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CHAPTER 1

The Interrogation

"The martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every prison a more illustrious abode."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

'What doesn't kill ya', makes ya' stronger', or so the saying goes, but Hamasa weakened by the minute. On the second day of interrogation, Hamasa was not yet an open book, but interrogators have their methods. The captive begins by thinking they would rather die in agony than reveal their secrets. Some start talking when they are given a reason to live, or on the promise of a mother or brother protected and allowed to live out their lives in peace. Others sell their soul for the promise of vast sums of money to enable them to escape all the madness in a faraway haven.

For Hamasa, the key was not the money nor the pain, but the woman he had fallen in love with, Nayanna. He assumed they had taken her, too, and he knew his captors would not hesitate to destroy her in order to get what they wanted from him.

"Pay attention would ya'!" snarled Mike.

"You keep blanking out on us! Don't close your eyes when we're talking to you!" snapped agent Harlan.

Mike and Harlan never had a good reputation with Hamasa. He knew they were in it for the power and money. What else could they do: stock shelves at the local grocery store? Who would want to hire the local bullies? Now he was at their mercy. Israeli Intelligence officers interrogating him in America, how could he be surprised?

He forced himself to a show of calmness. "Hey, guys, you don't have to yell. I've told you everything, believe me! Nayanna means the world to me. I'd sacrifice my life to save hers. You've got to realize, right now we also have the responsibility of protecting the whole planet."

"Ha ha." The two agents laughed so hard the coffee Mike had just swallowed began to cough up, washing over his tongue and dribbling out the corners of his mouth, splattering all over Hamasa.

"You keep talkin' crap 'bout savin' the world and we'll just have to put a bullet in your head – save us the misery of having to hear this bullshit talk. You got that?" Mike yelled, drowning out the obscenities spewing from Hamasa as he tried to shake off the coffee spilled on him.

Mike looked over at Harlan, who was bashing his palm on his forehead. "Imagine, a gun for hire is suddenly Earth's greatest humanitarian," he scoffed. "Harlan, what the hell are we doing here?"

"I don't know." Harlan shook his head, his expression morose. "But we had more fun yesterday, beating the crap out of him." He turned to Hamasa. "Remember, nobody even knows you're missing, or where you are, no colleagues, no governments, and no family. Where are friends and family when you need them, huh? Do you know how easy it would be to make you disappear, or your loved ones for that matter? You should be pissin' your pants by now, telling us everything we need to know."

Old snake eyes, as Hamasa privately thought of Agent Harlan, flicked an icy gaze over him. He was playing into Hamasa's fears and vulnerabilities.

"Tell me, Hamasa, why aren't you screaming for mercy? You got a special place in your head you go to or something? Is that your secret? Is that all you have to save you?"

Harlan made a derogatory sound in his throat. "I mean – you keep talking rubbish about some mystical experiences and 'saving the world' crap, closing your eyes on us as if you're trying to tell us you have something going on in there. We're not going to fall for that." He grabbed Hamasa by the throat, shaking him like a terrier with a rat.

"I don't see the usual fear I aught'a be seein' from you, but we're gettin' there." Harlan barred his teeth in something vaguely resembling a smile and finally let go of Hamasa with a slap to his face.

"We need to step things up a notch, so you start to realize what we're capable of doing to you to make you talk."

He treated Hamasa to another flat, chilling stare. "It's beyond fear," he persisted. "I want to see the terror in your eyes, like a little fawn that's being torn apart by a pack of hungry wolves."

He glanced at his partner, and this time his smile had real warmth behind it, as if to egg Mike on.

Mike took another sip of his coffee and intentionally splattered it over Hamasa. "I think we should bring out a few tools of the trade," he crowed, "show this guy how we're going to 'save the world' from these kinds of ..."

"OK, boys, we'll call it a wrap for now," commanded a tall, slim figure who entered the room with a quiet purpose, like a vulture circling its prey.

The two agents looked up at the striking man who moved with a fluid, feline grace. He had appeared in the large subterraneous room from a side door, over by the mirrored wall, which gave everyone ample time to size him up.

Hamasa thought it strange his footsteps didn't echo throughout the place as the others did. He also looked way up to stare at the clean-shaven, black-haired man, meticulously attired in an authoritative blue suit. His slicked back hair and the shine on his hand-made, leather shoes looked out of place in the gray, mildewed cave. The place was carved out of the rock, deep underground as though it had been an abandoned mine. "Hey, you saw that, right? Spittin' on me like I'm an animal. Wait 'til my lawyer hears about all this abuse," Hamasa threatened. His nostrils, filled with the scent of fresh brew, kept him in the moment.

