The Prince of Bagram Prison Read online

  “Open up!” There was a flurry of impatient voices from the other side of the door, a barrage of fists.

  Kurtz paused briefly. “Fuck off!” he barked over his shoulder, then he pulled Colin's half-finished bottle of morphine sulfate from the bag.

  “You know,” he remarked, nodding toward Colin's bad left arm, “this was supposed to have happened at al-Amir.” He dumped the remaining pills into the toilet, then set his boot on the steel lever and flushed. “Don't worry,” he added. “It'll be over before you know it.”

  It was just past midnight when Jamal started across Puerta del Sol. Late already, he thought, glancing up at the clock tower on the Old Post House, not bothering to pick up his pace. The Americans would wait for him, he reminded himself. They would have to.

  It was a warm night, early fall in all its perfection, and the outdoor cafés that ringed the plaza were filled to overflowing. The crowd was mixed, Madrileños and tourists both, all young and attractive. Bare shoulders and legs, skin burnished and dark from the August holidays.

  In the center of the plaza a fountain washed elegantly onto itself, the water lit from beneath, lucid as blown glass. This other Madrid, far from the dank streets of Lavapiés and Jamal's room above the halal butcher shop, the sounds and smells of slaughter. This city Jamal so seldom saw, in which he would always be an outsider.

  Picking his way through the crowd, Jamal crossed the plaza and headed north toward the Gran Via. He had been to Malasaña, the city's unofficial red-light district, before, on more desperate occasions than he liked to admit, always looking to make some quick cash. This wasn't his purpose tonight, but he could feel the fist of apprehension in his stomach all the same, fear of what he knew was to come.

  Fifteen Calle del Desengaño. Jamal repeated the address to himself as he walked, trying to focus on the task ahead, on what, exactly, he would tell the Americans. He had not gone back to his room the night before, but had stayed at the apartment on the Calle Tres Peces, working his story over and over in his mind until he'd almost believed it himself. Then, sometime just before dawn, he'd finally fallen asleep.

  Jamal could feel the angry stares of the whores as soon as he turned off the Gran Via and onto the Calle del Desengaño. These women had all been in the business long enough to know a threat when they saw one, and though Jamal wasn't trolling for tricks tonight, there was no way of convincing the whores that this was the case.

  As Jamal passed, one of the women, a stocky brunette in a red bodysuit and scuffed gold boots, leaned out of her doorway like a grotesque cuckoo announcing the hour. “Look at that pretty ass, girls!” she called. She was short and thick-waisted, her midriff bulging against the bodysuit, her bare right thigh marked by a fist-size purple bruise.

  Jamal forced his head down and kept walking, one foot in front of the other, the address the American had given him humming like a mantra in his head. Fifteen. Fifteen. There was something repulsive about the way the women showed themselves, Jamal thought, something frightening about their lack of shame, all their bodies' faults on display.

  Someone hissed from the doorway behind him and Jamal looked back to see a man leering out, dark eyes and ragged chin, bare arms dotted with scabs and sores.

  Nineteen, Jamal counted, scanning the numbers on the opposite side of the street, stumbling away from the apparition, the entire force of his will working to keep himself from running. Seventeen. He stopped briefly in front of the next door and glanced up at the building's grimy façade, searching for a number and finding none.

  A plaque on the plaster wall read Hotel de la Luna, and beneath the name, a single filthy star. It had obviously been some time since the establishment had seen its last paying customer, even longer since it had earned the star. The foyer was dark, the glass in the front door webbed with cracks.

  Jamal's eyes ranged forward along the street. Thirteen. Nine. Yes, he told himself, this would have to be the place. He climbed the three front steps and tried the door, half expecting it to be locked. But it swung open easily, and in an instant he was inside, blinking to make out the lobby's sooty contours, fighting the combined stench of cat piss and death.

  Just tell them what you know and everything will be fine, Jamal heard the American say. And how, the boy wondered, could he possibly explain that it wasn't what he knew but what he didn't know that was the problem?

