Collision of Evil Page 17

  The taxi continued through the countryside toward the airport. There was little traffic on this early morning. Ibrahim wanted to be there in plenty of time for the 8:30 a.m. Turkish Air flight to Munich. The taxi slowed momentarily to permit passage across the highway to a scrawny-looking herd of half-wild goats, the outlines of their ribs clearly visible. Accelerating again, the driver pointed ahead and muttered a few words that were half-consumed by the whining music. Sunlight reflected on glass and stone. The Attaturk Airport loomed ahead, its modern terminal testimony to the expansive aspirations of this antique former empire.

  The taxi deposited Ibrahim in front of a set of tinted, automatic doors. He paid the driver, collected his luggage, and entered the refreshing, machine-induced coolness of the spotless terminal. He passed a shop whose sole product seemed to be portraits of Mustapha Kermil Attaturk. The former Young Turk glowered sternly from the pictures, communicating well the look of the “Historic Man,” and one with a taste for the sartorial fashions of the day. In most of the portraits Attaturk sported a tailored western suit. Ibrahim gritted his teeth and moved past the display, his eyes searching for the sign indicating the Turkish Air check-in desk. The airport was newly constructed, and polished marble seemed to be everywhere, the vast spaces broken by atriums and fountains. They are aping the airports of the Infidel, Ibrahim concluded. One day they will pay for their apostasy.

  He found the Turkish Air counter and was pleased to see that there was almost no line, even for economy class. He touched his shirt pocket to ensure himself that his passport and plane ticket were there. His piece of ersatz black leather hand luggage contained candy and small gifts, to provide the appearance of a typical Turkish resident of Germany returning to his exile home. He had written some cryptic phrases into a small, blue spiral notebook. He had tried hard to memorize al-Masri’s instructions, but found that he had no talent for that sort of thing. As a precaution, he had committed the remarks to paper in his own personal code so that it would appear innocuous if examined. The elderly woman passenger at the counter before him gathered up her carry-on bag and trundled away.

  It was his turn to check in.

  Ibrahim forced a false smile at the young, smartly dressed and unveiled check-in attendant and produced his passport and ticket, laying both out on the counter. Westernized whore, he thought, as he continued to smile vaguely, brushing aside an incipient, unsummoned strain of desire.

  The young woman regarded the passport briefly and held the ticket in her manicured hand. “Ibrahim Baran, traveling economy class to Josef Strauss Airport, Munich?” Her inquiry sounded pro forma.

  “Yes. I’m returning to Munich. My German residency permit is in the passport.”

  The attendant smiled in a plastic way and began to use the keyboard of the computer in front of her.

  The passenger could not see the computer screen but presumed she was entering the usual sequence of flight confirmation data. In fact, as instructed early that morning by a Turkish intelligence officer, she had clicked on another icon and entered a secure messaging area unrelated to the airline’s booking system. She typed simply: It is him. Ibrahim Baran is at the counter in front of me.

  Ibrahim noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Not until he felt himself being raised off of the polished floor and thrown backward. For a few seconds he could not imagine what was happening. An earthquake? He felt himself crash back onto the floor, his shoulder blades throbbing suddenly with the jolting, hard contact. There were hands on him, holding him down. He looked frantically about and saw that two large men in dark suits were pinning him to the floor.

  The young woman at the counter had vanished. There was no one else around. He tried to push the men away without success. They were strong and determined.

  “Let me go,” he began to scream at the top of his voice.

  A fist slammed into his nose, breaking it. He felt numbness around his nostrils and became aware of a warm sensation passing his lips and working into his beard. He was bleeding. Wide-eyed, he noted that one of his assailants had a chrome-plated revolver clipped to his belt. Police, Ibrahim thought, or maybe worse. Why were they doing this? he thought in a blur of confusion. What did they suspect?

  He was lifted to his feet like a rag doll and was aware that he was being half-carried, half-dragged across the smooth tile surface of the terminal toward the exit. The automatic glass doors opened, and he felt again for a fleeting moment a blast of brutally searing Turkish heat.

  A second later he was shoved into the back of an idling black BMW sedan. A large man was seated to his left, his features obscured by reflecting sunglasses. This man, as taciturn as the officers who had wrestled Ibrahim to the ground, smiled coldly. A large ham of a hand pinned Ibrahim’s head to the back of the plush seat. The man deftly inserted a long syringe needle into the bulging vein in Ibrahim’s neck and withdrew it an instant later. Ibrahim moaned softly, his brown eyes wide with rampant fear. The sound of the smooth car engine and its whispering air conditioner drifted far away and Ibrahim slumped forward, aware of absolutely nothing at all.

  He did not awaken at once; rather, regaining consciousness was a process, a series of stages taking the better part of an hour. He rose up slowly from the void, like a deep-sea diver trying to reach a distant surface while avoiding the bends. Ibrahim determined eventually that he was seated in a rude wooden chair, his hands shackled to its sides. His feet were manacled to the cold concrete floor. His vision was not entirely clear yet; he wanted to rub his eyes, but could not because of the metal restraints. He saw that he was in a small, windowless room, its neglected walls damp and stained with moisture; a basement perhaps. Two metal chairs and a folding table were set up at a remove from him. There was no other furniture. His face felt odd and he determined that it was tightly bandaged at the bridge of his nose. His mouth felt very dry and he wanted water.

