Read Online The Prince of Bagram Prison by Alex Carr - Free Book Online Page B

“I didn't realize I was a celebrity.”
    “I was at Major Greeley's press briefing this morning,” Kurtz explained. “He's quite honored to have you here.”
    Kat had heard about the Major's daily briefings from some of the other interrogators, how he started each session with a canned obit of one of the September 11 victims.
    Kat rose from her chair and glanced at the young MP. “See if you can find him something to drink,” she said, gesturing to the old man. And then, to Kurtz, “Your Arabic speaker?”
    The medical line was the prisoners' first stop after the initial trauma of having their clothes cut off. It was touted as a safety measure, a way of ensuring that no weapons or harmful diseases made their way into the facility. But both the prisoners and the interrogators understood that the real purpose of the examination was to establish exactly where and with whom all control lay, to cement the contract of power and powerlessness between prisoner and jailer.
    Normally, Kat made it a point to stay away from this part of the intake process. There was a vulnerability about the male body that she found disturbing, and she didn't want her feelings to get in the way later, during interrogations. As she and Kurtz approached, the few prisoners who didn't already have their hands over their genitals moved quickly to cover themselves.
    “There,” Kurtz said, pointing to a young boy near the back of the line.
    Kat's first thought was that Kurtz was obviously mistaken. She had seen her share of foreign fighters, but they were all grown men. This prisoner was barely more than a child, his face smooth and unshaved, his thin body that of an adolescent. Though anyone under sixteen was strictly off limits, a few underage locals were often swept up in the raids. Standard protocol was to release them back to their villages with a consolation bag of chocolate bars and hot tamales from the PX. No doubt that's what would happen to this boy.
    “He's just a kid,” Kat said dismissively.
    The two burly MPs at the front of the line yelled for the next prisoner to step forward, then grabbed the man by his neck and forced his head down for the cavity search. Kat saw the boy's stomach convulse.
    “I'm telling you,” Kurtz insisted. “He's not local.”
    Kat moved to turn away, then stopped herself. The last thing she wanted was to prove Kurtz right, but she wasn't altogether convinced that he was wrong. “Step forward, please,” she said in Arabic, and to her surprise the boy did.
    “What's your name?” she asked. For a moment, when he didn't say anything, she thought she had been mistaken, that the previous response had been just a coincidence.
    Then he blinked up at her. “Jamal,” he said through chattering teeth. He was shivering wildly, from fear or cold or both, and his upper lip was glazed with snot.
    Kat turned to Kurtz. “Get me a blanket.” And then, to the boy, “It's okay, you're going to be okay.”
    The boy nodded, clearly unconvinced, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
    “How old are you, Jamal?”
    He paused before answering, aware, Kat thought, as she was, of just how much rested on this one piece of information. A year in either direction the difference between a one-way ticket to Guantánamo and the rest of his life.
    “Fifteen,” he said at last, and Kat thought, Good boy, right answer.
    She scanned the room, searching for Kurtz among the tsunami of bodies. A blanket, she told herself, glancing at the boy, at the wings of his collarbones protruding from the top of his gaunt torso. How long does it take to find a goddamn blanket?
    But when she looked up again her eyes caught not Kurtz's but Colin's. He was watching her, as he obviously had been for some time.
    T HE RIGHT ANSWER or the wrong one, Kat thought as the plane touched down on the runway at Barajas and taxied toward the terminal.
    I suggest you take a look at that, she could hear the man say. Morrow, he'd finally told her his name