OOC: This post has been edited in order to reflect a change in the storyline portrayed in the following post. Again, I apologize for the more than a month delay in posting this. On another note, the first segment was inspired directly by the source of this "day's" quote and was written in a literary nod to it. The second segment was a collaborative post between Tempest and I.
You were warned. There was no lack of warnings and signs, but you chose to ignore them. You spurned the only way that could have brought happiness to men. Fortunately, though, you allowed us to take over from you when you left. You made commitments to us, you sealed them with your word, you gave us the right to loosen and to bind their shackles, and, of course, you cannot think of depriving us of that right now. Why, then, have you come to interfere with us now?
— Ivan Karamazov’s Grand Inquisitor
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Warnings
When the Lion Wakes
Part Three
Four Months Ago
Cheyenne, WyomingShe chose, then, to appear for a day in America, in Wyoming, in the most terrible time of religious extremism, when bombs were detonated every year to the glory of God, and in the fatwas of clerics the wicked heretics were condemned. This was not, of course, a glorious coming or salvific fulfillment of an archaic promise. No, she visited those she once called brother and sister only for a day, and there where the ashes of fervor were stoked unseen and unheard in the American countryside. She came down to the quiet rural highway within the Cheyenne city limits in which little of significance occurred. She came softly, watched from a distance, unrecognized until she came to the door. No one in the whole city looked long enough at her to put a name to her face. She was, for the first time, unobserved as she strolled along the highway among tall wild grasses and weeds and the occasional rusted road sign. There wasn't another house for several football fields' length. All she could hear was the occasional motor of a car or lazy, tired song of a bird.
When she came to the door, she greeted the couple in the hall, but their faces were as stone. “Assalamu alaykum,” she murmured softly. They did not return the greeting. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped inside and they did not move to stop her. To the casual outsider, they might have been acquaintances reunited after an exceedingly difficult time. There was nothing outstanding in the faded, worn clothes with fraying threads and a few holes that she wore bought at a secondhand store down the road a ways, nor was there anything outstanding about the two men inside, who could have belonged at any home within Laramie County.
The hall where she was standing was well lit with natural light, an elegant, tiered chandelier hung still in the foyer. A wide staircase curved up from the first to second floor where a balcony had been crafted from fine wood, a mirror on the wall. It was a large estate, built at the turn of the twentieth century and renovated recently. A stately home on its own secluded parcel of land, the property belonged to one of the American division leaders. Ali had been told it was frequently used for meetings, though never more than twice in the same calendar year. The floors were polished marble in the hall and dark-stained cherry in the parlor to her left. In the sitting room to the right, Ali saw the floor was made of green marble with a thick carpet by the lavish couches there. She could hear herself breathe in the full silence. She looked at the men, began to speak, but before she could say even one word, they turned and disappeared through a door, leaving her alone.
Ever so softly, she stepped into the sitting room, brushing her fingers against the façade of the stone fireplace, the rough hew of granite smoother and polished in a dark gray. Pale, sober sunlight streamed through tall, sweeping Palladian windows, in front of which hung translucent silvery curtains to prevent curious, peering eyes from watching what occurred within. If Ali strained her ears, she could hear distant voices, speaking several tongues, but the words were indistinct, muffled by insulation and furniture. She was not sure they were familiar voices; it was impossible to distinguish one from another. Here, it smelled like some sweet herb she could not name from some distant country she had long since forsaken. She wondered if there would be tea.
On the mantel, there lay a green photo album, an unburned silver votive, and a figurine of an angel painted with care by a child in a sweatshop halfway around the world. It was warm. Ali stood by the fireplace. She fingered the wrought iron poker in its polished copper tray before letting her hand fall to her side. The fireplace was unused, she saw, by the lack of soot inside or a woodpile nearby. For a moment, she fancied herself an honored guest in a friend’s house, but then the reality of what she came here to do returned. It overwhelmed her weak faculties. She was not here to play at fancies of the imagination. Nay, this time, she was here for a different, almost contradictory, purpose altogether. She was here under the influence of Reality, a very dangerous thing indeed.
