Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

I wanted a second opinion, though. The Ghost might have fed the analysts whatever he thought would help him out, then dropped his guard around the prison personnel, letting something slip out about his true mental state.

Bob said, “No. Not really. Honestly, I haven’t even seen him pray like the devout ones do. When he looks at you, you can tell he’d probably like to put a knife to your throat, but I don’t think it’s because of Islam. I’d be giving him the same looks if I were locked up in a secret prison. Like I said, he’s pretty polite otherwise.”

“Have you talked to him extensively? Engaged him in conversation while he’s been here?”

“No. Not allowed to, beyond the normal day-to-day activities. The only ones allowed to engage him are guys like you who come in with a thumb drive.”

Should have expected that.

“Look,” Bob said, “I’ve only got a two-hour window when I can get you in and out without anyone else seeing. I don’t think I’m going to be able to give you anything more than those analysts.”

I nodded and stood, throwing enough money on the table to cover both of our coffee orders. “Let’s go.”

50

Alone in his cell, the prisoner wrote a verse in Arabic. He knew the men would come and take it, scrutinizing the words for some secret meaning, but they would never find his name threaded in the text. Abdul Rahman. Through repeated interviews they had gained much information from him, but they had yet to learn his true name. He kept it secret, a token of his resistance, and enjoyed hiding the name in innocuous text that they would study for hours. It was a small thing, but it allowed him the mental fortitude to continue.

They called him the Ghost, and had managed to connect him to several kunyas and aliases he had used in the past, but were frustrated by his true name. A frustration he enjoyed giving them.

The interviews had grown more and more infrequent, with the last one happening over a month ago. In truth, he missed them. Much to his surprise, he had never endured what he would consider torture; instead, the interrogations had become a match of wits. Initially, when he’d first arrived, the Americans had come in hard, threatening him with all manner of things and making his life miserable with various physically coercive techniques, but it got them nowhere, as there were very few men on earth with the willpower he possessed. He’d endured much worse in the past—true torture—and he’d survived intact.

About a month into his detention they’d shifted tactics, and he found himself slipping. He had followed his own strategy, sure of his intellect. Giving up information that he knew would be worthless or dribbling out a web of deceit that sounded accurate, he had been surprised when the interrogators had come back with a different picture, asking more questions. A picture that was accurate.

The men and women would talk to him for hours, tripping him up with his own lies and using insidious psychological techniques to reveal what he wished to keep secret. Realizing they were much, much smarter than they let on, he had begun to parse his words so he said nothing that they could use, yet they always managed to get something. The interviews had grown to be a challenge he looked forward to, but they came less and less frequently now.

As they had learned from him, he had gained a greater understanding of them. While he no longer underestimated their intelligence, their actual knowledge of his world caused him to laugh. It was like watching a child paint a picture of an animal he or she had never seen, based only on a description. The painting bore a resemblance but its errors were glaring.

In some cases, he helped them refine the picture, as with Hezbollah. That group had used him for its own ends and had eventually tried to kill him. Ultimately, he wasn’t sure if the reason he’d been captured wasn’t because the group had betrayed him. He detested their arrogance and had no compunction about feeding the Americans what he knew. Hezbollah might have professed to be the resistance against Israel, but he’d seen up close that all they really wanted was their own political dominance in Lebanon, and they used the threat of Israel to maintain their massive armament. Israel’s disappearing tomorrow was their worst fear, as they would lose their reason to exist.

In other cases he tried to dilute the picture even more, giving false information that would only confuse or conflict with intelligence they already knew, not wanting to enhance the Zionist dogs’ ability to harm the Palestinian cause. Hamas, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Fatah, or any other group looking to push Israel into the sea was off-limits in his mind. He would protect them at all costs.

The one area that the interrogators actively pursued was al-Qaeda, wanting more information about them than anything else. Unfortunately for them, he’d honestly had little contact with that group and couldn’t have provided much information even if he’d wanted to.

He wondered if that was the reason the interrogators had quit coming around. They’d realized he couldn’t help them in their quest against al-Qaeda and thus left him to his lonely cell. Left him with nothing more than books and a chance to exercise once a week.

He missed the game. It was the only one he had, and he needed the stimulation. He understood that he would never be allowed to leave, would never have his freedom again, and that is what hurt him the most. He had considered suicide but had rejected it outright. It just wasn’t his way. Instead, he’d turned to thoughts of escape, studying the prison routines and plotting.

The task was daunting to say the least. Getting out of the prison would be nearly impossible, but that was the easiest challenge he faced. He knew he was in the United States but had no idea exactly where and had no passport, money, or connections to facilitate escape. Fading into the background, like he would have done in his home country of Lebanon, would be impossible here. Even so, he enjoyed the mental challenge and had come up with a multitude of options, if the opportunity presented itself.

The light in his cell flicked off, then back on, signaling that someone was coming to visit. It startled him, since it had been so long since his last interrogation, and he was embarrassed at the excitement he felt. He put his back to the door and placed his hands through the slot, waiting to be cuffed, mentally preparing for the duel.

He felt the steel on his wrists and stepped forward, facing the mirror at the back of his cell. He saw it open, and was shocked at who came through it.

The man said not a word, waiting on the door to close again. As the echo of footfalls faded, he spoke. “Hello, Ash’abah.”

The Ghost smiled at the Arabic butchering of his nickname but said nothing, staring at the man in the mirror to confirm. He didn’t really remember the height or the color of his hair, but the blue eyes and the scar on his cheek were branded like acid on his brain. It was the man who had captured him.

“You can call me Mr. Pink. Have a seat.”

The Ghost did so, turning around and sitting at his small table, remaining silent.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

He spoke for the first time. “Yes. You’re the man who stopped my attack. The man who brought me here.”

Pink grinned. “How about that airplane ride? You couldn’t pay money for high adventure like that.”

The Ghost barely remembered his drugged trip on the Skyhook extraction system. A violent jerk off the ground, spinning in the hurricane-force wind, then being hoisted in the back of an aircraft. From there, it was one sedated journey after another, until he’d ended up here.

The Ghost said, “What do you want? I don’t think it’s answers you seek. That’s not your skill.”