“Be also assured that witnesses on scene, including his partner, Senior Field Officer Gloria Ibenez, report that to the very end Robert did not hesitate to perform his duty, even though he was under direct fire from a hostile force superior in numbers and armament.”
Adkins looked into Toni’s eyes, momentarily at a loss for words. But then he handed her the medal and the citation folder. “He did good,” he said softly. “Really good.”
“Thank you, Mr. Director.”
Adkins gave her a hug. “If you need anything, day or night, call me,” he said in her ear. “And my name is Dick.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
By six in the evening McGarvey was getting the impression that just about all the prisoners knew something big was on the verge of happening. Al-Quaida was preparing to strike another deadly blow at the infidel West, and very soon. It seemed to be an article of faith at least as strong as their belief in the Qur’an. As the MP bringing in the last of the four prisoners for interrogation commented, “They’re happy.” It was ominous.
Weiss had sent a runner over to the Officers’ Club around two thirty to bring McGarvey and Gloria up the hill to the interrogation center inside Camp Delta. All four of the men on Otto’s list had been located, and had been brought over to one of the holding rooms.
Weiss had also brought a translator, Chief Petty Officer First Class Sayyid Deyhim, who’d been born in Tehran, but who’d been raised and educated in the United States since he was thirteen. He was a short, slightly built man with dark skin, thick black hair, and deep-set eyes.
“Do you also speak Arabic?” McGarvey had asked when they were introduced.
“Yes, but I do not like it,” Deyhim shot back. “Iranians are Persians, not Arabs. There’s a big difference.” He was angry. Weiss had probably warned him not to cooperate with the CIA.
“Not these days,” McGarvey had told him. “Anyway, I thought that you were an American.”
They had gathered in one of the interrogation rooms, furnished only with a low wooden bench that was bolted to the bare concrete floor. A water hose was connected to a spigot at the back of the small room, and there was a drain in the floor beneath the bench. There were no windows, but the room was brightly lit by recessed bulbs in the ceiling, protected by steel mesh.
Deyhim glanced at Weiss, who just shrugged.
“We don’t have to be friends,” McGarvey said, his voice cold. “But we will be taping the interviews, so I suggest that your translations be accurate.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“Sir,” McGarvey said.
Deyhim had glanced again at Weiss. “Yes, sir,” he said.
That had been three interviews ago, during which time the man had apparently done his job well; providing simultaneous translations of McGarvey’s and Gloria’s questions into Farsi, and the Iranian prisoners’ answers into English.
The MP ushered the round-faced prisoner into the interrogation room, where he was directed to have a seat on the bench. He was dressed in orange coveralls, white slippers on his feet. His hair had been closely cut, and his wrists were bound by a plastic restraint, which the MP cut loose before he left the room.
“This one is a Saudi,” Weiss said. “Ali bin Ramdi. He was arrested in early November oh-three, in Qandahar, Afghanistan, along with eighteen other so-called freedom fighters. He follows the rules, but to this point he’s given us no useful intel.”
The prisoner looked from Weiss, who was leaning against the wall near the door, to Gloria, who was standing next to Deyhim. He seemed calm, sure of himself, and just like the others, even a little excited, maybe happy.
McGarvey sat down astraddle the opposite end of the bench, and smiled. “How soon before Saudi women get the vote?” he asked.
Deyhim hesitated for just a moment, but then translated the question into Arabic.
A smirk crossed the prisoner’s face. “‘Never,’ he said,” Deyhim translated. “‘We are not Kuwait or Iran.’”
“Where do you get your news, Ali?” McGarvey asked pleasantly. Kuwaiti women had not been given the right to vote until after bin Ramdi’s arrest. Supposedly prisoners here were not given access to newspapers, radios, or televisions.
“‘One hears things,’” Deyhim translated.
“I’m sure they do,” McGarvey agreed. “It’s too bad about your brothers last week.”
Bin Ramdi shrugged, but said nothing.
“Their deaths were meaningless. They served no purpose. They were not martyrs.” McGarvey shook his head. “No Paradise for them.”
“‘Paradise awaits all who serve the jihad.’”
“Yes, but not like the brothers who died hitting New York and Washington,” McGarvey said. “They truly died martyrs. Allah had to be pleased. Whereas with you and the others …”
Bin Ramdi’s eyes narrowed.
“Palestinian women are willing to die for the cause, why not Saudi women?”
Deyhim looked over at Weiss and then McGarvey. “I don’t understand this line of questioning, sir.”
“It’s not necessary for you to understand,” McGarvey said. He didn’t take his eyes from the prisoner’s. “Just translate, please.”
Deyhim translated the question, and bin Ramdi’s thick lips twisted in a smirk. “‘Our women play a more important role than to be wasted thus.’”
McGarvey smiled and slapped his knee. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “It’s the same for American women. They even work for the FBI and CIA. Some of them serve in our military forces.”
Bin Ramdi shook his head. “‘That is not allowed for Saudi women.’”
“Not even in your navy?” McGarvey asked, as if he were surprised. “They could be trained to serve on something like one of the gunboats you crewed.”
“‘I was on a destroyer—’” bin Ramdi said, but he immediately realized his mistake and stopped.
“Destroyer?” McGarvey said. He turned to Weiss. “Commander, let me see this man’s file.”
Weiss had an odd, thoughtful expression on his face that was hard to read; it was as if he’d been caught by an unpleasant surprise. He hesitated for a moment, but then brought the file over.
McGarvey opened it, and pretended to read. He looked up. “This says you were a gunner’s mate aboard a patrol boat. Have we been wrong about you?”
Deyhim translated, but bin Ramdi knew that he had walked into a trap, and he kept silent.
“Look, straighten us out, if you will,” McGarvey said. “If you were a gunner’s mate who we think went over to al-Quaida, that’s one thing. We’ll keep you here for as long as we want.” McGarvey looked to Gloria after Deyhim finished translating. “Tell him.”
“If you follow Uncle Osama you are a pig and deserve to die,” she said harshly.
“We’re not going in that direction,” Weiss broke in before Deyhim could translate.
“Why?” McGarvey said, keeping direct eye contact with bin Ramdi.
“We’re not allowed to humiliate them.”
“But they’re allowed to crash airplanes, killing innocent people?” McGarvey shot back, without raising his voice. “Get your head out of your ass, Weiss, I may be on to something here.”
“Amnesty International would love to get its hands on something like this,” Weiss said. “Your interviews are over. I’ll talk to the general, but you two are definitely out of here. If not tonight then first thing in the morning.”
“What the fuck are you hiding?” Gloria asked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Weiss demanded.
“Are you protecting this bastard, or just covering your own ass?”