SLICK!

More in resignation than anger, Brigadier General Qasim bin Jabaar fondled the electrode intended for intimate contact with the blindfolded shopkeeper. His guest—bin Jabaar preferred the term to prisoner—hung from thick metal chains attached to an iron hook embedded in the ceiling of the windowless, concrete-walled interrogation cell. The cell occupied a corner of the basement directly below the cafeteria in the Sultanate of Moq’tar’s Ministry of Security. Bobby Gatling, the American security contractor hired to advise the Ministry, stepped out of the shadows ringing the cell. Bobby had no authority to prevent bin Jabaar from acting as he wished. He could, however, offer counsel based on hard-won experience ferreting truth from suspected terrorists during a thirty-year Army career. Bin Jabaar held a hand up like a school crossing guard. “Yes,” he said. “I know what you are going to say.” Bobby paused then stepped back. Bin Jabaar turned to his prisoner. Colonel Gatling was not the only one put out by the shopkeeper’s reticence. He had hoped that nothing more than the impressive presence of the Minister of Security would induce the shopkeeper to cooperate. Bin Jabaar was an imposing man, if not as tall as his American advisor who neared two meters at six-feet-five-inches. He took pride as well in an erect, athletic posture that cut quite the trim figure even in middle age. Bin Jabaar’s silver hair, matching mustache and toasted-almond complexion prompted frequent comparisons with the Egyptian film star turned European sophisticate Omar Sharif. His wardrobe affirmed such observations. Even in this dank, chilly cell he wore a well-cut dark blue suit complemented by a custom white shirt and elegant navy-and-crimson silk tie. His ensemble identified a man who gave considerable thought to everything he did. Indeed, he’d chosen his wardrobe to reinforce a well-earned reputation among fellow revelers during what remained of the festive New Year’s Eve he still hoped to celebrate. The shopkeeper whimpered then mumbled the name of one of his children. Of what use was that? Bin Jabaar already knew the names of the man’s children, the schools they attended and even their favorite sweets. What he required was useful information. Actionable information. Information that would reinforce his value and that of the Ministry. Bin Jabaar’s disappointment produced a frown. He would have taken umbrage had anyone—the shopkeeper included—suggested he had scowled. He was at heart a warm and gentle soul, a loving husband and a doting father. Family, friends and associates knew him as a man who revered tradition yet easily adapted to the new global order while rejecting its excesses. That his fierce love of country periodically compelled techniques of interrogation some might construe as distasteful or, in naïve circles, cruel he found regrettable. Even Colonel Gatling, who took a skeptical view of his approach, acknowledged using or approving such measures at one time or another. But the Persian Gulf presented no end of challenges to a sultanate as small as Moq’tar. What was a patriot to do? Subordinating his natural sensitivity, he passed the electrode to his assistant. Stretched out like a lamb prepared for dhabihah—ritually prescribed slaughter—the shopkeeper elicited what might have been taken for a bleat as he struggled in vain to plant his feet on the concrete floor. Bin Jabaar came nearer. “Do you know what the Americans say, Ali?” He modulated his rich, resonant voice as if chatting with a member of the venerable London men’s club in which he once had been a guest. “You will not consider it too forward if I continue to address you by your first name, will you?” “Please,” the short, heavyset shopkeeper pleaded in a raspy whisper. The owner of an electronics store in downtown Moq’tar City, he had never before been arrested or, to his knowledge, watched by the Ministry of Security let alone been subjected to questions that left purple welts across his back and thighs. More to the point, he’d done nothing that such treatment should be inflicted on him. Of that he was almost sure. Bin Jabaar’s assistant, unenthused by his summons to duty given that January first had arrived only five minutes earlier, wolfed down the last of a particularly satisfying goat-cheese-and-date pizza delivered by Hungry Herdsman Pizza #4. Facing little prospect of a New Year’s Eve celebration, he found solace in the fact that no one chided him for being a vegetarian. Yielding to his professional responsibilities, he tightened the chains. The shopkeeper uttered a sound midway between la—no—and a helpless grunt. Bobby cleared his throat. He felt like a ghost standing in the corner of a cell lit by a single compact fluorescent bulb in response to the new green initiative to which all government agencies had been committed. Bin Jabaar smiled, although the shopkeeper could not see him. “An important American,” he informed his guest, “once said that extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.” He turned to Bobby. “Is that not so, habibi?” he asked, using the Arabic term for “my friend.” “Na’am,” Bobby answered in Arabic. Yes. “A candidate for president. Many years ago. He lost.” “Of course,” mused bin Jabaar aloud, “what Americans mean by liberty may be quite different from how we define the term here in Moq’tar or elsewhere in the Gulf.” He turned back to the shopkeeper. “Philosophical discussions aside, my dear Ali, we can all agree, I believe, that the defense of the nation must be the primary concern of every loyal citizen.” Sweat tumbled from the shopkeeper’s forehead like a mountain spring after a hard winter rain. His blindfold sagged under the weight of the moisture it had absorbed. “Please. I know nothing.” “Ah, nothing about what?” bin Jabaar inquired. It struck him that Ali might finally have given himself away concerning several recent and seemingly amateurish bombings in Moq’tar City. While doing minimal damage, they suggested a lack of security in the sultanate. This would not do. The matter cried out for resolution. In a region suddenly given to protest and revolution, the potential for disaster lie just below Moq’tar’s surface like an improvised explosive device covered by a thin layer of sand. Bobby again stepped forward. Again bin Jabaar held up his hand. The squeamishness of Americans puzzled him. Expressions of horror at nothing more than routine procedures at Abu Ghraib and Guantánamo revealed a weakness unbecoming a superpower—if America still was a superpower. Not that he doubted the credibility of this particular American. Although imposed on the Ministry by Sheikh Yusuf, the Sultan’s favorite son, the Colonel presented credentials unmatched by anyone in Moq’tar. While warfare highlighted most of Moq’tar’s history, the sultanate’s relatively new army had yet to fire a shot in anger. The newly reorganized Ministry struggled to gain Sheikh Yusuf’s full confidence. A sound emerged from the shopkeeper’s throat suggesting gargling to prevent the flu. Bin Jabaar folded himself at the waist as if bowing before the throne and lowered his ear to the man’s mouth. “What, Ali? Tell me. Insh’allah—God willing—this will all end very soon.” “I… I…” Bin Jabaar nodded to himself. His guest was weak. Like most Moq’taris now, he was a man of the city rather than of the mountains or desert. Yet although Ali might appear at some remove from the still-anonymous terrorists who plagued the sultanate, he offered some hope of a connection, no matter how tenuous. Most important, the shopkeeper enabled the Ministry of Security to add to its ample statistics relating to the arrest and interrogation of cowardly plotters. Metrics, Sheikh Yusuf insisted, were the hallmark of a modern society.