“What kind of photography did you do in Afghanistan a few years ago?” Jim’s voice had an edge to it. “I don’t expect there are a lot of actors looking for head-shots in Kandahar or Kabul.”
“Um, no sir. I was there to do photos for a friend’s book.”
Jim paced in front of him and then halted and quirked an eyebrow at Mark. “And did that pay the bills?” Sarcasm dripped from the words.
Sensing that Jim was zeroing in on key questions, Mark considered his reply carefully. “No, sir. Mo offered a partnership of sorts. He paid for the trip, but I would get a percentage from the sale of the book.”
“How much did that turn out to be?”
“Nothing, sir. He is still shopping the book around, the last I heard.”
“So you’re telling me that you went there out of the goodness of your heart to help out a friend?”
“I thought it could be a good opportunity. It was a chance I took.”
Jim shook his head, as though Mark had been cheated. “So, Mo was your friend for how long?”
Mark counted back to the time he’d met Mo at a red carpet event they were both covering. “About five years. He helped me out with some photo shoots when I needed another photographer. Sometimes, he even waited for payment until I was actually paid for the shoot. Photography is a small world and we try to help each other out when we can.”
Jim chuckled. “Oh, really?”
Mark remained silent, not sure if Jim asked a question or was just commenting. The look on the other man’s face frightened him. He had seen a cat play with a mouse before, swiping at it with his paw, letting it crawl away, only to pounce in for the kill when the mouse was only a few inches from the safety of it’s hole. Jim looked like that cat.
Flipping to another page in the file, Jim smiled. “You might consider Mohommad a friend, but he sure doesn’t feel the same about you. Do you know what he told us?”
Mark shook his head. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t spoken to Mohammad for six months. Every time he called him, he got voice mail.
“He said that you were at an al-Qaeda training camp. That you and he trained there and agreed to take pictures of targets in the U.S. Your area was Chicago.”
Confused, he had no idea how to reply. Had Mo really said that? Why would he lie? “That’s not true, sir. I don’t know why he would say those things. I only took pictures of the subjects for Mo’s book. I never saw any training camps. And I definitely never agreed to take pictures of targets in any city, let alone Chicago.”
Jim shrugged, his head tilting. “Hey, he’s your friend.”
He let that statement hang in the air, and the men sitting at the table bent their heads, the scratch of their pens the only sound in the room. Fear coursed through him-a desperate fear that they would judge Mark guilty by association.
Jim turned to Bill. “I’ve finished with my questions for the moment.”
Bill stood and stretched. “So, let me make sure I have this correct?” He put his hands behind his back and, head down, approached Mark. “You went to Afghanistan with a confirmed member of al-Qaeda, but you deny any involvement?”
Desperation rose up and spilled out. “I never heard of al-Qaeda until the attacks. I swear to God. I never talked to anyone.”
Bill sighed. “I wish we could believe you. Really. I do.”
“The FBI guys in Chicago took all my negatives, all my photos-check them out. You’ll see. This is all a big mistake.” Mark looked from Bill to Jim, willing them to believe him. Sweat drenched his body and he could smell the acrid scent of his own fear.
“Oh, we will. Preliminary reports state some photographs of the Sears Tower were found amongst your files.”
Mark searched his memory. He took thousands of pictures a year. It’s likely at some point he had taken some pictures of the building. Who in Chicago hadn’t?
Before he could reply, Bill motioned to the guards. “Set him up for position three.”
Position three? What the hell was that? A guard circled in front of him and released Mark’s hands from the chain that connected to the one between his ankles. The guard attached a longer chain on the end and passed the end over Mark’s shoulder to another guard behind him. The wooden chair scraped across the floor, and Mark turned to see the guard behind him stand on the chair and pass the end of the chain through an eye bolt jutting out of the ceiling. Dread flooded him and he looked to the men seated at the table. The two writing had set their pens down and the other one sat back with his arms folded. Were they just going to sit there and watch?
Seconds later, Mark’s arms jerked as the chain tightened until his arms were pulled up and behind his head. In front of him, the first guard secured a short chain to a bolt in the floor. His shoulders began to ache almost immediately and when he tried to step back to ease the tension, the chain connected on the floor pulled tight, and he had the sensation of falling backwards. A knife-like kind of pain shot across his shoulders as they bore all of his weight for those few seconds. The position forced him to keep his feet forward while his arms pulled him back. It didn’t take long before the ache turned to an unrelenting burning.
Mark hung with only the balls of his feet touching the floor. If he pushed with his toes, it relieved the pressure in his shoulders a tiny bit, but created a new pain in his calves.
They didn’t need to do this. His breaths scraped out, harsh and loud. Sweat dripped, stinging his eyes. He tried to swipe his face on one of his shoulders, but they were pulled too far back. A groan escaped him and Jim looked up from the file, his face impassive.
Mark looked at Bill. Maybe he would show some mercy. He licked his lips, ready to plead with the man, when without warning, a hood descended, cutting off Mark’s vision. He shook his head, knowing it was futile but the pain and sense of suffocation forced him to react.
His hands went numb even as his shoulders and legs shot bolts of agony though his limbs. He tried to stay quiet-tried not to let them hear how much it hurt. He didn’t want to give the bastards the satisfaction. Despite his resolve, his head sagged forward and every gasping breath ended in a moan. He couldn’t help it. His eyes watered and he was almost glad for the hood. At least that shame was hidden.
Occasionally, sounds in the room would register as the men spoke to each other, or a chair creaked, but for the most part, he was lost in his own little world of pain.
A long time later, the chain holding his arms went slack. Mark groaned and collapsed, his legs unable to hold him. He lay on his side and his muscles quivered uncontrollably. The floor felt cool against his body. He grit his teeth at the needles of feeling that returned to his limbs. Nobody touched him, and exhausted, he lay limp. He didn’t think he could move at that moment even if they held a gun to his head. The thought that might actually be their next tactic crossed his mind. He wouldn’t put it past them, so when the footsteps approached, he tried to muster his energy to stand.
“Get the hood off him.” Mark recognized Jim’s voice. He hoped the tears had dried.
When the hood was lifted, Mark took a deep breath. In all his other misery, the suffocating heat in the hood had been the least of his worries, but now that it was gone, he sucked in the fresh air. It felt wonderful. His hair was plastered to his head, and with a groan, he swiped his forehead on his shoulder, but it did no good as every part of his body was soaked with sweat.
Jim leaned over him, his face unreadable. “Stand.”
Mark turned and pushed up from the floor. His legs wobbled, but he made it to a standing position. His chest heaved with the effort.
Jim paced in front of him, then circled Mark, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Next time we ask for answers, I hope you’ll be more forthcoming.”
Mark couldn’t reply. His throat was raw hamburger, but he shook his head. How much more could he say? What did they want him to say? If only he could figure it out. They demanded a confession and it was the one thing Mark couldn’t give them.