  Home, Jamal thought, surveying the hotel's dark lobby. Home, and not a pleasant one. How many nights had he slept in places like this, grateful for the shelter? In how many cities, terrified of who might discover him? There was a small reception desk in the far left corner of the room, and on the wall behind it a tartan of pigeonholes dotted with unclaimed pieces of mail. To the right of the desk, a narrow staircase wound upward toward the second floor, from whose depths a scrap of light was visible.

  Stepping carefully to avoid the discarded syringes that littered the floor, Jamal crossed to the stairs and started upward. His stomach was suddenly light against his ribs, his nerves taut. But now that he had arrived, now that the meeting with the Americans was imminent, he only wanted to get it over with.

  He reached the second floor and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the relative brightness. There was no hallway to speak of, just a small landing and the staircase to his immediate right, curving upward to the dark third floor. A handful of rooms opened off the landing, and it was from the farthest of these that the light emanated.

  “Hello!” Jamal called, leaning forward and peering through the doorway closest to him, catching a shadowy glimpse of the worn furnishings. Collapsing armchair and dusty wardrobe, bedclothes stained and frayed by years of illicit occupants—some animal, some human. Some both or neither, Jamal thought, the line in this place blurred to the point where it was impossible to tell one from the other.

  The only answer came from overhead, paws scrabbling across the floorboards.

  “Hello?” he called again, and this time there was human movement, a body shifting in the doorway of the lit room. A man stepped forward onto the landing, an unassuming figure in a long dark coat. He was older than Mr. Justin by quite a bit, his face haggard and hollow in the eerie light.

  “Where's Mr. Justin?” Jamal asked, gripping the stair's iron railing.

  The man smiled, but it was a jack-o'-lantern's crooked leer. “Looks like he's running late. I imagine he'll be here soon.”

  “Yes,” Jamal agreed, though he knew this to be impossible, knew without a doubt that Justin had never been late for anything in his life.

  The kind who blamed you, he thought, sizing the stranger and his appetites up instinctively, as years of self-preservation had taught him to do; the kind who hated you for what they had just done.

  Down below, the hotel's front door creaked open, and Jamal saw the man's eyes shift past him.

  “Must be him now,” the stranger remarked, forcing a smile, and Jamal smiled back.

  This, he told himself, was the kind of man for whom contempt and desire were inextricably linked.

  A foot touched the first stair below and Jamal took a deep breath, propelling himself upward. The stranger lunged, grabbing Jamal's pant leg. When Jamal turned to look behind him, he caught a glimpse of the room at the back of the hallway, and of Mr. Justin sprawled, open-eyed and doll-like, across the bed. Jerking his leg with all the strength he could muster, Jamal pulled free and scrambled up the staircase.

  The roof, he told himself, taking the steps two and three at a time, the blueprint for every squat or drug den he'd ever been in laying itself out in his mind. There was always at least one back way out, more in a place like this.

  Jamal reached the fourth and uppermost floor and paused. He could hear the man below him, and a second voice. A hushed exchange and then quiet, the sound of someone climbing cautiously up.

  “Jamal!” called a voice, the second man. “It's okay, Jamal. We just want to talk to you.” Arabic now, with a thick accent.

  Jamal blinked, his eyes battling the da
rkness as he scanned the landing, looking for an exit. Though scant, the light from the second floor provided just enough illumination for him to make out the contours of the space. The walls were shorter here than on the lower floors, the ceiling slanting sharply toward a handful of garret rooms. In coming this way, Jamal had hoped for a door or a hatch that might lead to the roof, but he could see none.

  “Jamal? We're friends, Jamal. Just like Mr. Justin.” It was the second man again, his accent the same as the first man's.

  Bagram, Jamal thought. That was where he'd heard the accent before. It was the same awkward Gulf Arabic the American soldiers at the prison had used.

  A loose board groaned somewhere below, and Jamal ducked into the room to his immediate right and eased the door closed behind him. The whole building reeked of feral cats, but here in the cramped space the stench was overwhelming. Jamal pinched his nose and took a shallow breath through his mouth.