Footsteps fell in the hall. Ali had only to glance to the arched entryway to the sitting room to catch sight of a much younger woman. She wore a simple white blouse and soft beige pants, her long, dark hair tied in a single braid. She ought to have been forty, not yet fifty, but her face belied her age. A clear complexion and full lips gave the impression that she was not quite thirty, but Ali saw a conniving brightness in her eyes that suggested her true age. There was a capacity for greatness in this woman. She came further into the room, her gaze having alighted upon Ali from the moment she first appeared, and stared with an unabashed intensity at the older woman. In this woman’s face, Ali saw a shadow of the cherubic child she had once known. This, she realized with a growing sense of dread, was Rabiya. She hesitated in her purpose, but she assured herself, the lapse was only momentary.
“You?” asked Rabiya in a hushed, reverent tone, drawing closer. “Is it really you?” She inspected Ali, her eyes trawling over the worn blouse and sweater and skirt before resting on the woman’s face, one more sunken and creased than her own. “Never mind, you don’t need to answer me. Say nothing. I know only too well what you might tell me now. Besides, you have no right to add anything to what you said before. It was enough, perhaps more than enough. You gave us poems, treatises, lectures, sermons, letters—all in great abundance. These you gave without inhibition. You may have put too much of yourself into them. We heard what you said; we saw your writings, studied them. We followed to the letter every enjoinder, every commandment you thought fit to utter. Yet here you stand, long after you had left. Why did you come back? I know—and you know it well yourself—you are only here to interfere and to make things difficult for us. Isn’t it true? Don’t deny it.”
She peered at Ali, her dark gaze piercing, her fingers fluttering over a hardcover book on the coffee table by the white couch. Her voice had a soft, musical quality to it. It could slash or comfort at will, offering an entire operatic repertoire of possibilities. “You have no right to return. It’s been well over twenty years. When you left, that was the end. Fin. You had been everything to us. You were everything to my father. You were the
noor of his eyes but you destroyed his vision. Our father died without knowing what became of his favorite child. You were his sun-daughter. You made his birds sing for love of you. And then you left. The castle you built became a fortified city in your absence, grew from one city to a city-state and finally to a nation without borders. Don’t look at me like that, like you didn’t know, couldn’t have guessed. Now that you’ve returned—and you must have known it would be so—it will crumble and die, unless I act to keep you from doing just that.”
Rabiya took a step toward Ali, jabbing her finger in the air like an accusation. Her little silver earrings jingled. Ali had not yet moved. “What were you thinking? You will destroy our family. You were adopted into our family as an orphaned child. You were raised up as a daughter and a sister and a mother instead of lowered as a slave. You were a part of this family as if you shared its blood. And now you will destroy your own creation. Are you that arrogant? We are exactly and only what you molded us into. Don’t pretend otherwise. Look in the mirror and bear witness yourself to the idolatrous depravity in your own soul before you seek to judge the rest of us. Before you can utter a single word against us, remember that you were not only among us but you led us when my father left the world of the living. Oh, you wretched hypocrite!” There was a sudden fury in her voice, a knitted rage in her eyes. Rabiya moved ever closer. “Be damned, you who dared to return only to be repulsed at those you once led and claimed to love. How now? I see that look on your face. You cannot possibly be the woman I remember, the one the others worship. You have her face—albeit older—but if looks mean anything, you have come to end us.”
Rabiya paused. Perhaps she was waiting for Ali to respond. She picked up the book, a small red Bible, opened it, rifled the pages. Perhaps she did not know quite what to say next. In any case, her pause did not last long nor did Ali interrupt it. “Don’t say anything. You have no right to speak. You were once the most trusted of all of us, but I know now you can never be trusted again. Don’t poison me with your words. You’ve already fed us enough poison for a hundred thousand lifetimes. I myself wonder sometimes where you have been, what things you have done these last decades. Have you hid, shamed in a Himalayan cave?” She looked at Ali curiously, staring into the woman’s eyes. Ali did not meet her eyes. “Have you eaten with the Maasai in their villages or meditated with the Buddhists in the solitude of their temples? Have you crouched at the tundra’s glaciers or ridden through the mists of the Gobi? Have you camped in the Empty Quarter among the Bedouin or mingled with common criminals in the cities? Or, Tahira, have you made your home in a quiet bed in an American suburb? Don’t give me that look. I can’t bear it, not from you. Besides, I know of more horrific stories, I think.”
