Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

“Impressive. You will not mind if we run that name?”

“Isn’t the Social Security database off-limits? Aren’t you hacking something illegally? I’d hate to get you in trouble. My thought is, perhaps you could call the police. Surely their techniques surpass yours, and they could verify me. I am a little hesitant about my Social Security number. That, actually, was something my husband was adamant about. It’s not to be trifled with.”

“I can’t help but notice that while you’re not seeming to evade, you are, in fact, evading.”

“I want to cooperate, but you don’t have any right to hold me against my will. You can call the police, and if you are not satisfied with their explanation, you can bring charges against me for trespassing. It would be a waste of everybody’s time, but I do understand your anxiety about the mosque’s security and will happily wait until the police arrive. Perhaps we can continue our conversation about Dear—”

“You see, you could be a scout for some kind of guerrilla attack. Someone wants to bomb the mosque, but they want to know where to place the bomb. This is information you now have, and it appears to be information you’ve gone to some trouble to obtain.”

A cold breeze of fear swept through Janet. She had been in these situations before and each time the results had been disastrous: forceful hostility, beatings, rapes, hatred at its most naked.

“Sir, please, I beg you. I am no bomber, no fanatic, I am just an American woman who has seen the way to the faith and is still in grief over her husband’s death. The worst you can say of me is, I sometimes act irrationally. I know that. It gets me in trouble all the time. Perhaps my need to go to mosques for the therapeutic value makes no sense, but I can’t really seem to help it.”

The imam considered for a bit.

“I am in an unfortunate position, Mrs. Abdullah. Alas, I owe more to the mosque and its followers than I do to you. You understand, no? Now, let’s start over at the beginning. Please give me facts — facts than can be checked. This may take some time, but I would like you to stay until I am satisfied that you are of no danger to us. Or, perhaps admit that you are an FBI agent seeking to penetrate our security based on some intelligence you may have. Then we could easily disprove that intelligence — many false things are said of Moslems in the United States, many false conclusions are drawn — and you could go on your way. Would that not be the simplest?”

“But it would not be true. There is no FBI, there is no intelligence, I am merely—”

“Enough,” said the imam. “I want this to be pleasant, but you’re provoking me to behavior that I find abhorrent. I ask again, please do not make such a provocation.”

Janet thought of something to put between herself and them, something that would baffle, slow, confuse them. Nothing occurred. She felt her fear rise, and the urge to beg for mercy came over her hard. She couldn’t go through another beating. The last one had almost killed her. But when she opened her mouth, she said something that surprised even her.

“Please,” said Mrs. McDowell. “Torture me.”

Swagger stared at the blip. It had not moved in an hour.

“Okay,” he said, “maybe we have a complication.”

“Maybe she’s helping put up decorations for a dance,” said Nick.

They stared at the screen of the monitor that was receiving the signal from McDowell’s GPS.

“Where’s the team?” said Swagger.

“They’re in orbit around the building,” said Chandler. “They can pop the raid in a minute if I send them the go.”

“Hold on,” said Nick. “Folks, we have nothing here to go on.”

“A, she’s been in that building for over two hours,” said Swagger. “B, she’s in a room in the administrative section, not in the prayer center, so she’s obviously either imprisoned or undergoing interrogation.”

“Maybe she’s watching a ball game with some of the kids in hopes of overhearing something.”

“I just don’t like it.”

“We are on very thin ice here,” said Nick. “This is not the vacuum of combat where the only criterion is taking the objective. It is Main Street America 2018, and the rules are different. We cannot raid an innocent mosque with guys in Kevlar and carrying HKs. These folks are savvy, they’re on the phone in seconds, lawyers are there in a few more seconds, and, in minutes, TV is there and the Free Press , and we have a major administrative fuckup. MARJORIE DAW is disgraced and closed down.”

“None of that has anything to do with a woman’s life in danger.”

“What do you think, Houston?” he asked the Detroit guy.

“In this town, it’s always better to take it easy. You do not know the can of shit you are opening if you do something wrong. It will land all over everybody in this room and never go away.”

“I would add,” said Nick to Bob, “that maybe your read is that she’s in danger because you’re overcommitted to her, and maybe you’ve seen so much combat that everything is always combat. I’d hate to have to testify to a condition of ‘danger’ on such flimsy evidence at my board hearing.”

“Fair enough, and always a possibility.”

“Chandler?”

“Not fair to put her on the spot,” said Nick. “She’s junior and under Bureau discipline. Chandler, you don’t have to answer.”

“Yes, sir, but I will. Mr. Swagger, I’m FBI all the way. If the agent in charge — that is, Agent Memphis — makes a decision, I will obey it. Period, end of message.”

“Okay, she’s a good marine,” said Swagger. “We knew that.”

“Mr. Gold,” said Nick, “you’ve got more experience than any of us. Please jump in here, tell us what you think.”

“It would be different in Israel, where the courts and the media favor the government in its anti-terrorist efforts. So I cannot advise, because your context and nuances are so unique.”

“You have to say something,” said Nick. “Sorry, but you are here to advise, and it’s no help at all if you don’t.”

“Then I would say cock the hammer, point the gun, but don’t pull the trigger.”

“Okay,” said Nick. “Houston, you call that U.S. Attorney for a verbal warrant, so that if it does come to a raid, the State boys can hit the door in a second.”

“I’m going to move them across the street,” said Chandler. “That’ll shave even more time off their reaction interval.”

“Good move,” said Swagger, hearing in his mind the slide and click of MP5 bolts setting up for action.

Sister Abdullah, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am not. I want you to be comfortable with me, and the fastest way I can do that is endure a great deal of pain. I am not afraid of pain. My faith will enable me to forget it quickly. And if I am beaten to a point where you believe I could no longer lie and would say anything to avoid further pain and I do not deviate in my story, I will have proved by ordeal its authenticity.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I give you permission. I see it from your point of view. I will not file charges. I will go back to my room and heal and then go back to Baltimore, proud that I have served my faith.”

“You may give me permission, but the state of Michigan does not. I could end up in prison for ten years.”

“The state will never find out.”

“A guarantee you cannot possibly make.”

“Perhaps you should think this through a little more clearly. FBI agents are young women, athletic. I have varicose veins, and I haven’t seen the inside of a gym since high school. Would the FBI employ an old thing like me?”

“Young and beautiful FBI agents exist only in the movies. Who’s to say one couldn’t look like you?”