The Black Widow

The ensuing silence was several minutes in length and unnerved even Gabriel, who was watching from the darkened corner of the room with Eli Lavon at his side. Nabil Awad was already trembling with fear. That was the thing about the Jordanians, thought Gabriel. They didn’t have to torture; their reputation preceded them. It allowed them to think themselves superior to their kindred service in Egypt. The Egyptian version of the Mukhabarat hung its prisoners on hooks before bothering to say hello.

With another small nod, Fareed instructed Mikhail to return the hood to the prisoner’s head. The Jordanians, Gabriel knew, were great believers in sensory deprivation. A man deprived of the ability to see and hear becomes disoriented very quickly, sometimes in mere minutes. He grows anxious and depressed, he hears voices and experiences hallucinations. Soon, he suffers from a kind of madness. With a whisper, he can be convinced of almost anything. His flesh is melting from his bones. His arm is missing. His father, long dead, is sitting beside him, watching his humiliation. And all of this can be accomplished without beatings, without electricity, without water. All that is required is a bit of time.

But time, thought Gabriel, was not necessarily on their side. Nabil Awad was at that moment on another bridge, a bridge separating his old life from the life he would soon be living on behalf of Fareed Barakat. He had to cross that bridge quickly, without the knowledge of the other members of the network. Otherwise, this phase of the operation — the phase that had the potential to derail all that had come before — would be a colossal waste of time, effort, and valuable resources. For now, Gabriel was reduced to the role of spectator. His operation was in the hands of his former enemy.

At last, Fareed spoke, a brief question, delivered in a rich baritone that seemed to shake the very walls of the little French dining room. There was no menace in the voice, for none was necessary. It said that he was powerful, privileged, and moneyed. It said that he was a relative of His Majesty and, as such, was a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. It said that you, Nabil Awad, are nothing. And if I should choose to take your life, I will do so without batting an eye. And then I will enjoy a nice cup of tea.

“Who is he?” was the question Fareed posed.

“Who?” came the weak and defeated voice from beneath the hood.

“Saladin,” answered Fareed.

“He recaptured Jerusalem from the—”

“No, no,” said Fareed, interrupting, “not that Saladin. I’m talking about the Saladin who ordered you to bomb the Jewish target in Paris and the market in Amsterdam.”

“I had nothing to do with those attacks! Nothing! I swear it.”

“That’s not what Jalal told me.”

“Who’s Jalal?”

“Jalal Nasser, your friend from London.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Of course you do, habibi. Jalal has told me everything already. He said you were the operational planner for both Paris and Amsterdam. He said you are Saladin’s trusted lieutenant in Western Europe.”

“That’s not true!”

“Which part?”

“I don’t know anyone named Jalal Nasser, and I’m not an operational planner. I work in a print shop. I’m no one. Please, you have to believe me.”

“Are you sure, habibi?” asked Fareed softly, as though disappointed. “Are you sure that’s your answer?”

From beneath the hood there was only silence. With a glance, Fareed instructed Mikhail and Yaakov to remove the prisoner. Gabriel, from his post in the corner of the room, watched as his two trusted officers obeyed Fareed’s command. For now, it was the Jordanian’s operation. Gabriel was only a bystander.

A room had been prepared in the cellar. It was small and cold and damp and stank of mildew. Mikhail and Yaakov chained Nabil Awad to the cot and locked the reinforced soundproof door. An overhead light, protected by a metal cage, burned brightly. It was no matter; the sun had set on Nabil Awad. With the opaque hood shielding his eyes, he lived in a world of permanent night.

It did not take long for the darkness and the silence and the fear to bore a hole in Nabil Awad’s brain. Fareed monitored the feed from the camera inside the makeshift cell. He was looking for the telltale signs — the fidgeting, the squirming, the sudden starts — that signaled the onset of emotional distress and confusion. He had personally conducted countless interrogations in the bleak cellars of GID headquarters, and he knew when to ask questions and when to let the darkness and the silence do their work for him. Some of the terrorists Fareed had interrogated had refused to break, even under brutal questioning, but he judged Nabil Awad to be fashioned of weaker stuff. There was a reason he was in Europe instead of bombing and killing and cutting off heads in the caliphate. Awad was no action-figure jihadist. He was a cog, which is precisely what they needed.