Rabiya laid down the Bible with an unexpected tenderness, opening the drawer on the side of the coffee table, from which she drew a gun, its barrel sleek and black as a raven’s wings. She ran her dainty fingers along its side in a manner that suggested great familiarity with the weapon. Her eyes never once left Ali’s face. The older woman might have been a statue. “Don’t make the mistake of misunderstanding me. We know who you are, even if you will not say so. You can’t possibly be anyone else. The look in your face, the hesitation in your step, the way your eyes refuse to meet mine? You are her. Tahira Ali Almontaser.” Ali flinched at the sound of her name. “The one we once considered beside my father. You are older now. Your hair has gone entirely gray; your eyes are marked by wrinkles I don’t remember. I see your face all the time—on the old propaganda posters we used to distribute, on some graphic in the corner of our website, in post offices, and on the occasional magazine featuring some article on our family… I think the photo on your wanted poster flatters you. Certainly, you seem younger there than here, standing so close to me. Do you still refuse to answer me? That’s all right. Don’t bother. Your face was once the public face of our family. It would be impossible for me to refrain from laying claim to its image. I know you better than you know yourself.”
Rabiya turned the gun over in her hands as a mother stroking her child. Her gaze lingered before traveling back to Ali’s face, blinking twice. Her tone shifted again, its musical quality changing with the ease of a practiced player. “Do you remember, Tahira? Do you remember how you and I were once almost the same? We were sisters. You were my role model. Everything you were, I wanted to be. My aspirations were to be like you in every way. I worshiped you. It was a kind of idolatry, I’ll be the first to admit, but didn’t our father preach idolatry? A different kind of idolatry, to be sure, but idolatry nevertheless. That’s what they believe—they believe in this End of All Time; it is for this they earnestly long and nothing else will ever sate their desire. Doesn’t all extremism come to the same end? It is an idolatry of ideas, with an ideal placed upon a pedestal. In such a situation, nothing else will ever compare to that which is worshiped and nothing can be its substitute. Our father knew this all too well about what he preached, though I’ll confess to you something I know you’ll never tell—our father did not believe his own sermons. It wasn’t so much a fantasy or play at prophet as it was a grand experiment of the highest science and psychological study. He observed our family most scientifically. How odd that so few of them have ever discovered that fact.” Rabiya cocked her head, looking for some reaction. “I think they suffer from mad delusions. Perhaps most of society is afflicted with this terrible ignorance and gullibility. It’s a propensity for believing whatever anyone in authority tells them. This is how extremism is propagated; this is how the willing masses can be organized into deadly tools to strike at will. But you, Tahira? Did you believe any of it? You preached it too, heralded our father’s teachings around the blue earth in the name of Truth. For forty-three years now, you’ve headlined newspapers and been the target of government task forces because you were my father’s successor. But I’ll ask you again—did you believe those words you wrote and said? Really, truly believe them? I see in your eyes that you did. How sad. You are looking down even now, unable to look me in the eye. Is that shame etched in your features? Well, Tahira, I must say I’m disappointed. You are a fool if for one moment you truly, in your heart believed any of it.”
Rabiya played with the safety on the gun, her inquisitive eyes piercing Ali’s face as if she could see into the depths of the woman’s soul. Perhaps she could. She let her fingers slide along the gun’s barrel again, stopping just before the end. “Tomorrow morning, I shall declare you anathema before the Council. You will be condemned to death for your blasphemy—apostasy even—and treason and you will be taken out to be killed. What will they do then? They may decide that you must be purified through pain before you die. They might prolong the entire affair. In any case, you will soon be dead, given to a grave we can see. You will cease speaking and your demise will be certain. A bullet to the brain, Tahira, that should suffice. It’s simple and far more elegant in my opinion, but I promise you that at the very least, I shall not be your executioner. I shall merely be the signer of your death warrant. Then again, I may say with all due modesty that you yourself did that already. You came here. Didn’t you know it? Oh yes, I suppose you did. This couldn’t have ended any other way. Once you are gone, our family will continue believing you had been our father’s second and disappeared carrying out the work of God. There’s no need to tell them otherwise. Your execution can be a quiet affair. The rest of the world? For them it will be the same as before. Your return, your betrayal—you may not have yet done it, but you and I both know why you are here—these shall never be known to any but ourselves. The council shall keep its silence and your memory will remain untarnished. It’s better that way. If the world learned what you had done, why it would certainly damn us. That is why they must never find out. That is why, Tahira, as much as I once considered you a sister and a dear friend, you must die.” There was a hint of something not unlike sadness in Rabiya’s voice. Ali still had hardly moved. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not so simple or cruel to be merely glad to see you go nor merely saddened at the loss of a great opportunity. You have been many things to me, Tahira, and you have the potential to be many things more. But you have made it very clear, simply by coming at this time that you have not returned for tea and sympathy. This is no family reunion. You are not a returning hero, nor are you our long lost sister back from the grave. You are no longer welcome here.”
