Jamal’s video was short. Jack’s recovery time would be much longer. It was amazing how high a naked man could be made to jump from the table with a well-placed cattle prod. More than the image, however, it was the sound of Jamal’s screams that would stay with Jack.
“Okay,” said Jack, collecting himself. “If being Jamal Wakefield from Miami gets you this kind of treatment, I now have a better understanding of why he went to Gitmo pretending to be a Somali peasant who didn’t speak English.”
“Not to mention the fact that being Jamal Wakefield could land you on death row for a murder you didn’t commit,” said Chuck, who was still on speaker.
Shada shook her head. She hadn’t watched, but Jack’s summary gave her the flavor. “I don’t understand why they would record this kind of conduct on video.”
“This came up at Gitmo,” said Jack. “It’s a matter of interrogation expedience. If I’m questioning you, it may be that all I have to do is show you the video of what I did to Jamal. You’ll probably start talking before I do the same thing to you.”
“Let me make sure I understand,” said Shada. “All those videos that I copied from Habib’s computer-those are all men who were tortured at the same black site Jamal was at?”
“It looks that way,” said Chuck. “The interesting thing is that we would never have made that connection if you had not brought us the Jamal video.”
“Explain that to me,” said Jack.
“I mentioned to you before that one of the functions of Project Round Up is to trace video files all the way back to the camera that created them. My computers confirm that all these files-Jamal’s included-were created with the same camera. Without Jamal’s file, you might think that all the other files were just more sick pornography traded on the P2P network. Jamal’s was the only one not traded on P2P. His video is the missing piece in the puzzle that links all of this activity to torture at a black site.”
“There’s something that still doesn’t add up for me,” said Shada.
“Tell me,” said Chuck.
“I understand what Jack said about interrogation expedience as a reason to create these videos. But creating them is one thing. Somebody took these files and put them on the P2P network. Why?”
“That’s a good question,” said Jack.
“I can answer that in two words,” said Chuck. “Trade value.”
“What does that mean?” asked Shada.
Jack was with him. “It means that the way to get content on a P2P network is to trade something in return.”
“You got it,” said Chuck. “In plain English, if I’m a sick son of a bitch who wants to watch movies of a preteen girl having sex with her mommy’s boyfriend, the easiest way for me to get it is to trade something for it.”
“Hard to imagine someone wanting to watch a woman rip out a man’s pubic hair,” said Shada.
“Are you kidding me?” said Chuck. “Do you remember the photos of that female soldier sitting on a pile of naked men at Abu Ghraib? That left a lot of men clamoring for more explicit abuse. For some guys, this stuff is very sexual, very much a turn-on.”
“Obviously someone saw this black site as a P2P trading gold mine,” said Jack.
“And that someone was Habib,” said Chuck. “He had a steady supply of videos that showed leather-clad women torturing men. Not simulated stuff. Real blood, real violence. He could trade that for whatever turned him on. Torture of women. Child pornography. Snuff. You name it.”
Shada closed her eyes, absorbing the blow, as if the pain of her terrible miscalculation kept digging deeper.
Jack heard a phone ringing over the speaker. Someone was calling Chuck.
“It’s from London,” said Chuck. “Let me plug you guys in so you can hear. Don’t say a word.”
Jack moved closer to the computer, and Chuck answered. The voice on the line matched the one in the recording Chuck had shared earlier-but this was live.
“I want two hundred fifty thousand pounds, cash,” the Dark said. “Small bills. Or I kill Paulo.”
“When?” asked Chuck.
“Tomorrow morning. Early.”
“That’s very short notice.”
“You’re a rich man. Make it happen.”
Jack wanted to speak, but he held his tongue and, instead, fired off an e-mail to Chuck.
“How do we make the exchange?” asked Chuck.
“I’ll call you tomorrow at half past five with instructions.”
“Five thirty A.M. London time?”
“Yes.”
“You must be joking.”
“I’m joking only if your idea of a punch line is a bullet in your friend Paulo’s head.”
Chuck paused, and Jack hoped he was reading his e-mail. “One thing,” said Chuck. “I want to talk to Vince. I need to know he’s alive.”
Jack could breathe again; his e-mail had gone through.
“Blow me,” said the Dark. “Get the money and you get to talk to Paulo. And by the way: Shada, if you’re listening, I know you copied some files from my computer.”
Shada stiffened, and Jack squeezed her hand for reassurance-and to make sure she said nothing.
“That makes me very angry,” the Dark said, “but I’m a reasonable man. I want you, personally, to deliver the money tomorrow. If you do, we’ll call it even. If you don’t…”
The line went silent. The Dark was gone.
Jack tried to get Shada to look at him, but she was staring at the floor, numb. “Listen to me,” said Jack. “If that’s the game he wants to play-insisting that Shada deliver the ransom-we need to revisit the idea of just calling the police.”
“No,” said Shada. “He’ll kill Vince.”
“It’s not an option,” said Chuck. “I could run this guy through every conceivable database, and I guarantee you he’d show up on every terrorist watch list in the world. You know what that means for hostage negotiation.”
Shada looked even more worried. “What does it mean?”
Until now, Jack hadn’t thought it all the way through, but he quickly caught Chuck’s drift.
“The United States has repeatedly stated that as a matter of official government policy it does not negotiate with terrorists,” said Jack. “Even though we’re not on U.S. soil, Vince is an American law enforcement officer. Scotland Yard will likely respect U.S. policy.”
Shada’s eyes widened. “If we don’t negotiate, Vince is a dead man.”
Chuck said, “Do you disagree with that analysis, Jack?”
Jack processed it. “I can’t disagree.”
“So what’s it going to be, Shada? Can you deliver?”
She was staring at the computer screen even though it was blank.
“Shada,” Chuck repeated, “what’s it gonna be?”