The Polaris Protocol (23 page)

A
lone in his cell, the prisoner wrote a verse in Arabic. He knew the men would come and take it, scrutinizing the words for some secret meaning, but they would never find his name threaded in the text.
Abdul Rahman.
Through repeated interviews they had gained much information from him, but they had yet to learn his true name. He kept it secret, a token of his resistance, and enjoyed hiding the name in innocuous text that they would study for hours. It was a small thing, but it allowed him the mental fortitude to continue.

They called him the Ghost, and had managed to connect him to several
kunyas
and aliases he had used in the past, but were frustrated by his true name. A frustration he enjoyed giving them.

The interviews had grown more and more infrequent, with the last one happening over a month ago. In truth, he missed them. Much to his surprise, he had never endured what he would consider torture; instead, the interrogations had become a match of wits. Initially, when he’d first arrived, the Americans had come in hard, threatening him with all manner of things and making his life miserable with various physically coercive techniques, but it got them nowhere, as there were very few men on earth with the willpower he possessed. He’d endured much worse in the past—true torture—and he’d survived intact.

About a month into his detention they’d shifted tactics, and he found himself slipping. He had followed his own strategy, sure of his intellect. Giving up information that he knew would be worthless or dribbling out a web of deceit that sounded accurate, he had been surprised when the interrogators had come back with a different picture, asking more questions. A picture that was accurate.

The men and women would talk to him for hours, tripping him up with his own lies and using insidious psychological techniques to reveal what he wished to keep secret. Realizing they were much, much smarter than they let on, he had begun to parse his words so he said nothing that they could use, yet they always managed to get something. The interviews had grown to be a challenge he looked forward to, but they came less and less frequently now.

As they had learned from him, he had gained a greater understanding of them. While he no longer underestimated their intelligence, their actual knowledge of his world caused him to laugh. It was like watching a child paint a picture of an animal he or she had never seen, based only on a description. The painting bore a resemblance but its errors were glaring.

In some cases, he helped them refine the picture, as with Hezbollah. That group had used him for its own ends and had eventually tried to kill him. Ultimately, he wasn’t sure if the reason he’d been captured wasn’t because the group had betrayed him. He detested their arrogance and had no compunction about feeding the Americans what he knew. Hezbollah might have professed to be the resistance against Israel, but he’d seen up close that all they really wanted was their own political dominance in Lebanon, and they used the threat of Israel to maintain their massive armament. Israel’s disappearing tomorrow was their worst fear, as they would lose their reason to exist.

In other cases he tried to dilute the picture even more, giving false information that would only confuse or conflict with intelligence they already knew, not wanting to enhance the Zionist dogs’ ability to harm the Palestinian cause. Hamas, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Fatah, or any other group looking to push Israel into the sea was off-limits in his mind. He would protect them at all costs.

The one area that the interrogators actively pursued was al-Qaeda, wanting more information about them than anything else. Unfortunately for them, he’d honestly had little contact with that group and couldn’t have provided much information even if he’d wanted to.

He wondered if that was the reason the interrogators had quit coming around. They’d realized he couldn’t help them in their quest against al-Qaeda and thus left him to his lonely cell. Left him with nothing more than books and a chance to exercise once a week.

He missed the game. It was the only one he had, and he needed the stimulation. He understood that he would never be allowed to leave, would never have his freedom again, and that is what hurt him the most. He had considered suicide but had rejected it outright. It just wasn’t his way. Instead, he’d turned to thoughts of escape, studying the prison routines and plotting.

The task was daunting to say the least. Getting out of the prison would be nearly impossible, but that was the easiest challenge he faced. He knew he was in the United States but had no idea exactly where and had no passport, money, or connections to facilitate escape. Fading into the background, like he would have done in his home country of Lebanon, would be impossible here. Even so, he enjoyed the mental challenge and had come up with a multitude of options, if the opportunity presented itself.

The light in his cell flicked off, then back on, signaling that someone was coming to visit. It startled him, since it had been so long since his last interrogation, and he was embarrassed at the excitement he felt. He put his back to the door and placed his hands through the slot, waiting to be cuffed, mentally preparing for the duel.

