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.It was the way of a soldier.Part of their sacrifice.Washington turned and started walking toward the waiting SUV.“You know,” he said.“Shin Bet is holding a couple people for us.”Bradley turned quickly and lifted an eyebrow.“Are they holding al Qaeda?”Washington grunted, as if it shouldn’t be a surprise.“Yeah,” he answered.“People we obviously couldn’t bring back to the States, nor send down to mingle with the prisoners at Gitmo.There are a few prisoners we would prefer not to acknowledge we have, and the only way we can do that is to not take possession of them.So we have an agreement with Shin Bet that they will take care of these special cases for us.It works pretty well.We both get what we want.” Washington paused fifteen feet from the black SUV and the driver got out and opened the rear door for them.He turned to face Bradley and lowered his voice.“I want to show pictures of the girl Peter met in the mountains to a man named Nashiri,” he said.Bradley stopped beside him.“I don’t know what good that will do.”“Nashiri is the highest ranking member of al Qaeda that we have in captivity.If he recognizes the girl, that information could lead us to Donner.If Donner is inside his operation, then Nashiri will know.”“If he knows, he won’t tell you.”“Oh, I think he will.”Bradley hunched his shoulders, than placed his hand on Washington’s arm.“You do what you need to do,” he said in a low voice.“And I wish you luck.But I have to tell you, I am so glad to be getting out of this work.It smells bad.It hurts.I’m not cut out for this.Get me back to my jets.”Washington grunted, then turned and walked for the car.Bradley followed and the two men climbed in silently.9Shin Bet Headquarters CompoundTel Aviv, IsraelEveryone was happy with the arrangement.The Americans didn’t have to answer some very awkward questions from her people and it deflected criticism from some of the fence-sitting Arab nations as well.Moreover, the Israeli courts, after years of bombings and bloodshed, had already approved the “special measures” that permitted their intelligence organizations far more latitude in their interrogations than the U.S.courts or military tribunals would ever allow.The agreement specifically stipulated that the United States and Shin Bet would share information.Sometimes this happened.Sometimes it did not.The reality was, there was often a gray line between the theory of an agreement and the real-world application in times of national stress.The Americans hid things.Shin Bet hid things as well.Some things were best kept secret, even from the most trusted friends.As the Shin Bet leader stared at the paper that he held in his hand, he knew this was one of those times to keep a secret.The three-star general who commanded Shin Bet stood in silence at his window, gazing out on the rising sun.A green pasture lay before him on the other side of the compound, and he watched a stallion and two mares graze the thick grass, wet and glistening with morning dew.Petate wished he was out there, as he did every morning, husbanding his horses, feeling his boots heavy as they soaked up the dew, bracing the cool bite of the early morning air.Tall and lanky, the general had a sharp edge to his features, and though he always spoke slowly, his mind was not a word, but a full page ahead of his mouth.Petate took a deep breath and held it, then read the request once again.He studied the photographs that had been secure-faxed to him.Who was this girl? He had never seen her before.But still, something nagged him.Dr.Washington wanted some answers.So he would see what he could do.If Nashiri knew the girl, they would know soon.But he had his suspicions as to what was going on.And if he was right, his nation had its own plan.The Americans weren’t the only ones who had considered the possibility that Pakistan might one day lose her nuclear arsenal.And if the situation had developed along the lines he suspected, then much of what he learned from Nashiri would not be passed to the United States.Abd al-Rahim al Nashiri, a burly and sour-looking man in his midthirties, remained in his chair as the two interrogators entered the cell.A fine-haired captain approached the prisoner, and a slender civilian followed behind.As the men approached, Nashiri’s eyes remained tight and sullen under a closely shaved scalp.He smelled of soap and harsh lye.The Israelis forced him to shower every day.As the two men drew near him, Nashiri scowled belligerently.The thin-haired captain he had dealt with.But the other one, the tall one, he had not seen him before.Nashiri studied the civilian in his dark jeans and loose shirt as he sat down, then looked away.Without introduction, the captain pulled an envelope from his briefcase and extracted five pictures, grainy and monochrome photographs showing various profiles of a young and beautiful girl.As he spread the photographs across the smooth table, the civilian kept his eyes focused on the prisoner.Nashiri looked down, then took a sudden, shallow breath.His hands began to tremble and he hid them between his legs.He tried to force a blank face but it was already too late.The captain leaned against the table.He had seen it too.The look on the prisoner’s face.Nashiri knew the girl.He leaned into the prisoner.“Who is she!” he demanded in Arabic.Nashiri cocked his head and remained silent.The captain leaned closer and sneered, “You know her, Nashiri.Your eyes cannot lie.”Nashiri turned away.The civilian took a step forward, his face perfectly calm.“Work with us, Nashiri,” he said in a soft voice.“We feed you, care for you.” He nodded toward the interrogation door and forced a compassionate stare.“We keep the ugly ones off you.At least we have until now.But you’ve heard the stories, Nashiri, you know what some of them will do.You have heard stories about the animals they are.And it’s true, Nashiri, everything—and worse.You will be buried in pig’s blood when they are finished with you.“Think about that, Nashiri.Consider your options.You can do this easy, or you can do it slow.You can do it comfortably, or through the most exquisite pain.You know her, Nashiri, your eyes have already betrayed you.”The prisoner’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his face to his palms.He wept like a child, gasping in uncontrollable sobs.The two men looked at each other and frowned.It wasn’t the way they would have chosen to do it, for, given time, they could have gotten the information without roughing him up.But the Americans had insisted that time was of the essence.Absolutely critical.And if the Americans were worried, then they were worried too.The two men dragged the prisoner back to his cell and left him alone.“Think about it, Nashiri,” they said through the steel door.“Think about it awhile, while we get the roughing crew.”CIA HeadquartersLangley, VirginiaThomas Washington waited as long as he could stand it, then picked up the phone and patched a call through to his man in Tel Aviv
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