  Moving quickly to the window, he pushed it open and peered out, reading the topography of the surrounding buildings, assessing his dwindling options. The rooftop opposite was his best bet, but it was a full story lower than the window where he now stood, with a meter gap between the two buildings. He was a good jumper, light enough to fly and strong enough to handle the punishment of the drop, but this was a stretch even for him.

  There was a noise on the landing, one footstep and then another. Jamal climbed up onto the windowsill and squeezed his body through the squat opening. His hands were shaking, his legs unsteady beneath him, his entire body shot through with adrenaline.

  Gripping the outside frame of the window, Jamal forced his legs up and leaned forward slightly, imagining the spring in his feet, the distance to be covered. A meter and a half for measure, the boy told himself, and then he jumped.

  The sun was just up, the Blue Ridge blushing hazy pink, the morning hot already, the air saturated, heavy in Kat's lungs as she rounded the last curve through the pines and started down the hill toward campus. On the road below, a pack of cadets were working their way up through the trees. Two weeks, Kat thought, fourteen days of predawn runs and abuse. This was when the ones who weren't going to make it started to break.

  There were some three dozen cadets in the pack, each nearly indistinguishable from the others, even the few women, their hair cropped nearly as short as their male classmates'. As it was meant to be, Kat reminded herself, moving to the shoulder of the road to let them pass. She'd joined the reserves and been through boot camp at the same age as the cadets, had been to war, even, and she understood the necessity of these first few months. But these kids seemed different to Kat, more naïve and at the same time more cynical than she and her fellow recruits had been, and she found herself wanting to protect them.

  The bulk of the pack passed Kat, then the last few runners appeared, their breathing labored as they struggled up the hill. Kat knew from experience that it was from this group that some of the most determined cadets came, the ones with something to prove.

  “You gotta want it!” One of the upperclassmen had circled back and was hounding the stragglers, his abuse focusing on a lone female cadet at the very tail end of the group.

  Kat recognized the girl, a soft-spoken and obviously capable young woman, from her first-year Arabic class. She was close to tears, her gray T-shirt and red shorts wet through with sweat, her face nearly purple from the effort of trying to keep pace with the others.

  Kat met the girl's eyes and smiled encouragingly. There were few enough female cadets at the school, and Kat took their successes and failures personally. But the girl didn't return Kat's smile. The look on her face when she glanced back was a mixture of anger and fear, as if Kat's sympathy were a threat to her very survival.

  Kat turned her head away and picked up her pace, stretching her legs out for the last half mile of her run, down into the ravine that marked the back edge of campus and up the last torturous hill, then across the parade grounds. She was breathing hard when she reached her front door, her clothes soaked through. When she stepped into the air-conditioned chill of the foyer, goose bumps rippled across her wet body.

  There was a message on her answering machine, the red light blinking insistently, as Kat was certain it had not been when she left for her run. Colin, she thought, unable to imagine anyone else it could be at such an early hour. Calling to offer the day's first consolation, though this hardly seemed like something he would do, especially now, with the way things had been between them. Whatever it was, Kat told herself, feeling guiltily relieved that she hadn't been home when he called, it would wait until she showered.

  Making her way into the bathroom, she turned on the taps, stripped herself of her sodden clothes, and stepped into the tub. Three years to the day, she thought, to the minute almost, and she could see her brother doing the same thing in his apartment in Astoria. An early run and then a quick shower before taking the train to work.

  Afterward, when she had gone alone to collect his things, his running clothes had been there on the back of the bathroom door. Shorts and jock strap, salt-stained shirt that still reeked of him.

  She rinsed herself and toweled off, then slipped into her robe and padded into the kitchen, punching the answering ma-chine's playback button on the way. There was a short beep, then a male voice, a familiar Scottish brogue:

  Katy?

  Katy, it's Stuart.

  Kat stiffened. Not Colin, then, but his best friend. Stuart had been staying at Colin's off and on since their team came back from Afghanistan. He and Kat knew each other tangentially, in the awkward way that people in their situation usually did. Both envying the other more than they should, jealous of what one offered that the other couldn't. Though, Kat couldn't help thinking, there was no longer much reason for Stuart to be jealous, hadn't been for some time. Since those first frenzied weeks at Bagram, her and Colin's relationship had been entirely chaste.