He felt the steel on his wrists and stepped forward, facing the mirror at the back of his cell. He saw it open, and was shocked at who came through it.

The man said not a word, waiting on the door to close again. As the echo of footfalls faded, he spoke. “Hello, Ash’abah.”

The Ghost smiled at the Arabic butchering of his nickname but said nothing, staring at the man in the mirror to confirm. He didn’t really remember the height or the color of his hair, but the blue eyes and the scar on his cheek were branded like acid on his brain. It was the man who had captured him.

“You can call me Mr. Pink. Have a seat.”

The Ghost did so, turning around and sitting at his small table, remaining silent.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

He spoke for the first time. “Yes. You’re the man who stopped my attack. The man who brought me here.”

Pink grinned. “How about that airplane ride? You couldn’t pay money for high adventure like that.”

The Ghost barely remembered his drugged trip on the Skyhook extraction system. A violent jerk off the ground, spinning in the hurricane-force wind, then being hoisted in the back of an aircraft. From there, it was one sedated journey after another, until he’d ended up here.

The Ghost said, “What do you want? I don’t think it’s answers you seek. That’s not your skill.”

Pink smiled. “Perceptive, aren’t we. No. I want you to listen to something. And then I have a favor to ask.”

The Ghost was off balance, his routine shaken by this strange turn of events. He felt the redline of danger but nodded.

The Ghost watched as a digital recorder was placed on the table. Pink held up the headphones and said, “May I?”

The Ghost nodded again, and Pink placed them over his ears. He hit “play,” and the Ghost focused on a conversation in English, then in Arabic. When it was complete, he returned his eyes to Mr. Pink.

“What you heard was a Mexican drug cartel member talking to Hezbollah about selling nuclear secrets from the United States. There is an American who is bringing them down. Did you understand the Arabic?”

The Ghost said, “Yes. Someone is bringing money to pay, and the men speaking intend to kill him.”

“Yes. That’s correct. That someone is coming from Pakistan, and he’s due to arrive tomorrow. The American with the secrets arrived yesterday.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“We cannot let Hezbollah get nuclear secrets. They’ll turn them over to Iran, helping them with their quest to build an atomic bomb.”

“So?”

“We want you to pretend you’re the man coming from Pakistan and lead us to the meeting.”

A
t first the Ghost thought he’d misunderstood. The statement was so ludicrous it defied logic. He thought his English had failed him.

Pink said, “You’ll be in no danger, and we won’t ask you to do anything overt. Just lead us to the meeting. We’ll do the rest.”

The Ghost couldn’t help but smile. The idea was preposterous. It was a trick of some kind. “So, you’re going to take me out of here, fly me to Mexico, and allow me to meet with members of Hezbollah?”

“Yes, that’s about the sum of it.”

“But I can’t do that under your watchful eye, with you handcuffed to me. If that were possible, you wouldn’t need me. You’re going to have to let me go on my own.”

“I know.”

The Ghost shook his head. “I don’t know what your little interrogators told you, but clearly you think I’m an idiot.”

“No, I don’t. Remember, I’m the one who caught you. I do not underestimate anything about you.”

The Ghost said nothing for a moment, contemplating. The idea was fantastic, and clearly a lie. There was something else at play here. Why else would this man—his sworn enemy—come begging? They were trying to set him up for something.

He said, “Pretending what you said is true, why would I help? You consider me a terrorist as well. What makes you even fantasize that I would help?”

Pink said, “Let me ask you a question: Do you hate the United States?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hate Hezbollah?”

“No.”

“Really?” Pink smiled. “Hmmm . . . seems to me that you have every reason. They sold your ass down the river in Lebanon and don’t care one little bit about Palestinians. They’re currently fighting
against
Sunni insurgents in Syria. Fighting with a Shiite dictator who hates you for daring to defy him. They’re trying to prevent the creation of a government that would help your cause.”

When the Ghost didn’t respond, Pink said, “I’ve read your file. I’ve seen the assessments of your intelligence. You should be proud to hear that they’re off the charts compared to any other detainee. What’s funny is that with all those smarts you get tripped up whenever talking about Hezbollah. We have very little for Hamas and other Palestinian groups, but quite a lot on Lebanese Hezbollah. Why is that, do you think?”

