General Riaz Rehan entered the baked-brick hut with two of Haqqani’s men. They stood on either side of him holding flashlights, and they shined their beams on a figure slumped on the floor in the corner of the room. It was a man, both of his legs were crudely bandaged, and he lay on the floor on his left shoulder, facing the wall.
The Haqqani operatives wore black turbans and long beards, but Rehan was in a simple salwar kameez and a short prayer cap. His beard was short and trim, contrasting dramatically with the two long-haired Pashtuns.
Rehan lookހed over the prisoner. The man’s matted and soiled hair was more than half gray, but this was not an old man. He was healthy, or he had been so before he’d been blown ten feet by a rocket-propelled grenade.
Rehan stood over the man for several seconds, but the man did not look toward the light. Finally one of the Pashtun gunmen walked over and kicked the man on a bandaged leg. He stirred, turned to the light, tried to shield his eyes from it with his hands, then just sat up with his eyes closed.
The wrists of the infidel were shackled to an eyebolt on the poured-concrete floor, and his feet were bare.
“Open your eyes.” General Rehan said it in English. The Pakistani general motioned for the two guards to lower their flashlight beams a little, and when they did so, the bearded Westerner’s eyes slowly opened. Rehan saw the man’s left eye was blood red, perhaps from some blow to his nose or eye but likely due to a concussion from the RPG blast that, Rehan had been told, caused the prisoner’s other injuries.
“So… you speak English, yes?” Rehan asked.
The man did not answer at first, but after a moment he shrugged, then nodded.
The general squatted down, close to his prisoner. “Who are you?”
No response from the prisoner.
“What is your name?”
Still nothing.
“It hardly matters. My sources tell me you are a guest in Pakistan of Major Mohammed al Darkur of the Joint Intelligence Bureau. You came here in order to spy on what Major al Darkur erroneously thinks is a joint ISI — Haqqani network facility.”
The wounded man did not respond. It was difficult to tell in the low light, but his pupils were still somewhat dilated from his concussion.
“I would very much like to understand why you are here, in Miran Shah, right now. Is there something special you are hoping to find, or was it just fate that has your journey into the Federally Administered Tribal Areas coincide with my visit here? Major al Darkur has been meddlesome to my efforts of late.”
The gray-haired man just stared at him.
“You, friend, are a very boring conversationalist.”
“Been called worse.”
“Ah. Now you talk. Shall we have a polite discussion, man-to-man, or shall I have my associates pry the next words past your tongue?”
“Do what you have to do, I’m going to catch a nap.” And with that the American lay back on his side, his chains jangling on the concrete floor as he positioned himself.
Rehan shook his head in frustration. “Your country should have stayed out of Pakistan, just like the British should have stayed away. But you inject yourselves, your culture, your military, your sin, into all cracks on the globe. You are an infection that spreads insidiously.”
Rehan started to say something else, but he stopped himself. Instead he just waved an angry hand at the prostrate wounded man and turned to one of the Haqqani operatives.
The American did not speak any Urdu, the native tongue of General Rehan. Nor did he speak much Pashto, the native tongue of the Haqqani network officer standing next to General Rehan. But Sam spoke English, so Rehan clearly intended for the prisoner to understand his command when he relayed it in Englid it in sh.
“See what he knows. If he tells you willingly, execute him humanely. If he wastes your time, make him regret doing so.”
“Yes, General,” replied the black-turbaned man.
Rehan turned and ducked his head as he exited the baked-brick cell.
From his position on the floor, Driscoll watched him leave. When he was alone in the room, Sam said, “You may not remember me, but I remember you, asshole.”