HUMINT

HUMINT

A sharp stab of sunlight through the opening door flared through a veil of dust to illuminate the small, stooped man huddled in the cell’s back corner. A tiny breeze stirred the prisoner’s graying hair as Colonel Santini entered the room and seated himself at one of the two chairs bolted into the concrete floor through the perpetual layer of sand that clung to everything in this accursed country, including the table which he now brushed clean with a palm and used to lay out his tools: a handful of file folders, a legal pad whose yellow paper was slightly crinkled from rough handling, and a 9mm Beretta that gleamed dully in the pale light that leaked from the room’s only window. The prisoner watched him as a mouse might watch a serpent, breath coming quick and eyes wide, flickering his gaze from the cold metal of the gun to the mirrored sunglasses that reduced the Colonel’s eyes to twin slivers of mirror. Santini withdrew one of the folders, opened it, flipped through a few sheets and looked up. “Casim Yawer?”

The old man’s breathing rasped in the room, and the faint trembling of his shoulders disturbed the dust that clung to his spindly frame.

A crisp note of command entered the Colonel’s voice. “You are Casim Yawer, father of Khaleed Yawer, owner of the dry goods store in the town of Elsharim?”

“I… I am.”

“Please sit down, Mr. Yawer.” The Colonel indicated the chair across from him with a flick of his pen.

Wide, sun-bleached eyes flicked from the pen to the cool gleam of the gun barrel, and the prisoner slowly rose from the dirt and eased himself into the flimsy metal chair across from the Colonel. “I… I have been told that I was here for questioning… that I could go home soon…”

With careful fingers, the Colonel reached up and removed his sunglasses, laying them on the table beside his pistol. “Are you aware of the current location of your son, Mr. Yawer?”

The old eyes flickered down, shying from the gray eyes as mercilessly cold as the gun between them. “No… no. I don’t know. Why do you ask me this?”

“Mr. Yawer, your son is wanted for acts of insurgency and association with known terrorists. I ask you again, do you know where he is?”

“Of course not, and even if I did, I would not tell!” A flash of anger touched the old man’s face, straightened his shoulders. “He is my own flesh and blood!”

The Colonel ran a single trimmed nail over the inlaid wood of the gun’s hilt, voice soft in the still air. “You have four other children, correct? It must be very difficult for them, with you confined and your store under quarantine.”

The prisoner’s breath hissed between his uneven teeth. “You cannot…”

“It is, of course, unfortunate that we have to keep you confined, but without a show of good faith on your part…” a small shrug, half a smile. “It will take some time to determine whether or not we can release you. Six months, perhaps.”

The air went out of the room, and the old man’s eyes settled on the gun barrel between them. When he spoke again, his voice rasped in his throat. “He is in Tarim. The mosque in Tarim.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.” Santini stood, closed his file, tucked the notepad and legal pad under his arm, picked up the pistol, shot the prisoner between the eyes, holstered the pistol, then turned and let himself out. Breathing the searing desert air, the Colonel slid his sunglasses back on and handed the one of the folders under his arm to the guard. “Which way is your communication center?” The trooper gestured wordlessly, half a question in his eyes, and Santini smiled like a well-fed snake as he shook his head. “Shot while trying to escape. The usual disposal.”