Rabiya laid the gun on the table, but the weapon was still within reach, close enough that she could, at any moment, take it into her hands and do as she willed. She sank onto the couch with glittering eyes. Ali remained standing by the fireplace. For now, the two women were alone. They might have been mother and daughter or aunt and niece or tutor and student or two friends engaged in deep conversation. The reality was, of course, quite different, and certainly more tragic. “In the last two decades, we have chased after destiny as the lion seeks prey. Didn’t you preach to us many times of our ultimate immortality and divinely guided destiny? Oh yes, that elusive notion. Well, now you have seen the men and women who elected to obey these teachings—your teachings—to unquestioning follow those of us who interpret God’s will. Yes, that business was quite costly, but in time, through your teachings, we saw it through. Oh now, they are doing exactly what you wanted them to do. Only you find it too ugly to watch. You don’t believe anymore though you once did, do you? You look at me without a trace of anything save sorrow, and you do not even consider rage or determination or want? I want you to know, though, that right now your former brothers and sisters are convinced that they are closer to God than they have ever been, although they themselves have surrendered their will to us and put it meekly under our command. This is what we have achieved, but was it really what you wanted, was this the divine revelation that you wanted to bring them?”
Ali had not yet moved. Rabiya sighed, let tiredness creep into her voice. “I’m not afraid of you, Tahira, not anymore. Once, your words carried great weight, your very presence held some sort of unearthly power over a room merely because you were in my father’s favor and you took up his mantle. Well, and I too have wandered, I too have preached my father’s teachings, I too prized the emotional fervor of doing the work of God, and I too was striving to lead the flock of sheep that you and my father before me had led. Certainly, when I was a child, I believed in these follies, but when I grew older, I put away childish things. Epiphany was scientific for me instead of spiritual. For all I know, there is no such thing as god and life is entirely meaningless, an accident without rhyme or reason. Morality is a social construct. Nevertheless, we shall prove to the entire world we are quite serious. I myself think it laughable, but I must admit it is never dull to plot the downfall of world governments. Our latest operation is called Rahah Almarfud—its code name, you understand—and through this, we shall irreparably damage those you once damned enemies. For a while, we will be remembered with great trepidation in textbooks and among historical societies. Eventually, though, we will all die and bring our secrets to our graves. Even this very conversation—or, I daresay, a monologue—will soon be forgotten even as our influence and power shall expand on the shoulders of the ignorant faithful. Again, I tell you, tomorrow you will see those who once loved you and whom you once claimed to love quickly and without a thought dig the grave into which I shall lay your body for coming here. If anyone has ever deserved our wrath, it is you. Tomorrow, you will die.”
When Rabiya ceased speaking, she waited some time for her companion to answer her. Ali’s silence suffocated the room, drowning it with its unspoken platitudes. Rabiya saw that Ali had listened intently throughout, apparently unwilling to reply. The younger woman longed for her to say something, anything, no matter whether bitter or terrible. Instead, she suddenly approached the younger woman and laid her aging hand over Rabiya’s soft, supple palm. Rabiya shuddered. She wanted desperately to say something, but no words came. After a long moment, she stood, took her gun, and parted from the room.
Once Ali had been alone again for some time, she returned to the hall. She heard no voices. It was as if anyone inside had thoroughly vanished. The stairs creaked as she ascended, her hand running gently along the wooden railing. She had never before been in this house, yet it seemed strangely familiar. Upstairs, the hall was permeated with the fragrance of jasmine, a sweet, sensuous perfume. She glided across the floor as if in a dream, her hand pushing open a door. Inside, there were a great oak desk and several bookcases. Perhaps, Ali thought, some key to this latest operation would be hidden here.
She was right. Inside the top drawer on the right hand side of the desk, Ali found blueprints, maps, and a code cipher. She glanced left and right with hurried looks and laid the papers over the desk. Ali fumbled for a pencil, pored over the words. It had been a long time since she had examined these kinds of documents, but it was not excessively difficult to return to them. With great care, she blotted out the names of individuals and the geographic coordinates of locations, substituting meaningless common names—John, Muhammad, and the like—and the geographic coordinates of points far enough into the oceans that any attack launched there would be rendered harmless. Her writing was meticulous, imitating the characters of the original author of the documents, in both form and style.
