Allah's Scorpion (30 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Allah's Scorpion
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Al-Hari repeated the orders, and the boat accelerated as it started its dive.
Graham turned to Ziyax. “How much water do we have under our keel?”
“Thirty-five hundred meters.”
“Make your depth three hundred meters,” Graham ordered. He walked over to the navigation station where a chart of the Mediterranean Sea was spread out. He quickly plotted a course that would take them west, missing the island of Malta, while keeping well clear of Crete to the north and the African coast to the south.
“Come left to course two-eight-five,” he ordered, and al-Hari repeated the command.
Ziyax was at Graham’s elbow. “Where are you taking us?” he asked softly enough so that no one else in the control room could hear.
“Gibraltar,” Graham replied indifferently. Running that bottleneck, which was more than 1,500 miles away, would be their first serious test. It gave him approximately 100 hours to mold his crew into a cohesive fighting force.
For that he would need an incident.
 
 
GUANTANAMO BAY
Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Higgins was getting set to go over to the O Club for lunch when the phone on his desk rang. It was General Maddox’s secretary.
“The general would like to have a word with you before you go to lunch.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Higgins grabbed his cap, and on the way out told his ops officer in the Watch that he was seeing the general, and afterwards was going to the club. “If the Cubans come over the fence, ring me on my cell so I can go home and pack a bag,” he said. It was a standing joke at Gitmo that any time the Cubans wanted to take the base back, there wouldn’t be much that could be done to stop them.
Upstairs, the general’s secretary told him to go straight in. Maddox was studying something out his window with a pair of binoculars. When he turned around, Higgins got the impression he was on the verge of a famous Icewater explosion.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Higgins prompted when it seemed as if Maddox was too angry to talk.
“They just landed across the bay,” the general said, his tone surprisingly mild.
“Who would that be?” Higgins asked. A little alarm bell began to jingle softly at the back of his head.
“The CIA. Same pair as last time, including the crazy bitch who beat the shit out of Tom Weiss. And we’ve got to cooperate one hundred percent this time.” Maddox shook his head as if he’d just said something that was utterly unbelievable. “I got that personally from Newt Peyton, who got it direct from LePlante.” Marine Major General Newton Peyton was boss of Gitmo, and Bob LePlante was the secretary of defense.
“What do they want this time, did they say?” Higgins asked, though he
had a fair idea why the CIA was back. They’d probably gotten a positive ID on the John Doe they’d sent down here after the Arlington Cemetery attack, and they were coming to lean on him.
“They’ve got the names of four prisoners they want to interrogate,” Maddox said. “But apparently they’ve promised to make it real short this time.”
“Do we have the list?”
“It came in about an hour ago, but there’s a potential for trouble heading our way that I want you to personally handle,” Maddox said. “Whatever the hell happens, I want Tom Weiss out of sight until they’re gone. The crazy bastards would probably kill him if he opened his big mouth again.” Maddox handed him a message flimsy that had come from the CIA.
Higgins smiled briefly. “From what I heard he might have deserved it.” The four men on the list included the John Doe, as he thought would be the case. No surprises yet.
“I don’t care, Dan. I just want them in and out asap. I want you to give them anything they ask for, and I mean anything. And I want you to stick with them no matter what. I don’t want them back again because they didn’t get what they came for.”
“I’ll handle it,” Higgins said. “You said something about trouble?”
“I personally don’t give a flying shit how it’s done, as long as Weiss and his people get results, and as long as Amnesty International keeps out of it. I won’t have another Abu Ghraib. Not on my watch.”
“I’m not following you, General,” Higgins said, mystified.
“Drugs.”
Higgins’s heart skipped a beat, but he nodded. “I’ll get Richardson over to do it, and we’ll need a translator.” Melvin Richardson was the chief medic for Delta, and had been the lead man on the Biscuit teams until they were discontinued on orders from the White House last year. If Amnesty International got wind of such a thing happening again, it would immediately go public, and a lot of heads would roll.
“You have to keep a serious lid on this, Dan,” Maddox cautioned. “It could blow up and bite us all on the ass.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“Worrying is what they pay me to do,” Maddox said. “Just get the job done, and get them the hell out of here.”
