The Prince of Bagram Prison Read online

  The Prince of Bagram Prison is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Random House Trade Paperback Original

  Copyright © 2008 by Jenny Siler

  Dossier copyright © 2008 by Random House, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House Trade Paperbacks,

  an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,

  a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE TRADE PAPERBACKS and colophon

  are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  MORTALIS and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Carr, Alex.

  The Prince of Bagram Prison : a novel / Alex Carr.

  p. cm.

  “Mortalis.”

  eISBN: 978-0-307-49738-3

  1. Terrorists—Fiction. 2. Informers—Fiction. 3. Women intelligence officers—Fiction.

  4. Madrid (Spain)—Fiction. 5. Casablanca (Morocco)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.I42125P75 2008

  813'.54—dc22 2007023203

  www.mortalis-books.com

  v 3.0

  Nothing was as Manar had imagined it would be. Her mother should have been there, and her two aunts. Her older sister, whose hand she had held through two births and who had pledged to do the same for her. There should have been clean sheets and basins of warm water, someone with a cool cloth for her forehead. And, on the other side of the house, the men regaling Yusuf with stories of their own children's arrivals, so that when the time came he would be awake to say the adhan and perform the tahneek, the first sweet smudge of dates in the child's mouth.

  But there was none of this.

  The room smelled of blood and feces. Manar's mostly, but other women's as well. Old blood, and on the once-white walls the stained remnants of past catastrophes. Birth or death or both.

  On the far wall, Hassan II hung in stiff portrait. An aging playboy performing the role of beneficent king in an expensive French suit and a red fez. Polo player, racing-car driver, epicurean, Manar thought, looking at his slim fingers and European face. Torturer, murderer, rapist.

  In the stark light of the prison infirmary, the doctor's round forehead glistened like the grease-laden haunch of a lamb on a spit. Four in the morning, and Manar could smell the stale liquor on the man's breath, the sweat stink of the whore he'd left to come here. He was the same man who had examined her the night they'd brought her in, who had grudgingly confirmed for her jailers what she'd been trying desperately to tell them all along, through the first round of beatings and humiliations: that she was pregnant.

  The doctor had not dared look her in the face then, and he didn't now.

  “Put her feet up,” he said to the nurse, and Manar felt the woman's hands on her ankles, the cold steel of the stirrups on her bare feet.

  A contraction hit her, faster and harder than the previous ones had been. Manar took a deep breath and shifted her hips to absorb the pain.

  “Do not let her move,” the doctor snapped.

  His hand was inside her now, as if she were an animal. She could feel his wrist against her pubic bone, his meaty fingers on the baby. And the pain—greedy, ravenous, wanting everything she had and more. She turned her head and retched, emptying the thin contents of her stomach onto the filthy floor.

  “Do not let her move!”

  The nurse took Manar's hand and smiled weakly, a conspir-ator's smile, and Manar thought, There is nothing between us. Nothing. How could you even dare?

  “He is turning the baby now,” the nurse said. “You must stay still. It will all be over soon.”

  For a moment, it was. Manar's abdomen relaxed and she felt the baby shift inside her, felt the doctor's hand slide out from between her legs.

  Please, God, she thought, taking that single moment of calm to offer one last prayer. Please take the child now, before it is tainted by any of this. Then another contraction hit her, and with it the undeniable need to push.

  “This is the easy part,” the nurse told her.

  To Manar's surprise, the woman was right. After fifteen hours of submission to the pain, the agony of pushing was a relief.

  When the baby finally came, the doctor did not give it to Manar but handed it to the nurse while he cut the umbilical cord. The baby was still and stunned, his skin dark as a bruise. For a moment, Manar felt a sense of profound relief that her prayer had been answered. Then the child cried out and she realized that he was not dead.

  He cried out and Manar could not help herself. At least he will be my reprieve, she thought selfishly, as she had that first night, when she had naïvely consoled herself with the presumption that they would not rape her while she had a child in her body. Even they, even these animals, she told herself now, would not harm her while she had milk to give.

  She put her arms out to take the boy, but the nurse shook her head. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “You must have known.”

  “The adhan,” Manar pleaded, understanding that she had been completely forsaken, that neither of them was to be spared. Her child would live and she would die. “Please, in the name of Allah, I must say the adhan.”

  The baby shrieked in the nurse's arms, and Manar felt his desperation in her entire body. “He is mine!” she yelled.

  The woman stepped forward and laid the child on Manar's chest. He was naked and bloody, his eyes wide open, dark as two wet stones.

  Manar put her lips to his right ear and smelled him, her smell and his together. Blood, like the earth, like the mud from which God had fashioned them all. Behind his ear was a small red stain, a single blemish on his still-purple skin. An imperfection, Manar thought, like that which a pot suffers in the kiln, a mark of what he had suffered inside her.

  “God is great,” she whispered.

  “I testify that there is no god except God.

  I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.

  Come to prayer.

  Come to salvation.”

