Page 110 of Whisper

“I’m not allowed to leave anyone alone with the prisoners, sir.”

“Isaidwe’ll take it from here.”

“No, sir.No oneis allowed to have unsupervised or unrestricted access to the prisoners. Especially the tango prisoners.” The MP squared his shoulders. He spread his feet, intent on staying.

Kris rolled his eyes. His job was that much harder, suddenly. How did he build a conversation with a prisoner while his jailer was standing over his shoulder? He stepped up to the bars. “As-salaam-alaikum.”

The MP’s eyes flashed. He stared at Kris.

“Wa alaikum as-salaam,” the prisoner said. The words seemed dragged from him, reluctantly. But he still said them. For true believers, it was heretical to refuse to respond to the blessing and greeting used by the Prophet.

“Your name is Rashid?” Kris spoke in Arabic.

The man stared at Kris.

“Can you tell me about the call you made on your cell phone right after the mosque bombing?”

“Allahu Akbar, we sent the innovators to the grave.”

Innovators, a fanatical Sunni insult against the Shia sect. Rashid was definitely a fanatic, a fundamentalist, and a violent extremist, influenced by twisted ideology.

“He only ever says nonsense like this,” the MP grunted.

Kris arched his eyebrow at the MP. “You know Arabic? But you have no idea what he’s saying?”

“He’s probably insane.” The MP shrugged. “It’s probably all meaningless.”

Kris shook his head. Tried to come up with something to say to the MP, something that could cut through the shocking ignorance, the complete lack of knowledge, at all, about the culture, the religion, the million myriad nuances that defined a people and a region that couldn’t be brushed aside and ignored, or destroyed and cast aside. But where to begin? Where on earth to begin?

His job was Rashid. The bombings. Kris turned back to the cell. “Why are you in Iraq?”

Rashid smiled. “I came in the name of the holy warrior. The fierce one, the lion who will rip the throat out from the Americans.”

“You came to wage jihad? Fight the Americans?”

“We will destroy the Americans. Death to America.”

“Who is the holy warrior?”

“His name will be on everyone’s lips. He will be known to all.”

“Perfect. Then tell me his name now.”

“Saqqaf. The man who will destroy the Americans.”

Fuck. Kris had known, from the moment George started talking about the Jordanian Embassy bombing, that it was Saqqaf. Saqqaf, the devil the US had built up to justify the invasion, had hinged their war on.

“Did Saqqaf give you this phone? When you got to Iraq?”

“Death to America!” Rashid shouted. “Death to America! Saqqaf! Saqqaf!”

The MP pushed Kris out of the way. He ripped out his baton and slammed the stick against the bars. “Shut it,” he bellowed. “Shut your mouth!”

Rashid bared his teeth. He trembled, and his fingers clawed at the stone wall behind him. Echoes of shouts reverberated through the prison wing. Other voices rose, repeating Rashid’s shout. “Saqqaf! Saqqaf!”

The MP turned on Kris. “It’s time for you toleave. Now.”

They were deposited outside the prison gates by a silent driver, left in the dust in the visitor parking area. Sand blew, the fine grit coating every inch of every exposed surface. Hot air blasted Kris, like standing in front of his blow-dryer set to high.