“I hear you, General,” Higgins said, and he went back down to his office, lunch forgotten for the moment. If McGarvey and the woman had just touched down, they would be at Delta within fifteen or twenty minutes.
He reached Dr. Richardson just as the doctor was leaving the hospital. One of the nurses caught up with him and told him he had a phone call.
“This is Richardson.”
“Mel, I’m glad I caught you. This is Dan Higgins. I’ve got a rush job for you at Delta, and it’s the big leagues.”
“What do you need?” the M.D. asked, obviously interested.
“I’ll tell you when you get over here, but I need you right now.”
“Okay.”
“And Mel? Bring your Biscuit bag.”
There was a momentary silence on the line. “I see,” Richardson said cautiously. “I’ll be up in ten.”
“No word to anyone.”
“What, do you think I’m crazy?”
 
 
Higgins was waiting for McGarvey and Gloria in the Delta interrogation center, where one of the MPs from the main gate had escorted them the moment they’d shown up. This time there seemed to be no animosity whatsoever, and in fact McGarvey thought they were being treated too well.
Someone had passed the word down, and although he was hoping to see Lieutenant Commander Weiss, he wasn’t surprised to see the chief intelligence officer instead, and a tall, slender full commander wearing medical insignia.
“Welcome to Delta, Mr. McGarvey, Ms. Ibenez,” Higgins said. “Though I’m surprised you’re back so soon.”
“We have a job to do,” McGarvey said. “If we can get to it, we’ll be out of here within a couple hours.”
“Where’s Commander Weiss?” Gloria asked sweetly. “I hope he’s okay.” Higgins studied her for a moment as if he couldn’t quite figure out who or what she was. “He’s on the mend. I’ll tell him that you asked.”
“Please do,” Gloria said.
They were alone in the dayroom, and the television set was turned up high enough that it was unlikely their conversation could be picked up on tape. Nevertheless Higgins lowered his voice.
“Your four people are here, in individual rooms. We didn’t know if you wanted them separated.”
“That’s fine,” McGarvey said. “We’re going to give them sodium thiopental. We just have a couple of questions for them. So like I said, Commander, we can be out of your hair within two hours.”
Higgins nodded toward Richardson. “This is Mel Richardson, he used to be head of our Biscuit teams. He’ll be your doc.”
Richardson eyed McGarvey with obvious distaste. “I want to go on record right now that I’m dead set against this. Sodium thiopental is an anesthetic, which means it can be fatal. And it has the capability of scrambling brains. It’s happened before, and it’s permanent.”
“About as permanent as 9/11 at the Trade Center?” Gloria asked.
“Look, Doc, I understand,” McGarvey said. “Leave us some alcohol pads and we’ll do it ourselves. Our Agency people said the dosage is very low, so the risks will be minimal. Contrary to what you may have been told, we don’t want to screw up things here for you guys. But something very big is on the wind, and we don’t have a lot of time to fool around.”
“You didn’t do so good preventing 9/11,” Richardson shot back.
“No, we didn’t,” McGarvey admitted. “But we’ve learned a lot since then. Enough that we think we can stop them this time. Will you help?”
Richardson looked to Higgins for backup, but the intel officer merely shrugged.
McGarvey handed Richardson the small leather case. “You can give this to them now.”
The doctor took out one of the needles. “This is a fucking veterinary syringe that they use on large animals. I’m not going to do this.”
“Fine, we’ll do it ourselves, with or without the alcohol pads, because frankly I don’t give a shit what happens to the four son of a bitches we came to talk to. They’re the enemy.”
“They’re combatants who’re protected by the Geneva Convention,” Richardson shot back.
“No, Doctor. They’re terrorists who target innocent women and children. And whatever they’re up to this time has the potential of being worse than 9/11.”
“I’ve heard that before—”
“And you’ll keep hearing it until we beat the bastards,” McGarvey said, overriding him.
“Mel, nobody likes this, so the sooner we get it done the sooner our guests will leave,” Higgins prompted.
