Without a word, the lump prostrated himself and started morning prayers using a newspaper instead of a proper prayer mat. The Sheik didn’t interrupt, but quietly prayed along, offering it up to Allah as the best he could do while being chained to the cot.
When prayers were over, he spoke to the man who looked like he’d been there a long time, “What is your name?”
“Achmed; you?”
“Aliz. Why are you here?”
“Because I am Muslim. Because I believed that in this country you are free to worship.”
“Who are these men?”
“They are not government, of that I am sure.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks, three… I have lost count.”
“Do you know what they are doing?”
“Yes. They are holding me hostage because a marine is being held hostage in Afghanistan. Why are you here?”
“They are holding me because an ambassador was taken in Egypt.”
“That’s good. Good that these American bastards cannot just go anywhere in the world they want. They have to pay the price. Do you know where their precious ambassador is? Don’t tell me, but do you know?”
“Do you know where the marine is?”
“Ambar Province, I think,” Achmed whispered as to not be overheard.
“Then tell them. They may let you go.”
“Never. I would sooner die then help these pigs. What did you do?”
“I got shot.”
“Come on; what did you do?”
“I was in a motel room and a bullet came through the wall.”
“The bust at JFK! I heard of this. You, you are the Sheik? Oh, it is an honor to meet you, a real honor. Forgive my appearance but…
“No need. They beat you?”
“Yes, they say because the marine was beaten, but how would they know? They couldn’t know, could they, Sheik?”
Aliz sat there thinking of his own predicament. Do they know or are they just ruthless thugs?
“Sheik, I am scared. They are out to kill me. I’m scared.”
“If you die, you will die as Martyr. Do not be scared. Don’t let them get the satisfaction of scaring you.”
“I only fear dying before I see them crushed.”
“It will happen; Allah be praised.”
“It will, Sheik? How? How will they suffer?”
“It will be by…” Suddenly the Sheik realized the room could be monitored. He scanned around.
In the control room, Brooke and Fusco saw his change of demeanor and decided it was time for stage three. Brooke nodded to two men already donning their ski masks.
“What, Sheik? How will these American bastards be driven to hell?” Achmed’s body language became that of student at the master’s feet.
The Sheik stayed mum, looking for any sign of a monitoring device. Then the door opened and two men entered and went straight to Achmed.
“Bad news scumbag. Your buddies just beheaded the corporal. Smile, will ya, ‘cause we hope your mother is watching when we send this to Al Jazeera.”
Achmed started to scamper back and resist. Then his eyes caught the Sheik’s. Achmed suddenly cooled and defiantly exclaimed, “You sons of pigs can’t take me down.”
They unshackled him and dragged him out of the room, slamming the door just as a bright light went on. The Sheik strained to hear. A man was reading a death sentence. He heard Achmed’s low steady prayers. The man was now saying that real justice would be carried out for the injustice of the captors of Marine Corporal Lyndon Banks. Then he yelled, “Burn in hell!” The next sound was a peaking of Achmed’s prayer followed by a gurgling scream more and more muffled. The Shiek closed his eyes.
Out in the room, Chet finished pouring the water into Achmed’s throat as he gave a final gurgling gasp then spit up into a pillow to muffle his coughs as he ran from the room. Chet then pretended he was holding his victim’s head by the hair.
“This will be the fate of all who believe that America has lost its way, and that we don’t also celebrate death.” He took a hammer and started battering a watermelon. The sound that came through the door was unmistakable.
The Sheik imagined them smashing the severed head with a hammer live onto the videotape. He turned and vomited onto the floor.
Chet stood up as Bob punctured the top of a plastic pouch of pig blood. He then squirted the blood onto Bob’s body in the manner consistent with that of a severed, carotid artery. For extra measure, he hit Chet’s hands twice and one nice spray pattern across his ski mask. Then he bloodied the end of the hammer and placed a patch of skin from pigs’ feet on it. The crowning touch was the lock of Achmed’s hair, which was glued onto pigskin. The result was a very convincing piece of scalp that any Apache warrior would have proudly waved in victory.
The door opened and the man wielding a hammer, covered in blood, entered. The Sheik watched him with great caution as he approached.
“You killed him?”
“Nah, Sheik. Your fellow ragheads killed him when they decapitated our marine. They did this! This death is on their hands, not ours.” His yelling became more intense. “You want to fuck with us…. We’ll fuck you right up the ass.”
He raised the hammer and started in towards the Sheik, who put up his hands in a defensive manner.
But another man from the room grabbed the hammer. “No, not that way, we need to kill him on camera or he is wasted.”
Slowly, the crazed one released his grip on the bloody hammer. He kicked the cot and left.
Aliz’s temporary savior leaned over and spoke softly. “Pray to your Allah that they don’t hurt a hair on the head of his Excellency, the Ambassador.” Then he left as well.
The Sheik’s heart rate and nerves combined to make him shake again. This was a new breed of American, outlaws against their own laws and government, yet seemingly more protective of an American ethic, than those laws or the government.
When Chet entered the control room, Brooke went to high-five him, but he demurred holding up his pig-blood-stained hands. “You didn’t just take up space minoring in theater at Princeton,” she said, patting his non-bloodied back.
“Yes, very good, Chet. Reminiscent of a young, raw, Brando.”
“Really?”
“No. But good enough to sell the Sheik.”
“Achmed, what can I say? You sold the whole scenario. The proof of your performance is that you had him almost ready to spill, but he got conscious of his surroundings.”
“Talk about Academy Award, Achmed, you rock!” Chet said, punching him collegially on the shoulder.
The smile on Achmed’s face flattened out when Brooke added, “And now that showtime’s over, Ach, please wash that smell out of your hair.” She said this laughing as she handed him a wet towel.
“Great preparation, Achmed. He would have seen through any theatrical attempt to make you look like you’ve been held prisoner for a while,” Fusco said, giving the thumbs up to one of the best of the new breed of Muslim F.B.I. agents.
Rubbing a towel into his caked and matted hair, Achmed said, “He’s very smart, sir, like an engineer or scientist — his manner of speech and his demeanor.”
“Well, thanks to all of you, we’ve given him a paradigm shift that will take his preconceived defenses out of the equation.”
They looked at the monitor to see the Sheik shuddering in a fetal position on his cot.
“We’ll move to stage four soon,” Dr, Fusco said.
The Sheik was hustled from his bed into the other room. He was forced to his knees, hogtied, and blindfolded.
“What’s going on?”
“Bad news, Sheik. Your asshole buddies killed the ambassador and now we are going to show them that they took him for nothing.”