“You’re going to say yes to this, and you know why? You love your country, you love the CIA, and this is the singular most important thing you could ever do for your country. You want to be part of this. Besides, I need help.” Eric stared down at his hands. “I need help training him. I need you to watch him. I need you to see the things I can’t see, and if it goes bad, I need you to help me clean it up.”
He sat back down, contemplating Eric’s offer. It was all true. He did want to be part of it. He did want to help his country. He liked it best when the stakes were high. “Well shit, when you put it like that, how can I say no?”
Abdullah taught Koshen how to grind pellets of fertilizer into a powder using a mortar and pestle, burlap sacks piled high around them. The afternoon air was warm in the small warehouse, and sweat dampened his face. His arm ached and his shoulder burned from the repetitive motion, but he would not complain in front of the young man.
Naseer entered the room. “How many more bags will we need?”
“At least another four,” Abdullah said. “How goes the separation?”
“I’ve just removed the last batch from the water and set it out to dry.”
“Good. If the Americans hadn’t convinced them to add calcium carbonate, we wouldn’t have to wash it.” He noticed dismay on Naseer’s face. “What is the problem?”
“The Taliban asked for more money. Only a few bags are smuggled in at a time on each motorbike.”
“Why is this a problem? Many motorbikes cross the border every day.”
Naseer shook his head. “They don’t like you using their fertilizer.”
“They have plans for it?” He continued to grind the pellets into a fine powder, then dumped it into a plastic pan
Naseer averted his gaze. “They would rather use it themselves.”
Abdullah stopped his work. “Who taught them to make bombs? Who taught them to make detonators?”
Koshen looked up cautiously. “You did.”
Abdullah waved at Koshen. “Even he knows this. No, they will complain, but in the end they will give us the bags we need. They may not like it, but they will do it. There is a debt, Naseer. They remember that.”
“They respect you,” Naseer cautioned. “They know how you’ve helped the Jihad. No one doubts this.” He paused, concern on his face. “Sometimes your comments upset them.”
Abdullah nodded evenly, but his anger grew. “They continue to use children. They put them in harm’s way. Asking a child to spy is acceptable. That is no different than talking. But asking a child to carry a bomb? No, I do not agree with them.”
“It is more than that,” Naseer said. “You told Azim they should allow girls to learn to read the Quran. They do not agree with this!”
Azim was the local Taliban commander, a weak and dishonest man who Abdullah loathed. “Azim may hold his own opinions, as I may hold mine. Girls should be taught to read and study the Quran.”
“The suspension is only temporary,” Naseer reasoned. “If you just stay quiet, it will soothe the harsh talk against you.”
Abdullah sighed. “It will not be temporary if Azim has his way. His goals and mine are not the same. I serve Allah. He serves himself.”
Naseer glanced around. “Abdullah! You must not say this!”
“Don’t worry, the only one here is Koshen, and he won’t repeat this, will you, Koshen?”
“I hear nothing,” Koshen said quietly.
“You see, he hears nothing. As do you. You are not hearing. Azim is not of Islam. He is nothing more than a thug. He is allowed to lead because his father was a loyal Mujahideen. But Azim? He is not a man like his father. No, the Mullah recognizes the debt the Taliban owes me. He recognizes a true Mujahideen. That is why Azim will not raise a hand against me.” He turned his gaze to Naseer, who froze. “Azim is nothing before a true Mujahideen.”
Nasser swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Abdullah went back to grinding fertilizer, ignoring the ache in his arm. He had his suspicions about Azim, but he could not prove them. Still, one day, if he could find evidence of Azim’s treachery, he would make Azim pay for his crimes.
“Ready for this little piece of melodrama?” Dr. Barnwell asked.
Eric shook his head in disbelief.
The aircraft hangar was divided into many rooms, hastily built out of plywood and drywall. They entered the largest and found a cemetery. Eric shook his head at the photos of headstones plastered around the walls. The ceiling, thirty feet from the ground, was painted bright blue with fluffy white clouds. The floor was covered in green AstroTurf and headstones made of styrofoam were taped to the floor. A row of chairs sat neatly in line next to a mound of dirt, the casket waiting to be lowered into the ground.
The entire scene was fake, decorated like a movie set. He shook his head again. “I can’t believe Frist will fall for this.”
“He’ll be drugged,” Barnwell said. He rapped his knuckles against the fake gravestone, which almost toppled over. It was inscribed with Bob and Phyllis Frist, their birth dates and a death date of two thousand and four. “Smell the air?”
Eric sniffed. The air smelled of grass, fresh turned earth, and rain. He nodded.
“Smell is a vital piece of memory. We’re pumping artificial odors to each environment. It will help the overlay. In the end, he might remember feeling concern over his parent’s funeral, but he won’t remember missing it.”
Men and women in dark suits and dresses entered, including a man dressed as a priest, who nodded at Barnwell and took his place in front of the headstones. Two men guided Frist, dressed in his Army uniform, into the room.
Frist’s eyes were unfocused, and he stumbled over the fake grass. The men steadied him and led him to the front, next to the headstone. Dr. Barnwell waved for Eric to follow him, and they left through a door painted to resemble a tomb. They could hear the priest begin the service through the thin fake walls.
“The drugs should be wearing off,” Dr. Barnwell said, “just enough for him to form new memories. He’s still in a highly suggestive state. You need to get ready. The next memory will be the interrogation room.”
Eric quickly dressed in camos, his breeching tools hanging from his chest harness, then checked the MP5 for ammo.
“Remember the script,” Dr. Barnwell said. “They’re placing him in the interrogation room now.”
“Got it, Doc.”
He glanced through the peephole to the interrogation room and watched as several dark-skinned men bent Frist back, placed a cloth over his face, and poured water over the cloth. Frist struggled weakly, but the men did not relent.
Eric felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Deion watching the performance.
“They sure make it look real,” Deion said with a grin.
Eric smiled. “Well look at you. I’d almost think you were an Operator.”
Deion grinned. “Look man, I attended jump school. It’s standard training for a CIA NOC. I just never actually graduated.”
“You lucky spook bastards with your cushy desk jobs.”
Deion laughed. “I don’t remember it being all that cushy in Afghanistan.”
“Well, you weren’t out in the field. You got to kick it easy back in Kandahar.”
Deion glanced again through the peephole. “How much longer? They really look like they’re giving it to him.”
“They are. I told them to act just like insurgents. I even made them stop bathing a week ago. Here,” he said, handing his MP5 to Deion. “Weapon check.”
Deion popped the magazine and counted out the blanks, refilled it, and checked the chamber. “Clear.” He handed his MP5 to Eric who did the same.