Richardson looked like a man who was trapped. “I’ll need some help, they’re likely to object.”
“I’ll do it,” Gloria said, and she followed the doctor into the first interrogation room, leaving the door open. Ali bin Ramdi, one of the prisoners that McGarvey had leaned on the last time, was shackled to a bench. When he saw Gloria, and then McGarvey out in the dayroom, his eyes went wide.
Chief Petty Officer Sayyid Deyhim came down the corridor in a rush, but pulled up short when he saw who was there. “Shit.”
Higgins turned to him. “You
will
do your job, and keep your opinions to yourself. Clear on that, sailor?”
“Yes, sir,” Deyhim replied. He avoided eye contact with McGarvey.
Bin Ramdi grunted something, and a few moments later Richardson and Gloria came out of the cell.
“How long before it takes effect?” McGarvey asked.
The doctor looked at him with distaste. “Just a few seconds for the drug to get to his brain. But if this is a low dose, the effect won’t last long.”
McGarvey entered the cell and Deyhim took up a position next to him. Higgins came to the door, but remained outside.
“Misae el kher,”
McGarvey said in reasonably passable Egyptian Arabic.
Good afternoon
. He only knew a few phrases.
Bin Ramdi mumbled something that McGarvey didn’t catch.
“I didn’t understand that,” Deyhim said. “Do you want me to have him repeat it?”
“No,” McGarvey said. “Ask him if he is a member of al-Quaida.”
“Sir, we’ve already established—”
“Just ask the question,” McGarvey said.
Deyhim asked the question in Arabic, but he had to repeat it several times before bin Ramdi gave a slurred response.
“Aywa.” Yes.
“I got it,” McGarvey said. “Tell him that we know Osama bin Laden is hiding in the mountains near Drosh.”
Deyhim made the translation.
“Tell him that we know this for a fact.”
Deyhim translated.
“All I want is a confirmation.”
Deyhim translated, but bin Ramdi was shaking his head drunkenly, and muttering something about Allah.
“Repeat all of it,” McGarvey told Deyhim. “I want to make sure he understands.”
Deyhim translated, but bin Ramdi only shook his head.
It was the response that McGarvey had been told to expect. Sodium thiopental reduced the subject’s inhibitions, but it wasn’t the truth serum of fiction. Used in conjunction with a skillful interrogator, some useful information could be gained from some subjects some of the time. But whatever was said to them would definitely place a deep-seated suggestion in their brains, one they would not soon forget.
“Sir, I think this guy is fried,” Deyhim said.
“You’re right,” McGarvey agreed. “Let’s try the next one.”
As Higgins stepped away from the door, he gave McGarvey an odd, pensive look, and then glanced in at the doped-up prisoner.
Richardson and Gloria were coming out of the third cell when McGarvey and Deyhim entered the second where Kamal al-Turabi was seated, shackled to the bench. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, with white paper slippers on his feet. His eyes widened slightly when he saw who it was, but then it was as if a cobra’s hood descended over his face.
“Good afternoon,” McGarvey said in English, and Deyhim translated.
Al-Turabi was having some trouble focusing, but he did not seem as heavily sedated as bin Ramdi.
“Ask him if he works for al-Quaida,” McGarvey instructed Deyhim, who translated.
An answer seemed to form on the prisoner’s lips, but then he smiled and shook his head. “I am a simple dentist from Maryland,” he said in English. His voice was somewhat slurred, as if he’d had several cocktails. “I’ve never seen you before.”
Of course not, McGarvey thought. But you just made one hell of a mistake.
“We know that Uncle Osama has gone back to Somalia, where he has many friends. We would like you merely to confirm this for us.”
Deyhim translated.
Al-Turabi sniggered. “
Aywa,
that’s what I heard too,” he replied in English. He leaned forward on the bench. “Do you know what little bird told me?”
“No, who?” McGarvey said, and he nodded for Deyhim to translate.
“It was a flock of birds,” al-Turabi said. “Right here. All the hawks know. And so do the scorpions.” He laughed, and his eyes drooped.
“Insh’allah,”
he muttered.

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