Pink leaned back in his chair, tipping onto the back legs and locking eyes with the Ghost. He rocked back and forth while the Ghost remained silent. Finally, he said, “The man coming to the meeting works for al-Qaeda, but he’s Palestinian. Is your hatred for America so great that you’ll let him die so Hezbollah can help out Iran?” Pink leaned forward on the table. “It’s really just a question of who you hate more. The enemy of my enemy and all that Arabic bullshit.”

They sat for thirty seconds without speaking, Pink content to let the silence blanket the room like a fog. Finally the Ghost said, “Let’s say I do lead you to this meeting. What’s in it for me?”

Pink said, “You’ll get to prevent the death of a countryman, and have my undying gratitude.”

The Ghost scoffed and Pink continued. “You know I can’t promise you release, but I
will
talk on your behalf. We’ve got everything we’re going to get out of you. Any information you have now is old and stale. Not worth our time. I’ll do what I can, maybe get you moved to some sort of house arrest where you get to see more than these four prison walls. That’s the best I can do. No way will they release you, because you’ll go right back to killing people. You and I both know the truth of that.”

Despite himself, the Ghost began considering the offer. He had no doubt that Pink was lying about something in the mission, but he hadn’t lied about what he could offer. He could have but didn’t. Reluctantly, the Ghost felt a grain of respect for the man across the table. He wouldn’t admit it, but Pink had spoken the truth about Hezbollah and Iran and had pushed the correct buttons much more adroitly than any of the interrogators before him. Pink wasn’t like the people who had questioned him this past year. He was someone more like himself than the Ghost cared to admit. Which meant he was someone to guard against.

All of that, however, was superseded by one thought: escape. His biggest issues were first getting out of prison, and second getting out of America. And this man was offering to do both for him.

As he was spinning these thoughts in his head Pink spoke again.

“I’m sure you’ve already considered the greatest benefit. You help me and you might get the chance to escape. There’s no way you can get out of this prison, and even if you could, you’ll last about thirty minutes on the street in America. I’m going to take you to a foreign country and give you a passport to get there.”

The Ghost felt his face flush and saw Pink smile. Before he could recover, Pink said, “Of course, it’ll be my job to prevent that, but hey, a man can hope.”

Despite himself, the Ghost smiled back.
He’s inside your head right now.
Nobody had done that in his entire existence. His slight build and unremarkable features had allowed him to earn the nickname the Ghost. Had caused him to be underestimated by every one of his enemies. His intelligence had allowed him to kill all of them. All but one.

The man across the table.

Yes, he’s someone to watch against.

But the challenge intrigued him. Worst case, he could thwart the murdering thugs of Hezbollah, something he would relish. Best case, he escaped. Then he thought of the man he was to replace.

“What of the person coming from Pakistan? If I’m to pretend I’m him, where will he be?”

Pink said, “I won’t lie to you. He’s going to be kept from the meeting. That has nothing to do with you. You come or don’t, he’s gone either way.”

The Ghost appreciated the honesty once again. “How will I pretend I’m him? They’ll know I’m not.”

“They have no idea who he is. They’ve never met him. You’ve played this game enough to pull it off. Last time we met, you were acting like a citizen of Saudi Arabia. Surely you can act like a Palestinian with a different name.”

“I know nothing of al-Qaeda.”

“Neither do they. You know enough about underground organizations to fake it. Look, I’m not saying it’s risk free. The only thing risk free is staying here in your cell. You want to do that for the rest of your life?”

The Ghost said, “If I agree, what’s the next step?”

Pike pulled two devices out of a bag, each a small black box the size of garage-door opener affixed to a metal band.

“These are GPS trackers. They’ll get fastened to your ankles underneath your pants. You’ll notice there are two of them, and that’s for a reason. The trackers will have a geographic boundary that I’ll program once we’re in the country. Each one also has a small explosive charge. If you exceed the boundary I’ve set, it’ll sever both of your feet at the ankles.”

The Ghost simply stared and Pike continued. “I told you it would be my job to prevent escape.”