"We'll have different security arrangements once we land in Iraq," he replied. "Perhaps now that we're under way, you wouldn't mind telling me where we are headed from Erbil airport?"
"We have discussed that before. I will tell you once we arrive." She looked out the window. "We have a saying, 'Stairs are climbed step by step.'"
"Well, that's great, Dr. Banaz. But we're not talking about an afternoon jaunt in the countryside for two. There are a lot of people who need time to prepare for this."
"That is your problem and not mine, Agent Newman," she said flatly. "I do not trust you."
"And I thought we were past that," he said in a mock pained tone.
"Neither of us is past it, as you say," she said seriously. "I am not in shackles, but I am still your prisoner."
"We're guarding you, protecting you. This is different than being a prisoner. I thought you understood that."
"Call it what you want," she replied thinly. "I believe what you have shown me with those pictures. I believe what has happened to those innocent people in America. I'll try to help you, but your past treatment of me has taught me not to trust any of you."
"Dr. Banaz, I didn't do anything to you. I've been honest with you from the first moment we met."
"There is no I, Agent Newman. You are here representing your government. That says everything about who you are."
"I don't carry a gun. I'm not a soldier or a policeman," he told her impatiently. "I'm a scientist."
"The same thing has always been true of me. I was a civilian, a scientist. If anyone had cared to do any research, they would have found that I never participated in any of Saddam Hussein's programs to develop biological weapons. There has been a great deal of good that has come out of the research I have done," she reminded him, not caring that there were others who were listening to this conversation. "But I was kept and treated with fewer rights than a prisoner of war. I was forgotten, lost. The rules of the Geneva Convention do not apply to me, according to America. So do not remind me of how little I care for you and your country. Do not ask for more than I am willing to give. I told you that I will help. I will remain true to my promise. I will tell you where to go once we reach Erbil. Leave it at that."
Fahimah looked straight ahead, finished with the discussion. It was a relief when he didn't argue more. She felt her cheeks and ears burning. Emotions had become foreign to her over the years, but now anger heated her blood. It had been so long since she'd allowed herself to feel and speak this way.
No one said anything. The noise of the helicopter overhead competed with the sound of the road, providing the only disruption to the silence inside the Humvee. Even the two-way radio remained quiet. She hadn't let anger overwhelm her during the years of her imprisonment, but she'd reached her limit. Like the long-trapped magma of a sleeping volcano, feelings about the injustices she had endured were suddenly erupting through the surface. It had begun yesterday, when in her fury she'd ripped through the room where they had moved her. She wished there was some physical means of venting those feelings now, but she knew she wouldn't get far with the two large bodies pressing her on either side. She had to find other means of calming herself.
Fahimah closed her eyes. She placed the computer on her lap and loosened her hold on it. She focused on her breathing. In. Hold. Slowly out. In. Hold. Slowly out. As she breathed, she felt the flow into each limb, joint by joint, muscle by muscle.
The shoulders of the two men on either side rocked against her. She lost her focus, anger and frustration pushing back into her consciousness. She focused again on her breathing, taking in the good… holding it so that it might spread through her… breathing out the bad. She was trying to relax her limbs with each breath, but it was difficult. There were so many distractions. So much noise. She tried to focus only on the rhythm of her breaths, to become separate from the body. In and hold and out. Again. Again. Trying began to give way to allowing. Awareness began to fade.
A sudden jolt caused the computer to fly off her lap. She opened her eyes, grabbing for it desperately. Agent Newman was the one who caught it before it was thrown against the front seat. He handed it back to her.
"Thank you," she whispered, trying to avoid eye contact. She tucked the leather strap under it and placed it on her lap again.
There was another jolt. She was crushed between the two men as they shifted and tried to regain their seat.
"You might want to put your seat belt on," Agent Newman suggested, reaching for his. There wasn't much room for him to maneuver.
"Sorry, sir," the driver said apologetically. "We're not far from the base."
Fahimah looked out the window at the group of Afghani kids running after the cars. The guns didn't deter them. Their bare feet, dirty faces, hungry bellies were reminders of what she'd seen before. She could hear their voices through the glass and realized that the helicopter had left them.
"Naan… naan… naan…"
They were asking for bread. Fahimah stared at the tents set up past the faces. This reminded her of the refugee camps that had been set up all over the Iranian border after Saddam's troops had destroyed all of those Kurdish villages, after he had killed so many men. Young children and women had been left to fend for themselves then, too.
The cars were slowing down. Fahimah saw security checkpoints ahead. The Afghanis were forced to stay on this side of the barriers. The radio came to life again, issuing instructions about driving through. Just before they reached the barriers, however, something hard hit the right side window of the vehicle.
Fahimah found her face shoved forward onto her lap by the soldier sitting to her left. Her nose hit the laptop hard.
"Speed up!" the soldier growled.
"It was just a rock," the driver replied.
"They're waving you through," Newman said. "Go."
Fahimah felt the vehicle speed up again. With her face still pressed against the laptop, Fahimah felt blood trickling down her face. She brought her hand up to her nose. The smell of leather from the computer case turned her stomach again. She tasted bile in the back of her throat. She took another deep breath as the weight of the soldier eased from her.
"Are you okay?" Newman asked, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her into a sitting position again.
"I warned you before. Your people are the ones who're trying to kill me."
She didn't know where the tissue came from, but he started patting her upper lips, holding her head up. She took it away from him and wiped her nose herself.
"Sorry," the soldier on her left said gruffly. "We can't be too careful."
"It was nothing," she replied quietly. "The bleeding has already stopped." She accepted another tissue that was handed to her from the front seat and wiped a drop of blood from the leather case.
In another minute or two, the Humvees began to slow again. At this checkpoint, armed soldiers looked into the vehicle and under it before allowing them to pass. After weaving back and forth through concrete barriers like a ski slalom, the road straightened and took them into the base.
The roads inside the base were busy, filled with military vehicles and Americans in uniform. A few Afghani civilians were visible in their turbans or caps and dark vests and their simple long shirts over white pants and sandals. They stood out among the soldiers in camouflage khaki and gray and green. Most were young men and boys. They appeared to be laborers.