The Faithful Spy

Farouk had been foolish to carry a Pakistani passport, even one with a fake name, Saul thought. Pakistani intelligence had identified him and revealed his past to Task Force 121, though only in the vaguest terms. The Pakistanis didn’t talk much about their nuclear weapons program, not even to America. But the Pakistani silence didn’t matter. Once the CIA knew Farouk’s real name, the agency dug up enough information for a psychological profile of him. The goal was to make Farouk believe they knew everything about him and that lying would be a waste of time. To their subjects, the best interrogators appeared all-seeing as well as all-powerful. farouk’s head snapped back as the man read. He had to fight to keep from retching. How could the American know all this?

“My name is Hussein,” he said desperately.

The man with the goatee stopped reading, stood, and slapped Farouk across the face. Farouk yelped, from the shock as much as the pain. To be slapped like a woman was intolerable. Yet Farouk somehow knew he deserved the punishment for lying so foolishly.

“Don’t be stupid. Your name is Farouk Khan. You lost your government job in 2000. Would you like to tell me why?”

Farouk said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” the man said. “I already know.” He stepped back and lit his cigarette. “You are 174 centimeters tall and you weigh 105 kilos.” Five foot eight and 231 pounds. “You have a resting heart rate of approximately ninety beats per minute. Your blood pressure is 170 over 110. You are in poor health, and you have reacted badly to the stress you have faced so far. The minimal stress.”

“Allahu akbar,” Farouk murmured to himself. His blood seemed to have left his body. He could not control his shivering. The nameless interrogator took a deep drag on his Marlboro. “Yes, God is great,” he said. “But God has nothing to do with this.” He leaned over Farouk, holding his cigarette close to the prisoner’s face.

“Farouk, you’re a smart man. An educated man,” he said. “You know the United States has a prison camp at Guantánamo Bay.” He waited.

“Yes,” Farouk rasped.

“And it is no secret that detainees in Guantánamo are treated well. They receive three meals a day. They pray freely. You may even have heard that they have lawyers, yes?”

“Yes.”

“But you are not going to Guantánamo.”

The nameless man slid the burning end of his cigarette toward Farouk’s eye.

“No.” Farouk shrank back in his chair, blinking furiously, trying to look at anything but the burning ember two inches away.

“I’m glad you agree. No. You are not going to Guantánamo.”

The man took a last drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out against the table and flicked it away. “I don’t want to hurt you, Farouk,” he said. “But you need to tell me the truth. And you will. You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”

Farouk found his voice. “There are rules,” he said. “You can’t.”

But even as he said it he knew he was wrong.

“I’ll tell you something I probably shouldn’t,” the American said.

“There is one rule. I’m not supposed to kill you. Not on purpose, anyway.”

Then he smiled. The expression on his lips scared Farouk more than anything that had happened yet. This man was a devil, a devil in human form. Please, Farouk almost said. I’ll give you everything. I’ll tell you about Khadri. I’ll tell you about the box I got from Dmitri. I’ll even tell you the biggest secret of all, where that box is now. Just leave me alone. Then Farouk reminded himself that he must not fear. But maybe he could give this man a little. Anything to make that smile disappear.

“Farouk, are you listening?”

Farouk nodded. He hated himself for answering the man but his will seemed to have melted away.

“I’m not supposed to kill you. But I am allowed to make you wish you were dead.”

The American walked out. Even before he closed the door, Farouk felt the hood coming down over his head.

“No,” Farouk said. “Please. Ask me something. I’ll tell you.” His voice became a shout. “I’ll tell you! Please!”

But the room went dark, and Farouk knew that the hole awaited.

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