Abdul-Qahhar stared fearfully back at him. 'Guantánamo?' he whispered. 'I'm not a terrorist.'
His interrogators didn't even blink. 'We'll be back when you're ready to speak,' the American said, and the two of them walked briskly out.
'I'm not a terrorist!' Abdul-Qahhar shouted after them.
'You just think that because of the colour of my skin. I'm not a terrorist!'
Yet again, his voice echoed around the empty concrete room. Abdul-Qahhar saw his breath billowing in the icy air, and he allowed his head to fall on to his chest, his body trembling even more violently than before.
He was awoken from his cold-induced stupor by water, a bucket of the stuff being thrown over him. His body temperature was so low that he couldn't tell how hot it really was, but to him it felt boiling. He screamed. Then he felt cold again.
The two men were back. They were standing in front of him.
'Please,' he shivered. 'Don't hurt me. Please.'
'You have information that we need,' the American insisted.
'I do not know what you are talking about. I promise you, I do not know. If I knew, I would tell you.'
'Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'
Abdul-Qahhar blinked. Now more than ever he needed to sound convincing.
'I have never heard that name in my entire life. I swear to you.' His wet clothes stuck to his skin.
The two men glanced at each other and something seemed to pass between them. Then the American looked over at the tinted dark window and nodded. 'Bring them in,' he called.
Moments later, the door opened again. Two more men walked in, both wearing blue overcoats. One of them was pushing a steel trolley, the other had a shiny metal drip stand. They stopped just by Abdul-Qahhar's chair, then both of them pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and wrapped cloth masks around their faces.
One of the masked men spoke. 'You sure you don't want to take him to the waterboarding room?'
'No need,' the American replied. 'We'll have this guy talking in no time.'
Abdul-Qahhar started to shake more violently as he watched one of them hand a plastic bag full of colourless liquid to the drip stand. It was the second man, however, who spoke to him.
'I'm going to insert a needle for the drip,' he said, his voice muffled slightly by the mask. 'It will hurt less if you do not struggle.'
Abdul-Qahhar felt his eyes bulging as the medic approached with a small needle. He started banging his restrained arms up and down against the chair, but it made no difference to the medic. He placed one gloved hand on the prisoner's arm and slowly slid the needle into one of the plump veins halfway up. Abdul-Qahhar gasped. The medic attached a long plastic tube to the pouch of liquid suspended from the drip stand, then turned and undid a small screw-top cap at the end of the needle hanging limply from Abdul-Qahhar's arm. A jet of blood spurted momentarily on to the concrete floor, but the medic soon had the drip tube attached. He turned to the interrogators. 'It's ready,' he said.
The American nodded, then looked blankly at Abdul- Qahhar. 'SP-17,' he said cryptically. 'Developed by the KGB.
The most effective truth serum we have at our disposal. Of course, if you still refuse to talk, then we have other means of extracting the information we want.'
He paused, as though waiting for that to sink in, then bent over and placed his face only inches away from his captive. 'It's up to you what method you choose, but let me tell you: by the time we've finished with you, you're gonna be singing like a fucking canary.'
Abdul-Qahhar closed his eyes.
It is a mistake.
I have done nothing wrong.
I have to believe that.
'Please,' he whispered. 'I have nothing to hide. If you would only tell me what this is all about, maybe I could be of some assistance to you—'
But the American had already stepped away and nodded at the medic, who turned a valve on the drip tube. Abdul-Qahhar felt something cold rush into the vein in his arm.
There was silence in the room. Abdul-Qahhar, feeling his teeth chattering again, clenched them together to stop it happening. After a minute or so, however, he released them. It suddenly seemed as though the room was not so cold. There was warmth, or maybe it was just him. The light didn't seem so harsh; it was softer, warmer. He glanced at the needle in his arm, then smiled as he understood what was happening. It was the drugs. The drugs were making him feel better. Maybe, he thought to himself, this was what Westerners felt like when they drank alcohol.
'I'm going to ask you again,' the interrogator's voice said. 'Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'
'It means nothing,' he replied, drowsily.
The American turned to the medic. 'Increase the dose,' he instructed. The medic turned the valve once more and again they waited. The warmth increased, and the wooziness.
He heard the American's voice. 'You have information about a terrorist strike.'
Abdul-Qahhar shook his head.
A pause. Lights seemed to dance around the room.
'You have information about a terrorist strike,' the American repeated, relentlessly.
Again he shook his head. He felt comfortable for the first time in hours.
A minute passed.
'You have information about a terrorist strike. You can tell me about it now or you can tell me about it later. One way or another, though, you will tell me about it.'
And all of a sudden, Abdul-Qahhar smiled. There seemed to be no reason to hide it any more. No reason to pretend — to himself or anyone else — that he did not know what they were talking about. They were not going to hurt him.
'I'm going to ask you one more time. Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'
Of course it meant something to him. Faisal Ahmed — the men at the mosque had barely spoken of anyone else.
Faisal Ahmed, the warrior, they had called him.
Slowly, Abdul-Qahhar nodded his head.
The two men looked at each other and the American stepped back. Abdul-Qahhar noticed how the light seemed to reflect off his bald head. It transfixed him and he was only woken from his brief reverie when the Englishman spoke.
'Good,' he said. 'Well done, Abdul-Qahhar. You're doing the right thing. Now listen to me carefully. We know he's planning something big. All you have to do is tell me when and where. As soon as we have that information, you can go home.'
Abdul-Qahhar felt his head nodding. 'I would like to go home,' he said drowsily.
'Then tell me,' the Englishman insisted. 'When and where?'
He had a pleasant face, this man. When he smiled, there were creases on his cheek. Perhaps, once he had told them all he knew, they would let Abdul-Qahhar sleep.
And so he spoke in a clear voice, or as clear a voice as he could manage, like an eager child wanting to impress a teacher.
'Three weeks,' he announced. 'Three weeks. London.'
ONE
They were in the toy department. A long line of children snaked around the whole floor, waiting patiently. His daughter Anna looked longingly at the sign. 'Visit Father Christmas in his grotto,' it read in bright, festive colours. 'A present for every child.'
'Can I go and see Father Christmas, Daddy?' Anna asked. 'Please?' She tugged on his hand and looked up at him with those wide, appealing eyes. In other children, an expression like that could be put on, but not with Anna. She was six years old and wore her emotions plainly on her face. She was desperate to see Father Christmas and she so rarely asked for things. She was not brash or confident. It meant she was picked on at school sometimes, but she seemed to deal with it in her kind, sad little way.