"Guys, we got to show some respect. He's one of ours," contested Harold.

The two agents started to leave, grumbling amongst themselves ... "He's gotta show us respect, too, Harold!"

"By confessing!" shouted Mike as he glared at Hamasa.

"Yeah!" echoed Harlan.

"And by stop going into those weird trances," Mike bellowed as he ran back and shook Hamasa's head.

"Yeah!"

As they exited, mocking their prisoner, Harold sat himself right in front of Hamasa, whose once cropped hair overgrew his ears; a bleeding chest exposed through a ripped t-shirt. Although Hamasa's hands were painfully tied behind his back, sweat pouring off his nose, he managed a wry smile, knowing he would finally have a break from the two goons beating him. He wondered who this Harold fellow thought he was and why he had not seen him until now.

"That smile for me?" inquired Harold. "Caged animals aren't usually happy to see their captor, but then, this is our first encounter."

Hamasa was being held inside a not so typical interrogation chamber, with a large table, a mirrored wall he knew they observed him from the other side of, and a wall consisting of a locked, huge, iron gate. He could peer through the bars to see an enormous, expansive hall carved out from the rocks with water running down one rock wall. There were four corridors, or shafts running into darkness from it, and only one way in and out: the elevator. He could envision the miners from a distant past gathering in such a place before they made the journey up the shaft to the light. Now the place held even deeper secrets as not a scream could make it out of a place like this. A mysterious natural light seeped into the room, but he could not see where the light came from. He would often hear the sounds of a large orchestra, with a choir performing an ethereal, angelic symphony, with sounds that seemed to have originated from all the countries of the world. It gave him a sense of calm and hope, and a feeling of being watched over. There were other strange sounds, too, that tugged at his heart strings by bringing back memories of better, freer times: sounds of humongous, swooshing kites fighting for their freedom. During a bathroom break, he hit the ground, as the sound of an approaching kite forced him to take cover. He knew those noises well, from the many times in his youth he had dealt with wind swells that could change a kite's direction and have it crashing to the earth, or turning on its puppeteer, who would have little time to run from its fury. He couldn't see the kites though, only hear them. But where did these wind swells originate, he wondered? He had a hunch though, and it gave him great comfort and strength to persevere. Oddly, no one else heard them, not the cleaning staff who came by once in a while, or the guards or even the agents, whom he wasn't afraid to ask. They couldn't see the lights either, or hear the ethereal music that he did. By now, though, strange and mysterious were almost commonplace after all the events of the past few months. However, he was constantly forced from this inner bliss by the two knuckle-cracking agents and the putrid smell of bleach washed floors, mixed in with the musky scent of stubborn mold that must be growing somewhere in spite of all the sanitization.

Alone, he faced the greatest challenges of his life. The cement and steel around him imprisoned the damp and cold. An eerie sound resonated repeatedly from down the corridor: steel scraping on steel: large iron gates creaking open and shut. Like a caged tiger, he usually paced, unable to sleep. Now, imprisoned again in his chair, he felt like a mouse in the mouth of a purring cat, sometimes being tossed from one paw to the other.

Looking straight into his eyes, Harold hissed, "Listen, Hamasa, we've been at this for two days now, and unlike the others I've been giving your statements serious consideration. Actually, I have a team of agents seeing if anything you've been telling us checks out. I must say you even surprised me. Nevertheless, you're still avoiding answering our questions about your involvement or any knowledge you might have of Sky's murder. We need to know the whole truth, everything you know. Some things just don't add up here. You talk about Nayanna as if she's your wife. So, do you still want to say you don't know who Sky is? You deny this completely, but I'll say it again, Nayanna married Sky, and you must have known about it!"

Hamasa twisted in his chair. "Hey, is it necessary to have my hands bound so tight? Where the hell are we anyway? When can I get my people here, my lawyer?"

Harold delved into his inside coat pocket and took out a switchblade. Getting lightly to his feet he cut the wet, leather straps that were drawing blood around Hamasa's wrists.

Hamasa showed his appreciation by staying calm; he folded his hands on his lap, expecting to be re-tied.

"No, no, no!" he insisted earnestly. "You've got it all wrong! Nayanna is my girl, she always was, and she always will be. I've no idea what you're talking about. When do I get to see a lawyer? I demand to see a lawyer! I've got rights! We're not in Israel. I'm the eagle! I've flown to freedom! You know what I'm saying! This is America!"

Pulling up a chair to a desk loaded with surgical tools and other weird looking contraptions, Harold sat down and carefully wrapped each one in cloth, placing them in a large, leather, doctor's bag. Looking from the corner of his eyes, he made sure Hamasa watched as he opened a small drawer, pulled out a syringe, and inserted a large needle.

