For security reasons, they had agreed that real names would not be used. From an operational standpoint, it was much better that way for all of them. To tell them apart, Jaffe and his team had assigned nicknames to the two foreign intelligence agents working with them. The lanky, dark-complexioned man in his mid-thirties with the Brillo-pad hair and breath that reeked of garlic was called Rashid, while the older, more experienced operative with the pockmarked face, jet black eyes, and Turkish mustache was referred to as Hassan.
Outside the interrogation room, Jaffe banged one of the monitors on the AV cart, hoping to improve the quality of the satellite downlink. “C’mon, damn it,” he mumbled as he tried to tweak the signal.
“I think we’re really crossing the line with this one,” said Brad Harper as he stood and watched the ghostlike images fading in and out of focus from halfway around the world. “Mohammed’s only been in U.S. custody for six weeks. We can break him. We just need to give it more time.”
“We might not have any more time.”
“But now we’re talking about noncombatants. Kids, for Christ’s sake.”
“Really?” said Jaffe. “What about all the kids killed on the bridges and in the tunnels today? Do you think these people gave a damn about them?”
“Obviously not, but-”
“How about all the other kids who will be killed if that sick son of a bitch in there gets away with launching multiple nuclear attacks on our soil?”
“That still doesn’t make it right, and I want to go on the record as being completely against this.”
“Duly noted,” replied Jaffe as the signal finally improved enough for them to proceed. “I don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold the downlink, so get in there and make sure we’re ready to go. And by the way,” he added as Harper began walking away, “I want you to remember that I didn’t get to where I am by being stupid or soft.”
Harper had considered the man neither stupid nor soft. In fact, he might have even been too hard for his own good. Nevertheless, there was nothing for Harper to say. All he was left with was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Marines were honorable, and they sure as hell didn’t torture children.
Even though it was going to happen on the other side of the globe, Harper felt as responsible for what was coming as if he were standing in North Africa carrying out the orders himself. He could only hope that God would have mercy on their souls for what they were about to do.
Moments later, the door to the interrogation room opened and Mike Jaffe rolled the AV cart inside with its multiple cables snaking behind into the hallway. Before turning the monitors back on, he addressed the prisoners, who were Flexicuffed to two very uncomfortable wooden chairs. Both of the men spoke English well enough, so there was no need for a translator.
“It took us quite a while to make the connection between you two. In fact, we almost missed it. We’d spent so much time looking for any of bin Laden’s or Zawahiri’s children who might have gone into the family business, that we foolishly never considered your lineage, Mohammed. You must be very proud of your nephew here. He seems to have really taken to the profession.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what the bin Mohammed-Jamal family crest might look like. Maybe two lions holding a roadside bomb, or would it be more subtle? Maybe a chain of blasting caps over a nice banner that read Women and children first?
“Anyway, we decided to do a little more genealogy, and guess what we found?” Jaffe nodded his head and Harper activated both of the monitors. “Ra’na is quite a lovely village.”
As the monitors glowed to life, one showed the battered, mud-brick exterior of a large village house, while the other showed a family of women and children huddled in one of the rooms inside. Several men in black fatigues with dark balaclavas covering their faces held them at gunpoint.
Sayed Jamal instantly stiffened in his chair. It was exactly the reaction Jaffe had been hoping for. “I guess I don’t need to ask whose house we’re looking at.”
Mohammed knew that he was looking at his nephew’s home and family, but he remained completely impassive.
“Take a good look at them,” said Jaffe, as he held up his cell phone. “The men in that house work for me. They obey my orders, and unless you start cooperating, things are going to get very unpleasant for your nephew’s family. Now tell me about the nuclear material.”
Jaffe counted quietly to three and asked the question in a different way. “We already know where the material was stolen from a top secret European facility. We also have a pretty good handle on when it was stolen. What we don’t know is who’s planning on selling it to you and how you planned to use it. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll have my men leave that house right now.”
When Mohammed refused to answer, Jaffe raised the cell phone to his ear and said, “Start with the oldest daughter.”
Immediately, there was a frenzy of activity on the monitor as the order was relayed and one of the gunmen pulled a screaming young woman away from her family and dragged her out of the room. The family members wailed and the image shook as the camera was removed from its tripod and rushed down the hallway. It caught up with the gunman in what appeared to be a bathroom. A large copper tub was filled with water and the gunman was holding the woman’s head underneath.
Sayed Jamal cursed his captors in Arabic as tears began to stream down his face. Jaffe, though, paid no attention to him. His eyes were locked on Mohammed bin Mohammed.
Jamal quickly realized what was going on and turned to his uncle, begging him to tell the Americans whatever they wanted to know. Mohammed yelled at him to shut up.
Brad Harper didn’t give a damn if it was insubordination or not-he couldn’t allow this to go on any longer. Approaching Jaffe, the powerfully built marine said, “That’s it. We’re not doing this. You’re going to have to find another way.”
Without taking his eyes off Mohammed, Jaffe drew his pistol and pointed it at Harper’s head, stopping the marine in his tracks. “Every member of this family will die, slowly and painfully, unless you tell me what I want to know,” said Jaffe, his eyes boring into Mohammed’s. “Who is selling the nuclear material?”
When the man still refused to answer, Jaffe spoke into his cell phone again. “Kill her.”
The command was relayed to the gunman on the monitor, who drew his sidearm, placed it over the edge of the tub, and fired two shots.
Jamal was hysterical with rage and screamed first at the Americans and then at his uncle for having killed his daughter.
Mohammed looked at him and told him to shut up.
Jaffe didn’t bother asking about the nuclear material now. Instead he spoke into his cell phone, and once the camera had returned to the room where the family was corralled, he said to Mohammed, “Why don’t you pick the next one?”