  Sorry to call so early, he apologized. I was hoping I might catch you before you got off to work. Can you phone me as soon as you get in? I'm at Colin's.

  Something was wrong, Kat told herself, ducking back into the living room and replaying the message, trying to gauge the timbre of Stuart's voice. Something had happened to Colin. Aside from the obligatory cordial exchanges that were an inevitable consequence of their respective relationships with Colin, Kat and Stuart did not speak, and they certainly did not call each other in the wee hours for a friendly chat.

  Ticking off all the worst possibilities, Kat punched Colin's number with fumbling hands, counting five hours ahead to British time. Past noon in Scotland. And on this side of the world she was five minutes away from being late for the day's first obligation.

  “Pick up,” Kat whispered impatiently.

  On the other side of the Atlantic, the phone rang and rang, but there was no answer.

  THINGS ARE GOING TO GET UGLY, Harry had said. It was March 13, their first, confused meeting after the bombing at the Atocha station, and things were already ugly. By now everyone knew it was a group of Moroccans, not ETA, who had carried out the attacks, and the cafés and mosques of Lavapiés were teeming with civil guardsmen. But this wasn't what Harry had meant.

  They'll be sending me home now for sure, Jamal. Do you understand what that means? No more gin rummy. No more pink abaya. Harry had motioned out the window toward the apartment across the street, and Jamal had felt himself blush.

  Jamal could always tell when Harry had been drinking, and he was drunker than usual that afternoon. Jamal had consoled himself with this fact, and with the hope that Harry's dark prediction was nothing more than his usual drama. But two weeks later Justin was there at the apartment on the Calle Tres Peces and Harry was suddenly gone.

  Jamal's ankle was throbbing when he finally made his way across the Calle de la Magdalena and into the thicket of tenements that was Lavapiés. He'd landed badly on the rooftop, wrenching his foot beneath him, and the pain was more agonizing with each step he took. A bad sprain at least, maybe wo
rse, but there was no time to tend to it now.

  He turned off the Calle del Avenida Maria and stopped short, scanning the block ahead of him. The butcher shop was dark, the metal security gate pulled across the windows and locked for the night. A figure moved in the doorway that led up to Jamal's room, and for an instant the boy felt his heart seize up. Then the person stepped onto the sidewalk and Jamal realized with relief that the man was his neighbor, one of the dozen or so Somalis who occupied the cramped room across the landing from his.

  Jamal watched the Somali turn and amble restlessly down the street, then made his way cautiously to the doorway, glancing over his shoulder as he went. That he'd lost the two men at the hotel was little comfort to the boy. The Americans knew about his room above the butcher shop. If someone wasn't there already, they soon would be. Jamal would have to work quickly.

  He let himself into the dark foyer and balanced for a moment on his good foot, letting his ankle rest, listening for any anomaly or counterfeit in the familiar sounds of the building. Jamal had spent most of his life in places like this—prisons and orphanages and refugee camps—and he was intimate with the habits of men living in collective solitude. Above him in the darkness there was a sudden, sharp cry of pleasure—the dream of a wife, or the sleep-shod gropings of one body imposing itself on another. Part of a long litany of humiliations, shames they all shared and yet never spoke of. From behind the door of the Somalis' room came the low hum of African music. The same tinny tape Jamal had heard a hundred times now.

  Confident, for the moment at least, that he was alone, Jamal limped upward. The cheap padlock he'd installed on the door to his room was undisturbed, but still, Jamal's hands shook as he slid his key from around his neck and let himself inside.

  He let the door fall closed behind him, then made his way forward, navigating the simple furnishings: bed and table and chair, single electric burner on which he'd cooked two years of meals. All of it shoddy and worn, and yet he'd been happy to have it, had cried that first night, realizing that it was his. After so long without privacy, it had taken him some time to get used to the luxury, and now he desperately didn't want to give any of it up. But it was no longer safe for him here, would not be so again.