down one side, and through a similar hole that had been cut out opposite. Through the holes sprouted leather straps, their buckles gawking open, ready for the arms of whichever miserable person was to be strapped in next. The original door hinges had been removed and I could see the screw holes and outlines of the hinge plates. At the opposite end of the plank were two more holes, and sets of ankle restraints, close together. The entire board rested on stone blocks at a mild slant — so the victim’s feet would be higher than the head. Five white buckets stood in a row near the head of the board.

Aaban sat facing the camera, with his back to the contraption, wearing nothing but what looked like the same filthy nightshirt I’d seen earlier. His wrists were cuffed behind the chairback. Small clouds of condensation formed outside his nose. His head was up and his expression was proud. He looked as if he were about to offer his son a lesson in right behavior. Roshaan sat across from him with a worried expression on his face. No restraints. He wore a heavy black sweater, a watch cap, and mittens.

Spencer came into the frame, wrapped in a peacoat and a scarf. Moe followed behind him with a doomed expression on his face. John Vazquez and Clay were last.

“Don Tice again, shooting the video,” said Clay.

Spencer stood over Aaban and his son and when he spoke his breath made faint cartoon bubbles that showed up clearly against the black rock walls. Spencer spoke English and Aaban spoke Dari and Moe the ’terp turned the words back and forth as nimbly as a fry cook flipping eggs.

“Where is bin Laden?”

“Paris.”

“Where is Khairiah?”

“I think London.”

“Khairiah,” said Clay. “Bin Laden’s first wife.”

“Where is Amal?”

“New York. I’m certain of it.”

“Amal,” said Clay. “Bin Laden’s last wife. His favorite. Aaban is trying to have fun with us.”

Even with the watch cap pulled down for warmth, Roshaan’s strange look of wonder and fear was easy to see. His mouth hung slightly open as he watched his father try to outlast his tormentors. His breath condensed into a small vague cloud, then evaporated.

“Aaban, I will have to drown you if you will not help me.”

“Allahu Akbar.”

“Allah’s about to drown you in cold water, my friend.”

With this, Roshaan looked disbelievingly at Spencer, then to his father, then to the camera.

The video jumped ahead: Aaban strapped to the waterboard, Spencer and Clay standing near the buckets, Roshaan out-of-focus in the background, still seated. Clay held Aaban’s head in a two-armed lock. Spencer drew a dripping bath towel from one of the buckets and placed it over the man’s face. Aaban exhaled, then inhaled sharply. He coughed.

“Aaban, I have not started with the drowning yet. Your son does not need to see you suffer. Tell me something easy, Aaban. Tell me what country is bin Laden in?”

“Afghanistan.”

“What province?”

“Helmand.”

“I’m so disappointed. Let us change directions. When and where is the next attack planned on the United States?”

“In the six months we’d had Aaban,” said Clay. “This was the one hundred and eighty-seventh time we’d boarded him. Every time, he said bin Laden was in Helmand. But this was the first time with his son watching, and Dr. Spencer was hoping for something better.”

On-screen Spencer sighed. Then he took up the bucket and splashed some water around Aaban’s face, a little here and a little there, like a gardener trying to wet all his new plantings. Aaban snorted, coughed, then took a deep breath and held it. Spencer lifted the bucket and aimed a narrow stream straight into Aaban’s nose.

It took twenty seconds or so for the man’s breath to run out. An unbelievably long twenty seconds. Then his head wrenched against Clay’s grip like something electrified. Suddenly he inhaled, his body telling him his life was down to its last thimble of air. Spencer tilted the bucket and doubled the volume. Aaban’s head spasmed and his body convulsed. His legs rose off the board as if yanked by wires and his toes spread apart and the straps dug into his ankles.

“When and where will al-Qaeda attack the United States?”

Gurgled nonsense. Spencer righted the bucket and the water stopped.

“Where is bin Laden?”

Unintelligible.

Then a boy’s voice, quickly followed by the interpreter’s:

“Stop! Stop! Sto—”

Aaban’s sudden inhale was loud enough to blot out the voice of his son. Then rapid breathing, almost tuneful with relief, if not gratitude — fast and high-pitched and fluttering. Again and again and again. I’d never heard a thanks so genuine.

“Where is Amal? The favorite!”

Aaban’s breathing was so deep and fast he could only get the words out one or two at a time.

“To hell. You! To hell!”

And again, Roshaan through Moe: “Stop, he doesn’t know! He says he doesn’t know!”

Spencer looked down at Aaban for a long moment, then across the room to Roshaan. He looked at Clay and Vazz, who gave him vague shrugs. Then he set down the bucket and took up a new one. “Bin Laden will be with his favorite wife! Where is Amal?”

“Las Vegas.”

“Where is your great Allah now?”

“He. Damns. You!”

“When and where is the next attack?”

“On your naked whore mother.”

Spencer lifted the fresh bucket, directing the full heavy river into Aaban’s nose again.

Five minutes. Ten. Spencer poured the water, and Clay steadied Aaban’s head, and the man writhed and vomited, and the boy screamed in high-voiced helplessness, and Moe the ’terp made sure everybody was understanding everybody else.

We went on like that for about a month, mostly with the water,” said Clay. His voice was softer now, and he seemed deep within himself. Working deliberately, he removed the flash drive from the computer, set it back in the drawer, and brought out another drive. He talked while he plugged it into the USB port. “Three sessions a day sometimes. In between the water, we used stress positions and nudity. You can’t humiliate a proud man worse than stripping him naked and making him squirm with pain in front of his young son. At least, we couldn’t find anything. He gave us nothing actionable. He toyed with us. He told us how to break down and clean an AK. He gave us directions to his home in Sangin. False, no doubt. He described the beauty of his wives. There’s no use watching every minute of that. There’s probably no reason for Nell to see it.”

I didn’t tell Clay that Nell would never show this video, because the federal government could charge her and KPBS with sedition or even treason. Nell could be the next Snowden. There was still a war on terror. And national security was as big an issue now as it had been then. Maybe bigger. Nothing had changed — or at least, nothing had gotten better.

“Do you still think she’s going to like this?” asked Clay.

“She’ll be fascinated, just like I am.”

“But will she put me and Dr. Spencer on her show?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to recommend it?”

“I’m still making up my mind.”