  Then she turned him to say the second prayer, but the nurse was already taking him from her again.

  “So, then, Jamal,” the American said, resting his hands on his knees as was his habit. “How's everything going?”

  He was a tall man, his arms and legs too long for his torso, his head square, with a neatly shorn cap of blond hair, pale eyelashes set in a pale face. Justin, he had insisted more than once that Jamal call him. But the boy could imagine nothing more awkward than addressing him this way.

  It was evening, still barely light outside, and through the open window Jamal could see into the apartment across the street, where the woman in the pink abaya was cooking dinner, as she almost always was during these meetings with the American. Harira, Jamal thought, smelling the heady odor of garlic and spice. Last week there was lamb. And, the week before, the pleasant aroma of sugar and cinnamon. The promise of seeing her was the one thing about these weekly meetings that Jamal did not dread.

  “There are some very important men coming to see you,” the American announced, not waiting for a reply to his earlier query, apparently not wanting one. “They're going to ask you some questions about Bagheri.”

  Jamal's mind raced anxiously back through everything he had said. He had not meant for it to come to this, and now he wasn't quite sure what to do. Somewhere in the building, a baby was crying. A baby was always crying, though whether it was the same baby or different ones Jamal could not say.<
br />
  “From Washington?” he asked, trying to conceal his panic.

  The American nodded, the gesture somehow both encouraging and unkind. “Just tell them what you know, what you've told me, and everything will be fine.”

  Jamal thought for a moment. “Will Mr. Harry be there?”

  The man sighed, clearly exasperated. “We've talked about this, Jamal. Harry—Mr. Comfort, that is—doesn't work with us anymore. But you have me now.” He conjured a smile, leaned forward, and handed Jamal a scrap of paper with an address scrawled in black ink. “There's a safe house in Malasaña. We'll meet there at midnight tomorrow.”

  Jamal took the paper. “And after I tell them about Bagheri I can go?”

  “Of course.” The American shrugged, pressed his hands against his knees, and unfolded his long body from the chair. “You can go right now if you'd like,” he said, not understanding.

  “No.” Jamal followed the man's face as he rose. “I can go to America?”

  The man paused to recover himself. Clearly he had not expected this, and his mouth was suddenly grim in the room's fading light. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, of course. We'll talk about that later.”

  Jamal nodded, sensing that this was the right thing to do, though he knew the American was lying. He had seen this same look many times before. Not pity but guilt. Shame at what had been done, at what was about to be done.

  “Trust me,” the man said. Pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his pants, he slipped a hundred-euro note—much more than the usual payment—from the billfold and handed it to Jamal, then turned for the door.

  Jamal could hear the American's footsteps as he made his way down the stairs, the scrape of his leather soles on the gritty concrete. Then, far below, in the building's foyer, the front door slammed closed.

  Give me five minutes, Mr. Harry used to say after he and Jamal had played their usual game of gin rummy. He'd had an easy way of talking, as if it was all just a game, a joke between the two of them. Make them think we've been up to something in here.

  But Jamal was in no hurry to leave. After the American left, he sat alone in the apartment and watched the woman cook. It was not something he had ever permitted himself before, and though she was neither young nor beautiful, watching her felt somehow unclean. Pornographic. Jamal could not make himself stop.

  Emboldened by the darkness, he inched his chair closer to the window. In the kitchen's halogen glare the woman's abaya was bright as a pomegranate, the fabric shifting as she moved from one task to another, stirring and chopping and setting out the dinner dishes. She was so close, the space that separated them so narrow, that for a moment Jamal forgot himself and was there with her. Then someone passed in the street below, a singer unaccompanied except by one too many glasses of sherry.

  He could always go back, Jamal told himself, contemplating his slim options. To Tangier or Casa. Ain Chock, even. He did not think the Americans would come to Morocco. If they did, it would not be easy for them to find him. Though even as he thought this he knew that going back was not something he could bring himself to do. Not yet.

  And the truth? Never tell them the truth, Harry had cautioned him once. They'll just use it against you. Suddenly Jamal missed the man with a desperation he rarely allowed himself. If Mr. Harry were here, Jamal thought, he would know what to do. They would sort this out together. Though, of course, if Harry were here things would never have come this far.

  Below in the darkness the singer passed, the twelve-count rhythm of the Verdiales fading into the quarter's crooked street, the words slurred beyond recognition. For a moment everything was quiet, then the baby started up again.

  No, Jamal told himself, fighting back tears as he fingered the hundred-euro note in his hand. He had started it and he would have to see it through. If he played things right, he might even come out on top. Now that he understood just how much Bagheri meant to the Americans, he would be asking for more than the usual handouts.

  It was barely eight by the bar clock at the Kings Cross Coopers. Just enough time, David Kurtz thought as he watched Colin Mitchell shoulder his bag with his good right arm and make his way to the bar, for a quick pint before the next train north.

