got a chuckle, and Zamo added, “It’s easy to get in here, but not so easy to get out.”
Not so funny.
Brenner said to Zamo, “Call in a sit-rep.”
I asked Kate, “You okay with this?”
“I’m fine. I have Zamo and a Colt .45.”
Brenner advised her, “Keep the scarf on.”
In the spirit of cultural outreach, I kept my jambiyah on, and Brenner and I got out and walked away from the parked vehicles where we could be seen by the person, whoever he was. Actually, I was pretty sure I knew who was meeting us.
I looked at the surrounding stone and brick buildings. Some old forts are romantic; some are sinister and depressing. This place would get the Midnight Express award for Creepiest Turkish-Built Prison.
Brenner reminded me, “You are here as the interrogator for the FBI Evidence Response Team investigating the Cole attack. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shot at the prisoner.”
“Sure. You go first. Then I’ll show you how it’s done.”
He took that well, but also reminded me, “I was a criminal investigator.”
“Right. But if this is like the Central Prison in Aden, don’t expect too much.”
A Humvee came across the dusty field and stopped a few feet from us. The rear door opened and out came Colonel Hakim of the Political Security Organization. He was dressed in a uniform this time, but that didn’t make him any more attractive than the last time I saw him.
He glanced at my jambiyah and smiled—or was that a sneer?—and motioned us to the vehicle. I got in the front with the driver, who had spent the day with livestock, and Brenner kept Colonel Hakim company in the rear.
Colonel Hakim said something to the driver and off we went.
Brenner, sticking to protocol, said to Hakim, “Thank you, Colonel, for meeting us.”
Colonel Hakim replied, “I am not for this arrangement, but I follow my orders.”
What a gracious man. Hey, shithead, you’re riding in a Humvee that I helped pay for.
Brenner reminded the colonel, “We have the same enemy, and the U.S. is here to offer assistance.”
No reply.
To confirm what Buck said about the CIA, I asked Mr. Happy, “Have any other Americans come to speak to the prisoner?”
He didn’t reply at first, then asked, “Do you not know?”
“I just got here.”
“Yes? So you ask your friends.”
Asshole.
We stopped at a particularly grim-looking four-story building, and even without the bars on the windows, I would have known this was the prison.
I’ve seen too many prisons in my life. And too many prisoners. And each visit to a prison took something out of me, and left something with me.
Colonel Hakim said, “You have half hour. No more.”
But I’m sure Colonel Hakim was hoping that the next time he brought us here, it would be for more than half an hour. Like maybe twenty years. Meanwhile, we were just visiting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We entered the prison through a rusty iron door into a dark stone vestibule where a guard stood and snapped to attention.
We followed Colonel Hakim down a quiet corridor whose walls were covered with rotting stucco. This building may have a mold problem.
My mind went back to the Central Prison in Aden, which had been built by the Brits when they ran South Yemen. That, too, was a grim and creepy place, but this place made the Aden prison look like a health spa.
Colonel Hakim led us into another quiet corridor of closed wooden doors. I guess it was past quitting time, but when we passed a narrow staircase that led to the second level, I heard a man scream, followed by a man shouting, then another scream. Glad to hear someone was still at work.
Colonel Hakim opened a door, and we followed him into a room where two men sat in plastic chairs at a small table. Along one wall were file cabinets, and on the far wall was a barred window without glass that let in sunlight and whatever else wanted to fly in. A floor fan moved the bad air around.
On one wall was a large picture of Yemen’s President for Life, Ali Abdullah Saleh, a mustachioed Saddam Hussein look-alike, who was desperately trying to avoid the same fate as his Iraqi idol.
On another wall were signs and posters in Arabic that I guessed were not the prisoners’ bill of rights, though one of them may have said EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS AFTER BEATING PRISONERS.
Anyway, the two men were standing now and neither of them looked like a prisoner. In fact,