From the hall, she heard footsteps. Ali’s eyes darted to the doorway. There was no one there yet. She slid the documents back into the drawer along with the pencil, shutting it with great haste, before hurrying to the door. She peeked, catching sight of Rabiya ascending the stairs. Perhaps the woman would pass by without noticing Ali. Those hopes were quickly dashed when Rabiya continued, when finally, she leaned toward another doorway, giving Ali enough of a window to slip into the hallway again, her fingers trembling, her eyes wide. Rabiya turned. Ali’s heart jammed in her throat. For all her secret pensées, Ali wondered that she was afraid of dying. Their eyes met. In the same instance, Ali dropped her gaze and fled for the stairs. Rabiya swore explosively, following after the older woman.
Ali was surprisingly nimble for her age, managing two stairs at a time. That’s when she heard the rapport of the gunshot behind her and felt something solid slam into her arm, bringing with it a sudden, fierce pain. “Get out!” Rabiya shouted, her voice echoing throughout the house. “Get out and never come back, never, never!”
Ali was already out the door. Behind her, like dewdrops, blood spattered along her trail.
Present.
Azzan Kam, Mossad
William Rapp, Interrogation Specialist, CIA
Tahira Ali, detainee number 29083564
United States Penitentiary Lee, Jonesville, VirginiaUSP Lee was silent this time of night, or rather, this time of morning. It was just past three a.m. when two black "Knight" armored cars rolled to a halt in front of the gates. The guard, tired and nearing the end of his shift, stepped forward to check the ID of the man driving the first vehicle. He snapped a salute almost at once. "Colonel. Welcome to USP Lee."
"Thank you Mr. Johnston," replied the driver, eyes quickly taking in the man’s name tag. "I am here to have Tahira Ali moved at once. Here are our orders." He waved a folded paper in the guard’s face, carefully pulling it back a second before the other man would have reached for it.
"Of course sir!" replied the prison employee as he picked up the phone next to him and spoke rapidly into it. A few seconds later the doors clicked, motors sounded, and the gates rumbled open.
The two armored cars rolled forward and into the main parking lot where they drew up in front of the foreboding looking entrance. Doors opened and six men stood on the tarmac, one in the uniform of a colonel, the rest sergeants or lower in rank. They all had the badge "Officer of Military Special Investigations" on their shoulders. One of the men, a thick set sergeant with a huge reddish beard, remained with the vehicles while the others followed the Colonel inside.
Inside, the warden of the prison, a tall, thin man, bald but with a long, carefully combed mustache, strode forward to greet them. Normally Andrew Husted was home, sleeping at three in the morning, but he had been distracted with a mountain of paperwork, and, determined to finish it at once, had been at the prison long after he would have otherwise left under normal circumstances. Ali's presence had not eased his mind.
A former military man himself, Warden Husted recognized the rank insignia on the leading man's uniform. "Evening, Colonel," he said gruffly, eyes alighting on the colonel's face as he extended a hand. "I understand you have some orders to carry out?"
The "Colonel" shook the offered hand with a grin. "Morning actually, Warden. And yes, I have been ordered to move the prisoner Tahira Ali from here immediately. Sorry I can't say where, classified, I'm sure you understand."
"I'd like to see a copy of your orders," Husted said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm not asking for any classified information, but I must account for transfers, you understand."
"Of course, Warden, of course." Rapp drew the orders from his pocket and handed them over. They had been expertly forged by the CIA and bore the signature of the FBI’s Assistant Director of Counter-Intelligence, a man who even at this moment was being arrested in Washington.
Husted took the orders, scanning through them rapidly, his eyes moving back and forth across the page. "Is there a reason for the transfer, Colonel?" he asked, handing the orders back to Rapp.
Rapp gave a shrug of the shoulders as to suggest he was not privy to such information. "I would like to know as much as you, Warden, but on the need to know basis, I apparently didn't need to know."
"I'm going to catch a lot of shit for this," Husted remarked, shaking his head. He motioned with two fingers. "Come on then. She's in an empty cell block, over in the West Wing."
"Much obliged warden," replied Rapp as he fell into step next to the older man, his security detail of four men following in their wake.
Husted strode purposefully through the corridors of the prison, stopping at each sally port to slide his identification through the slot, and manually keep the gates open for the military men following him. None of the prisoners stirred from their sleep as they passed, and Husted only gave them parting glances, his hands clasped behind his back.