  He considered his situation and was overwhelmed with feelings of shame, self-reproach, and fear. He could not envision how things might possibly turn out well for him.

  The single door entering into the room opened. Two men entered, surveying Ibrahim as if he were prey. Both men were middle-aged but otherwise very different. The one who entered first was obviously a Turk, his ethnicity betrayed by his visage. He was wearing a suit and tie, but the refined clothes did not cloak the brutal earnestness of his expression. The Turk might have been one of the men who had accosted Ibrahim at the airport; he could not tell for sure. The second man was obviously not from the region. He was blond, with short, thinning hair and he carried himself with assertive cockiness. An American perhaps, Ibrahim wondered, or perhaps German. Were the Bavarians somehow onto them?

  The two visitors pulled up the metal chairs and sat in them, the legs scraping the raw floor. Communicating not at all, they stared at their captive for minutes, as if contemplating what species he might represent. Seizing the moments of silence, Ibrahim whispered “water.”

  “What’s that?” the Turk inquired, his eyebrows raised.

  “Water. I need water. I am very dry.”

  The Turk in the charcoal suit, whose first name was Ahmet, snorted. “You think this is a hotel? You make requests and we scurry around to carry out your wishes? Not likely, friend. But then, maybe water will loosen your lips. We’re looking forward to enjoying a nice, informative chat with you. Okay, I’ll get you a glass of water, just so you don’t think that I’m a monster. But in the meantime, I want you to listen to my friend. He has been so interested in meeting you that he traveled here from far away. I wouldn’t disappoint him if I were you. I’ll be back with your glass of water.”

  With a quick surge of movement, the Turk rose and was gone. Ibrahim regarded the blond man, just as the blond man regarded him. The interrogator drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a moment and then stopped. He began to speak a slightly accented but fluent Turkish. “My colleague is right. I have questions for you. Quite a few questions, in fact. But first, I should say a few words about myself,
just to provide perspective. You don’t know who I am or where I’m from, do you, Ibrahim?”

  Ibrahim did not respond, his silent gaze fluently communicating loathing.

  “Okay, have it your way. You can stay quiet for now if you want—for now. Let me tell you a few things you should know. I’m not a Turk, as you have doubtless figured out, smart fellow that you are. Would you care to guess where I’m from?”

  Again Ibrahim did not react.

  “Okay. I am not from Europe and not from the Germany that you were intending to return to on the flight you unfortunately missed. I’m also not from the United States. As it transpires, I’m from Israel, a small state in the Middle East you may have heard of. I work for the Israeli government. My work for Israel involves protecting its citizens from harm. The agency that employs me is called Mossad. You’ve perhaps heard of it. My colleagues and I travel the world to uncover threats to our country. This brings me to you, my friend, and why I am here.”

  The blond man stopped and tried to discern a reaction. Detecting no change of demeanor, the man cleared his throat and continued his monologue.

  “As it develops, the organization I represent is quite certain you keep bad company. You’ll probably want to deny this, but that would be, frankly speaking, a waste of time for us all. We know for a fact that you are a terrorist—from an Israeli perspective—and I believe from the perspective of the Turkish government as well. So, what do you think we should do about this situation that we find ourselves in, with me sitting here and you in those unfashionable chains? Doesn’t look too promising for you, does it, Ibrahim?”

  This time the prisoner did react. Extending his neck he hurled spittle at his interrogator and muttered a guttural curse.

  The blond man, sitting out of range, frowned disapprovingly and adjusted his magenta tie.

  At that moment the door to the room opened and Ahmed entered, bearing a glass of water. He noted the baleful stare of the shackled man and the tension in the room. “Something wrong?” he inquired.

  The blond official shrugged, his jacket bunching slightly at his shoulders. “It seems that our friend here is unhappy, not to mention ill-mannered. He doesn’t want to cooperate, sadly enough.”

  Ahmet nodded and smiled slightly. “Well, no water for him then.” He raised the glass to his own lips and drank.

  The blond man gave a soft laugh and addressed the chained prisoner. “Let’s give it one more chance, shall we, Ibrahim?”

  There was no response.

  “All right. We have your notes, the ones you took to the airport with you. The writing is in your hand, we have established that from the signature on your passport. The notes have to do with preparation to commit a terrorist act in Germany. This would make you a terrorist courier, Ibrahim. Do you recall these sentences from your notes? ‘Target location will be left up to you. It is vital that locations be selected for mass casualties. Confined spaces are essential for success.’ That strikes me as incriminating stuff, Ibrahim. In fact, it’s astounding that you choose to carry such notes with you.”

  Ibrahim could not prevent a trace of surprise from crossing his features.

  The interrogator named Ahmed detected it immediately. “Didn’t expect that, did you? You wrote your notes in a code you made up. The problem, Ibrahim, is that you did it so poorly. You’re an amateur. Our decryption officers turned your sophomoric code into plain text in record time. The only thing the code did was to establish your role as a terrorist. Or perhaps, as an untutored associate of real terrorists.”