  The Coopers was not a place to linger, yet there was something to be said for the unapologetic grubbiness of the establishment. A good station pub wasn't meant to be pleasant. Squalor was part of the allure, a distraction from the open shame of the patrons, men on their way to places they didn't want to go, medicating themselves for the trip.

  From his seat at the back of the room, Kurtz watched Colin squeeze into one of the few free spaces at the counter and bark his order over the din. It had been two years since their last meeting, since that night at the Bagram Special Forces camp. Hardly long enough, Kurtz thought, for time to have taken such an obvious toll on the other man. Yet it had.

  The barman set down a full pint and Colin hunched over the glass, looking up at the television, trying, Kurtz knew, to avoid his own reflection in the bar's mirror, the sight of his stiff left arm hanging awkwardly at his side. Hand and wrist and elbow that, after two years, obviously didn't feel like his own.

  But there was more to Colin's transformation than just the loss of his arm. His entire body seemed diminished by the injury, as if the absence were not merely a physical one. Watching his graceless gestures and slumped back gave Kurtz a sense of overwhelming satisfaction, as if some kind of justice had been achieved.

  Colin ducked his head and turned away from the television, letting his eyes wander across the room. It was a motion Kurtz was familiar with, cautious and searching, the look on his face that of a man who felt he was being watched. And Kurtz, wanting his presence known, allowed himself to be found.

  Colin's gaze slid toward Kurtz and stopped, his expression shifting suddenly from confusion to contempt. It was the same way he and the other soldiers had looked at Kurtz so many times before, their disdain indelible. And this time Kurtz, thinking of what was to come, couldn't stop himself from smiling.

  “Mitchell?” He raised his hand and waved, forcing sur-prise—an old acquaintance caught off guard by an unlikely meeting—then stood and jostled his way through the crowd toward the bar. “I thought that was you!”

  He was not good at false sincerity, never had been. “Buy you a drink?” he proposed, wedging himself next to Colin, patting him on the back for the benefit of whoever was watching before signaling the bartender for a fresh round. “For old times' sake.”

  “Save your money,” Colin told him icily, looking up at the television again. There was a rugby match on, Hull at St. Helens, the teams locked together in comic futility, like a group of drunks staggering home from the bar on a gusty evening. “I've got a train to catch.”

  “Just five minutes,” Kurtz said, knowing full well that the Edinburgh train wasn't leaving for another half hour.

  The barman set two fresh pints on the counter and Kurtz paid him. “I never could understand rugby,” he observed, motioning to the game with his right hand, fingering the vial in his breast pocket with his left. Minutes, he reminded himself. Once he takes that first sip it will be a matter of minutes till it's over. “Same with cricket. Here, for instance. Was that a goal or a try? I can never remember which is which.”

  Colin's skin was sallow in the nicotine-dulled glare of the pub's lights, his face that of a junkie in need of a fix. Yes, Kurtz thought as he moved his hand across Colin's glass, letting the contents of the vial drop as he did so. Here was a man whose death would be a surprise to no one.

  Kurtz slid the empty vial back into his pocket, then lifted his own glass and admired the contents. “You still in touch with Kat?” he asked. “She was somewhere in Virginia, last I heard.” Like picking an old scab.

  Colin shrugged, took a long, slow sip of his bitter, then turned to face Kurtz. “You here to make sure I haven't gotten cold feet?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, you shouldn't have bothered
. I'm not planning any sudden changes of heart, and neither is Stuart. So unless your Mr. Bagheri decides to make an unscheduled appearance at the court-martial, you've got nothing to worry about.”

  Kurtz laughed. Just a bit too easily, he knew, but it didn't matter now.

  Neither of them spoke then, and for a moment it was almost as if they were, in fact, what they appeared to be: two old acquaintances passing in transit, two men making a truce. All of it behind them now, al-Amir and the Iranian. Kat, even.

  Colin finished his beer and glanced at his watch. “Time's up,” he said, hefting his bag with his good right hand. He moved to push himself back from the bar, but his prosthetic hand slipped on the wet counter and he pitched awkwardly forward.

  “You okay?” Kurtz asked jeeringly.

  Colin struggled to stand. His face was damp, his mouth open wide, his breathing ragged.

  Kurtz slipped Colin's arm across his shoulder and helped him up, steering him away from the bar and toward the bathroom. A woman lunged at them from the crowd, her mouth a sharp red slash, her fat face smeared and stained. A drunk recognizing her kin. She fell against Colin, pawing him sloppily. Disgusted, Kurtz shoved her away and kicked the bathroom door open with his boot.

  Colin stumbled out of his grasp and into one of the doorless stalls, dropping to his knees before the toilet, retching up beer and bile.

  Kurtz locked the door behind them. “That last pint must not have agreed with you,” he sneered. Pulling a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket pocket, shoving his hands into them, he reached for Colin's bag and unzipped it, shuffled through the meager contents. Dirty underwear and T-shirts. A few toiletries for the overnight to Portsmouth.