“Seventy-nine. Dead because you brainwashed them into being an army designed to kill others under the guise of religious jihad. My nephew, Akil El-Fahad, was one of them.”
“Akil.” Yaseen laughed. “I remember him. So innocent, so committed to the cause. He knew you were working for the Israelis, informing on Hamas. That’s why he sought me out. Why he wanted to become a jihadist. He thought what you were doing was wrong, betraying your people.”
“You’re lying. You didn’t know my nephew.”
“Tall for his age. A limp he got chasing a ball into the street in front of a car.”
Fahad stared at Yaseen.
“Oh, I knew him all right. I took him under my wing, personally tutored him in jihad techniques. He was my star pupil.”
Fahad ground his molars so hard Uzi heard it. He put a hand on Fahad’s shoulder. “Ignore him, Mo. There’s nothing to be gained by listening to this bullshit. He’s a killer, that’s it.”
“I’m the one who built the vest he used,” Yaseen said. “I’m the one who strapped it to his body.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m the one who chose him for that mission. I gave him the courage to do it. And I’m the one who detonated the bomb.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Mo,” Uzi said, stepping in front of his colleague. “Walk away.”
Fahad pushed Uzi aside. “Walk away? Is that what you did when you came face-to-face with Batula Hakim?”
Uzi felt the bile rise in his throat, his blood pressure rising. “I wanted to strangle her with my bare hands, to feel the life drain from her body.”
“You see,” Yaseen said, “we are not all that different. Jew, Muslim — we all enjoy killing.”
“We value life,” Uzi said. “That’s the biggest difference. Nothing is more sacred. To you, and those like you, a boy is just a tool for fighting your cause, a means to an end. An object that can be bought. Like when you pay a family for their son’s death after he blows himself up and kills innocent civilians. You’re a cancer, Yaseen.”
“And now you’re going to get some justice,” Fahad said. He nodded at Claude, who opened the toolbox. Knives, pliers, hammers, ice picks, and other assorted gadgets were visible.
Uzi leaned forward, both hands on his knees, making direct eye contact with Yaseen. “We can avoid all that unpleasant stuff. It’s up to you. We’ll start with some simple questions. All you have to do is answer them truthfully. Like, what attacks do you have planned for the United States?”
“I’m not involved in the planning,” Yaseen said. “I just build the bombs and help recruit the soldiers.”
“The soldiers,” Fahad said. “Like my nephew.”
“Yes,” Yaseen said matter-of-factly, without much emotion. “Like Akil. Allahu Akbar.”
Fahad stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of Yaseen’s hair. “Bastard. Don’t use Allah’s name in conjunction with murder. That’s not what Allah is about. It’s not what Islam is about.”
“Isn’t it? Strike down all infidels! Nonbelievers must be killed. What am I missing?”
“I’m not convinced you’re just a bomb maker, an engineer, and a recruiter,” Uzi said. “But I’ll let you slide on that. For the moment. If you’re not the guy planning the attacks, who is?”
Yaseen turned away.
Uzi stood up. “Look, asshole. We know how this is going to go, right? I’m going to ask you a question, you’re going to refuse to answer, we’ll spar a bit, and then Claude here will go to work.” He walked over, closed the toolbox, and set it down at Yaseen’s feet. It was heavy and the metal instruments shifted inside, rattling loudly. “I think we can both agree that you don’t want to see Claude open it again. Because if he does …” Uzi shrugged. “Maybe he’ll cut off a finger. Or two. Or an entire hand.”
“Or I’ll gouge out an eye. Or two.” This from Claude, who seemed to say it with satisfaction. Uzi thought it was a bit disturbing. The way he saw it, torture of any sort was best avoided. At the very least, the more severe forms of enhanced interrogation, whether waterboarding, permanent physical harm, or overt pain, were a last resort, when lives were on the line. And even at that, it was a means to an end. Not a source of enjoyment.
His cell buzzed. He checked the display and read the text from Vaiclass="underline" she and DeSantos were en route. Uzi rested both hands on his hips. “I don’t like you, Yaseen. And yet I’m willing to spare you pain and suffering. By the looks of things, I’m the only one here interested in treating you like a human being. The others are like sharks in a pool of water. And you’re the chum. They can’t wait for me to turn you over to them.”
“Bad cop/good cop, is that it?”
Uzi blew air through his lips. “I don’t think you get it, asshole. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Problem is, I’m more concerned for your well-being than you are. Tell us what we want to know.”
Yaseen looked away again.
“I don’t think he believes you,” Fahad said.
Uzi turned to Aziz. His face was moist with perspiration despite the fact that the temperature was no more than fifty. “Your turn. Who’s the one calling the shots for al Humat?”
“Kadir Abu Sahmoud. And Nazir al Dosari.”
Uzi drew his chin back. “Who’s Dosari?”
“Sahmoud’s—”
“Shut your mouth!” Yaseen said.
Fahad pulled his Glock and shoved it between Yaseen’s lips and into his mouth — taking a few teeth with it. The man’s eyes widened — either from the loss of his pearly whites or because a powerful handgun was now a trigger squeeze away from ending his life. Hard to say.
Uzi took a deep breath. He had crossed the line as far as Bureau procedure went: if he was witness or party to any type of interrogation tactics that involved torture, he had to report it. But he was not here as an FBI agent; quite the opposite. “You were about to tell me who Dosari is.”
“Sahmoud’s protégé,” Aziz said. “Anything happens to Sahmoud, Dosari takes over al Humat.”
“Second in command,” Uzi said with a nod. “Very good, Tahir.” He walked over to Aziz and gave him full attention. “So tell me what your role is in the organization.”
“I’m a member of the cabinet, the council of elders.”
“But you were involved in the Madrid bombing. Were you the engineer?”
“That mission was mine. I planned it, executed it. And I was rewarded for it.”
Uzi sucked on his upper lip. “You worked your way up. Congratulations on the promotion. Obviously in the minds of the council, you earned it. So being someone so high up in the organization, you know what targets are going to be hit. Tell me.”
Aziz’s eyes swung right, toward Yaseen. The Glock was still in his mouth. Fahad looked angry, just about daring either of them to refuse to answer.
“Tahir,” Uzi said evenly, “I’m running out of patience. I’m going to give you one more chance. What targets have you selected?”
Aziz licked his lips. His entire body was now drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest. “If I — if I tell you, I’d be throwing away years of planning. Dishonoring many who died.” He shook his head. “No. I will take the knowledge to the grave with me. To heaven, as a martyr in the holy jihad.”
Uzi’s shoulders slumped; he could not hide his disappointment. He did not question Aziz’s resolve. Religious zealots put their beliefs ahead of their personal well-being. He had gotten all he was going to get for that line of questioning. “Then tell me something that won’t betray your faith. Where are the Aleppo Codex and Jesus Scroll?”
Yaseen whined and shook his head as best he could with the Glock in his mouth. Fahad grabbed his hair and steadied him, yanked back, and shoved the gun barrel in farther. Yaseen started to gag.