  The prisoner strained at his restraints and barked curses at the Turk, who, in return, only smiled, further infuriating the shackled man.

  The blond man interjected. “Here’s the deal, Ibrahim. If you cooperate, your incompetence as a terrorist will be considered in your sentencing, meaning you might actually go free some day, presuming you renounce your past associations.”

  “Never,” the prisoner shouted hoarsely, “Allah Akhbar.”

  “Have it your way,” the blond man breathed, his voice trailing off. “Our alternative plan you will find exceedingly unpleasant.” At precisely that moment a falsetto scream pierced the thick walls of the cell, the notes held in the air for several seconds before fading into electric silence.

  The two suited men acted as if they had heard nothing.

  The Turkish official looked at his manicured fingernails. “Ibrahim, we have the goods on you. You belong to us. I can assure you that you will talk. The easiest way is to talk voluntarily, but we’re prepared to employ some persuasive techniques to defeat your intransigence. I’ll let you think about this. I’ll even have someone bring you water, as you requested earlier. Sorry I drank yours down. Sleep on it, to the extent that you can sleep in here. Tomorrow morning you will talk, one way or another.”

  In an instant the two intelligence officers were gone, leaving Ibrahim alone with his thoughts, which were infinitely dark.

  The restless half-sleep into which Ibrahim drifted ended abruptly at ten minutes past six the next morning. The door to the cell swung open noisily. Two large men used keys to open the shackles on his arms and the manacles on his legs. The devices fell to the floor with an angry metal clang. Ibrahim was torn unceremoniously from his seat and dragged from the cell into a narrow, poorly illuminated corridor, its air stale and moist. He felt fear and could taste it.

  He was fast-walked down the length of the corridor to a door at its end. His captors opened the green-painted metal door forcefully, causing it to groan on parched hinges. The room he was dragged into was brilliant with light, like a surgery. The two men pushed Ibrahim toward a wall where, he saw, he was to be manacled. His arms were yanked up and away from his torso and secured to the rusting wall restraints. His feet touched the floor but just; he was almost on his toes to secure adequate purchase. It was over in a moment, and then the two men were gone, the metal door reverberating shut.

  Ibrahim surveyed his new accommodations. He was alone. There were other manacles attached to the wall, absent occupants. He winced at the intense illumination and noted that the ceiling hosted batteries of strong rectangular lamps that emitted a slight but steady hum. A metal workbench occupied the center of the room, its surface reflecting the glare of the lights above. There was a folding chair behind the workbench, its beige paint heavily chipped. Ibrahim noticed that the bench top was strewn with various objects. Closer inspection revealed that they were tools; he made out a screwdriver, a wrench, and electric drills. On one of the drills, he could make out the name Black and Decker. Shifting his gaze, Ibrahim saw there was a gurney in one corner of the room. It was equipped with what appeared to be restraining straps. Ibrahim felt confused; he did not understand the purpose of the room, but he very much disliked being in its confines. He wondered why he had been moved here from his cell. The apostates could just as easily talk to him there, as they had the day before.

  His lamentations were cut short by a prolonged scream that penetrated the thick, spotted walls. The scream was deeper that the one he had heard the previous day. It seemed to go on for a full minute. When the sound faded, it was followed by a series of lower, but audible moans, redolent with exhaustion and despair. Ibrahim felt nausea play at his stomach and felt an acrid taste of copper take up residence in his mouth. Allah give me strength, he said to himself.

  The door to the room banged open. The pale-skinned, blond haired foreigner who had questioned Ibrahim the previous day appeared, his countenance suggesting an unhappy state of mind. The man glanced at the prisoner fleetingly, moving with deliberation to the table at the center of the room. He opened a drawer underneath the tabletop and withdrew a folded white smock, which he shook open and put on over his neatly pressed olive-colored summer suit. The man surveyed the items on the table while buttoning the smock, and then addressed his manacled guest.

  “So, how are we this morning? Well rested? Probably not, I expect, under the circumstances. Let’s try one more time shall we, starting from where
we left off yesterday. I want you to talk to me, to answer my questions. It’s that simple. If you comply, presuming I’m satisfied with your answers, life here will become more pleasant for you. I can arrange for you to have decent accommodations, no handcuffs, freedom to walk around your cell, edible food, a Koran, maybe a television. And no abuse from the guards. Given the position you find yourself in, I’d say that isn’t a bad deal. In fact, if you start answering my queries now, I can have you enjoying these privileges by tonight. So, consider carefully, Ibrahim. Will you provide me the information I need?”

  Ibrahim did consider the offer, in silence. He wanted a comfortable cell and a bed to collapse in. Still, he knew that he was part of a mission, a member of a company of the just, fighting on the path of Allah. How could he betray them? There would be no forgiveness in this world or the next for such disgraceful behavior.

  “I will never help you, Mossad filth,” he heard himself say. “The Jew is never to be trusted. The Prophet himself, peace be upon him, instructed us so.”