In the West Wing, Moses Kent had been watching Ali, leaning against one of the walls with tired eyes, fighting the urge to climb into the nearest bed and sleep. He'd drawn the short straw and been stuck with the extra shift. Ali herself was asleep, lying on the thin mattress in the prison cell, dead to the world. In sleep, she looked at peace, a stark contrast to the image in the file.
The last sally port admitted them, and Husted came to a stop. Facing Rapp, he cleared his throat. "She's all yours, gentlemen. I trust your CO will be to blame when the shit hits the fan?" Husted was only half-joking.
Once the Warden and the Colonel had vanished around the corner, the Sergeant who had waited outside entered the prison and moved quickly to the security station. The guards on duty gave him a glance but thought nothing of it, heads turning back to their card game, confident they could avoid detection with the Warden away for the moment.
Azzan waited until one of them put down a winning hand and then very quietly ejected the security tapes from the wall behind him, using his body to shield the motion. Each time he ejected a tape, he ran a magnet above its reels. The tapes would be erased and rendered completely useless. That wouldn't be noticed until the morning shift arrived.
Rapp grinned. "Don't worry, Warden. My CO is going to going to get all the heat he can manage, I assure you. Thank you for your cooperation." He nodded for the door to be opened and walked into the cell, banging loudly on the door. "Up and at ‘em, princess. Time to move!"
At the sudden noise, Ali's eyes slid open. "Salaam alaykum," she murmured automatically, and then looked over to Rapp, blinking in the darkness, as she took stock of the intruder, her eyes narrowing as she rose to a sitting position, gaze falling over Rapp's face, unsure who this stranger was. He was dressed in an American military uniform. Slowly, she stood, her gaze resting on the man's chin.
Rapp looked at the prisoner with disgust. She was the very thing he and his fellow agents waged a secret war against in the Afghan mountains. "Sergeant, cuffs." He stepped aside as a sergeant produced a pair of flexi-cuffs and secured the prisoner’s hands. "Good. Let’s go." Rapp led the way out of the cell and watched as his four men fell in around the prisoner before turning back to the Warden. "Thank you, Warden. Perhaps you would be so kind as to lead us back out of this maze?"
"Of course," Husted said, nodding once. "This way." The warden motioned toward the way they had come from, striding through the winding halls of the prison in the darkness, his steps falling softly. Ali did not speak, following the men without uttering a single word, until they approached the lobby.
"Sir—where are you taking me?" she asked softly, her English spoken haltingly, looking toward Rapp.
Rapp heard the question come from the terrorist but he didn't bother to answer her. If he had had his way, she would have been in a CIA interrogation room for the past week already while he and few others squeezed everything she knew out of her until she knew no more; a bullet to the head and it would be over. He noticed Azzan standing nearby and the man tipped him a wink. "Warden, thank you for your help. It’s been a pleasure to meet you. Until next time." Rapp winked at the other man's look of distress. "Just kidding, I promise you. You won’t be holding any more prisoners of this importance."
"It's been an interesting experience, Colonel," Husted said, nodding once to Rapp, just noticing Azzan, though he said nothing. "Just remember, your CO is taking all the shit that gets thrown at me come morning." The warden watched as they took Ali. The prisoner said nothing further, complying meekly with the men taking her from the prison.
The small group climbed into the Knight armored trucks and the engines roared to life. Rapp waved once to the Warden as they pulled away, confident that the signed orders he had conveniently "forgotten" on a desk in the security room would protect the warden from any persecution but make the FBI’s Assistant Director of Counter-Intelligence even more doomed.
With a screech of rubber the two heavy vehicles turned left out of the prison gates and vanished into the pre-dawn light, navigating a random course through the quiet streets until arrival at a small heliport. There a single black Lynx helicopter with "Sightseeing" across its flanks waited silently. Two men with sub-machine guns appeared from the shadows and after a quick discussion they exchanged places with Rapp and Azzan, who hustled Ali aboard.
Azzan climbed into the pilot’s seat and started the aircraft, not bothering to watch as the two trucks disappeared. The engines whirred to life and within minutes they were airborne. He did one quick circle to make sure everything was running properly, and then he dipped the nose and aimed for Colorado.
Once aboard, Ali looked about the interior of the plane through tired eyes, not sure where she was going, or why. These things she did not ask, sure that if something needed to be said, it would be. During the flight, she remained silent, staring at the floor most of the time, the expression on her face unreadable. It would not be a particularly long flight—and Ali had not been on a plane in a very long time, not counting the flight from Kabul to the States.
