“As your legal status evolves, you’ll be afforded that opportunity.”
“And my legal status is — what?”
“Evolving. In accordance with the progress of this interview.”
“Well, the progress has stopped. When can I leave?”
“Right now you’re being detained without recourse to counsel under US antiterrorism laws.”
“Which law in particular?”
“You can expect to be informed of that as your status evolves.”
“Okay. Suppose this interview sails smoothly along. What can you offer me?”
“A good listener.”
“Then I’ll be the one to make the offer,” I said. “I’m going to tell you everything, and then I expect you to bring in somebody higher up. Somebody who can deal.”
“I’m not considering any offers.”
“Then I assume you’re not authorized.”
“I don’t recommend you make assumptions.”
“But surely you can send me up the chain.”
“Also an assumption.”
“Fine. Offer withdrawn. Let the silence begin.”
Our bodyguard, the sergeant, was one to emulate. On taking his seat he’d rested his hands on his knees, and he hadn’t disturbed them since.
Within half a minute I had to wipe sweat from my upper lip. Why had I begun this contest? And did it matter what I told them? They’re only digging for lies, and when they turn up the truth they brush it aside and go on digging, stupid as dogs.
The interrogator had the sense not to let it go on. He looked at his wristwatch, which might have been platinum. “Here’s an idea, Captain Nair. Why don’t you repeat your offer, and why don’t I accept it?”
* * *
Our tent had a good rubber roof without leaks. A strip of mosquito gauze running under the eaves let in the searing light all night, the disorienting yellow-ochre sunshine without shadows. Except for the microwave and satellite towers the base resembled an expanse of sacred aboriginal rubble, sandbag bunkers, Quonset huts emerging from mounds of earth bulldozed against them, and in the midst of it all two monumental generators that never stopped. No fuel or water reservoirs in evidence — they must have been buried. An acre of trucks and fighting vehicles, a hangar like a small mountain, a helicopter bull’s-eye. Mornings and evenings a live bugler, not a recording, blew reveille and taps.
Our sandbag perimeter could have accommodated three more tents, but ours stood alone. My tentmate liked to sit on the wall and stare across the way at the chain-link enclosure full of Africans, nearly fifty of them, Lord’s Resistance, I should think, or collaborators, women on the north side, men on the south. No children. The men spent their time right against the divider, fingers curled on the wire, laughing and talking, while the women formed a single clump on the other side, never looking at the men. Once in a while a downpour drove them all under blue plastic canopies strung up in the corners. Quarrels erupted often among the women. I never heard any voice that sounded like Davidia’s.
Patrick thought he might spot his wife among them, so he said. Still paying out this line. I didn’t buy it.
We took our meals with everyone else. Officers and enlisted men ate together in a large Quonset along with civilian guests and Special Ops helicopter crews and detainees from NATO countries, of which Patrick and I were the only ones, the only people modeling red pajamas.
The Special Activities Division sees some sort of advantage, I think, in starting the questions when your fork is halfway to your mouth. Just grab you up, goodbye hamburger sandwich, and it’s off to the interrogator.
This one was new. And that was good.
* * *
We met in a Quonset hut, in an office with a desk, two aluminum dining chairs, and some empty cardboard boxes and a cardboard barrel of MREs I could have stood in up to my neck. “Meal Rammed in an Envelope,” he said. “Care to suck one down?” I declined. He served me black coffee. I could have chosen tea and milk.
I said, “Where’s Sergeant Stone today?”
“Sergeant Stone?”
“I don’t know if his name was Stone, but he certainly seemed to be made of it.”
“No sergeants here.”
“He never introduced himself. Neither did the civilian.”
“Under current regulations, that’s not a requirement.”
“But under the circumstances, it might be courteous.”
“Sure. Agreed.”
“So — who are you?”
“Let’s skip over the courtesies for now. Can I suggest we do that, without irritating the shit out of you?”
I was too irritated to answer.
He used a lot of motions getting a bag of tea into a cup. He seemed older than the first one, but in a way he looked younger, looked barbered and tailored, in dark trousers, a nice white shirt — I wouldn’t know silk, but it might have been — and cuff links. He looked the way I try to look.
He sat down facing me with our knees nearly touching. We observed each other’s manner of drinking from a cup.
“Captain Nair, I’d like your opinion.”
“I’m full of opinions.”
“Good. Well. In the fullness of your opinion — does all this you’ve been telling us the last couple of days sound like a desperate, unbelievable lie?”
I counted to three. “Yes.” Counted again. “Now can I ask you a question?” Silence. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
He sipped his tea.
“In case I’m telling the truth.”
He drained his cup. “Or in case you stop lying. More coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
He stood and set our cups aside and pulled his chair behind his desk and sat down. “I’ve reviewed all your written material,” he said, opening a drawer and taking out a manila file folder.
“Yes.”
He laid it apart before him. Printed e-mails, and my long note to Tina. “The Congolese Army threw you quite a party.”
“Yes.”
“Stressful.”
“Yes.”
He spent a few minutes perusing the pages of the letter, pages crusty from sweat and tears. “Sometimes I wish I had the balls to say this stuff. I don’t even have the balls to think it.”
I didn’t reply.
“Another way of putting it is that we’re seeing a lot of anger, and that’s not characteristic of our expectations. No matter what the level of stress.”
“I don’t deny it — lately I’ve been out of sorts.”
“Sure, that’s another way to put it. If you think all this is funny.”
“Well, I was dispatched to this region on an assignment, and now two weeks later I’m being dealt with as some kind of terrorist.”
“I think you’re regarded as absent from your assignment.”
“But I’m not absent, I’m present. Here I am, waiting to get back to work.”
“A Special Forces attaché goes AWOL, starts making alarming noises about enriched uranium. You’re sent to make contact, deliver one report that you’ve done so, and you immediately go silent.” He raised a printed e-mail by two corners and faced it toward me. “Until this maniac salvo.”
“I’ve been pursuing my assignment according to my best judgment.”
“And this meltdown message? ‘Cunts’ and such?”
“Everybody likes to quote that one.”
“I know. It’s very compelling. But why did you send it?”
“Theater,” I said.
“Really.”
“I’m dealing with some rogue Mossad agents. I had to make it look good.”
“A rogue Mossad agent, you’re saying, was sitting beside you while you transmitted insults to your NATO colleagues.”
“Didn’t the last guy tape our interviews? Yes? Have you heard them?”
“I’ve read highlights of the transcript.”
“Then if you want the details, you can read the whole thing. Don’t ask me to rehash.”