The helicopter was on the verge of crossing into the Rockies when Rapp slipped a black bag over Ali's head. He didn't much care if she saw where they were going for she would never leave it alive, but procedure had to be obeyed. As they crossed over the mountains and flew deeper into the heart of the silent giants, he felt his gut tighten. Within a few hours they would be learning the key to so many terrorist secrets it would keep him and Azzan busy for years to come. He felt the helicopter start to drop and didn't need Azzan to tell him they had arrived.
All went dark. Ali could feel her breath hot against her face, became acutely aware of the sound of her heart beating in her ears, the heart rate increasing, as a natural physiological response to the sudden change. She was sure it was now past fajr, that if she were still among the members of Hataf, there would be exhortations to pray. Subconsciously, her shoulders stiffened, her eyes trawling about, but to no avail. She could see nothing. Ali lowered her head. She did not know where they were taking her—all she knew was the look of repulsion on the soldier’s face. What damned her was that she believed it was well-deserved.
The Lynx helicopter settled onto the narrow landing strip that looked out over the craggy mountains. As the rotors wound down and the door was opened, Rapp breathed deeply of the mountain air, the heavy scent of pine trees and the fresh clean air that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the city. In many ways it smelled just like Afghanistan. The vista below them spread out, the endless peaks of the Rocky Mountains vanishing beyond sight in every direction.
Behind him a metal door opened and aircrew appeared to take control of the helicopter as Rapp and Kam walked their bound and still-hooded prisoner into the hanger. It had once been a nuclear fallout shelter known only to a very few top government officials. Over the years it had been sold to a company that was a front for the CIA. It was virtually impossible to access by anything other than helicopter and was the most secure location Rapp knew of within the boundaries of the U.S. All the guards had been handpicked and were fanatical patriots. It was the perfect place to make Ali disappear.
She could not see where she was going, and momentary panic gripped her as she walked, taking each step gingerly, stumbling as she moved, unsure where to put her feet. Ali sensed the change in air, the openness of the mountains. She could hear the pine trees rustling in the gentle breeze. This was where she belonged, in the abandoned country. Then the milieu changed again, Ali finding herself standing on very different terrain. "Where—where am I?" she asked, her soft voice muffled, hardly penetrating the cloth.
Again Rapp ignored the question, instead nodding in recognition to a thick set black man who was walking towards them. He halted a few paces away and looked the prisoner up and down. “This is her huh?”
“Correct.” There were no names here. “In all her glory. Have you got a nice spot picked out for her?”
The big man grinned. “The very best. Follow me.” He turned and made his way towards an open elevator that looked as if it still ran on chains and a steam pump. The four climbed onto it and the black man hit a switch. Somewhere an engine whirred and the elevator began to rise with a rattle of chains. After a few minutes it stopped and with the welcoming agent in the lead they made their way past a guard station manned by two very alert looking young men who cradled sub-machine guns. They nodded familiarly to Kam and Rapp and glared balefully at the hooded woman.
“Here we are,” said their escort as he stopped in front of a heavy steel door built right into the rock. “Open three,” he called and the door ground opened to reveal a six foot by six foot cell. It was made from the stone of the mountain with a single narrow bed cut from one wall with a rubber mattress on it. A video camera was perched high in a corner, the room’s roof nearly twelve feet in height. Rapp pushed the prisoner into the cell and removed her handcuffs. Then he backed away and watched the door close on the hooded figure.
Ali stumbled inside, flinching at the sound of the door shutting. Voices faded away. She was alone again. A moment later, she felt circulation returning to her wrists with a stinging pain. Ali reached up and slowly pulled the hood from her head, blinking, only to realize the cell she was in was as dark as it had been under the hood. She reached out with her hands, blindly stumbling about in the dark, when she crashed into the stone shelf that served as a bed, yelping in surprise. After a moment, she could see the faintest outlines.
Ali sank to the floor, leaning against one of the walls, her knees drawn up to her chin, her hands resting on her knees. She could hear herself breathing, inhaling, exhaling. She did not speak. In the feast of silence, she could hear the sound of distant, feral screams and explosions, great, wracking sobs, could smell burned husks of wood and metal, rotting flesh and propane. In the darkness, she trembled, moisture forming at the corners of her eyes.