"This is most effective after a good amount of torture like you've received," Harold casually commented as he thrust the needle into Hamasa's toned arm. "So, whether you like it or not, we will get the information we need. I call this stuff 'liquid truth.' It'll get you focused on answering our questions, so we can get to the bottom of this mess. What goes on here is strictly off the radar. I figure you know that by now. Sorry, but no lawyers allowed. This place doesn't even exist in the real world. It would be like asking the government what they know about UFOs: absolutely nothing would be the answer.

"You're in serious trouble here, with some significant charges leveled against you – the murder of an innocent civilian! Come on now, you should have known better than that. Every agent knows they're on their own once that happens. If you want to see Nayanna, you'd better tell us everything. We want a full confession. You do that for us and we can work out an arrangement that will be a lot better for you. You might as well accept the fact you've been caught. We're gathering up all the evidence against you as we speak. So with or without your cooperation, we will get to the bottom of this murder. You're lucky to be alive. After 9/11, nobody's putting up with terrorists."

Hamasa knew he couldn't give up. He had to keep fighting. 'I'm the eagle!' Where the hell did that come from, he thought? That person, when he talked like that, shocked him. How could he have done those things, said those things: murdered? He knew he had to answer to himself before he would ever allow himself to answer to another. Where were these demons hiding? Where was Hamasa, the man he loved, the man Nayanna loved? Hamasa was outraged at himself when he thought about his jealousy and all the things he had done to try to win Nayanna back: he knew it would be his death to show it now.

Harold spoke again as he paced the floor. "I can't understand how you've been able to go undetected for so long. You certainly went off on your own. Maybe you acted as a double agent for the Russians? Maybe you're a lady's man? That how you did it, hiding behind a few skirts? You look like you've walked out of a Harlequin romance novel, as the hero, saving damsels in distress. Who would suspect such a pretty boy, right? Nevertheless, your education and degrees leave me wondering how you ever had the time to put so many notches on your belt. You know I'm not talking about your girls this time? I don't know of anybody else who's got away with so many unauthorized killings. We know what you've been up to. You just have to fill us in on a few of the details, isn't that right, Hamasa? So far, your information is turning out to be true, so let's keep it that way. Wasting our time wouldn't be a smart move."

Hamasa wasn't reacting to anything Harold said but became overjoyed with his new freedom of arm movement and it didn't faze Harold in the least when he bounced his leg bound chair closer to the table and poured himself a drink of water.

"By the way, we already checked out your story about your grandfather. The Americans had no idea he had gone back to Afghanistan from his hiding place in Pakistan. We cased that out. You got that? Yes, the Israelis! Remember us, Hamasa? Do you remember for whom you're supposed to be working? Do you remember the oath you took with your mom and dad to honor and serve the Israeli Government? Isn't it a tell-all the FBI tracked you down but it's me that's doing the interrogating?"

Hamasa, getting engrossed in the magical, mysterious music emitting from the Mausoleum could swear he even heard his favorite song playing, "Imagine," by John Lennon. It somehow made Harold's words clearer and even more pronounced, as if they were coming from within his own mind and were being amplified by the chamber.

"Hey, come on, we've more important things to take care of. Can't you hear the music? Man, I tell you it's a sign. We've been chosen! We've been chosen, man!" Hamasa disappeared inside himself, caught up in the haunting melody and in the driving need for unity expressed by the song.

Harold could see he wasn't getting through. He slowly rolled up his sleeves, revealing a tattoo of a fist holding the 'Torch of Truth' symbol and words inked on his forearm. A sure sign he was a New Yorker even if he didn't resonate as American. He grabbed a bucket of ice water and drenched Hamasa with it.

Finally, Harold got a reaction; Hamasa tried to jump out of the way but with his legs still bound to the chair, he fell over. Harold decided to cuff him and left him tied to the chair as he put it back up using all the strength he had. Hamasa was not a small man.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Hamasa screamed.

"Calm down, Hamasa. If you do, I'll gladly un-cuff you," Harold said in his usual understated manner. He waited for the tide of anger to wash from Hamasa's face before removing the handcuffs.

"OK, Hamasa, you focused enough for me to continue now?"

Pulling in a ragged breath, Hamasa gave a jerky nod in reply. "I thought it was the torch of freedom? Your tatoo ... the statue of liberty ... right? Didn't it represent freedom from slavery?" Hamasa asked.

"My journey is for truth, I don't give a damn what it means to you," Harold replied.

"Truth! What the hell would you know about looking for truth? Maybe you mean justice or 'the torch of revenge' for your pathetic life," Hamasa countered. "So we're in New York then, right?"

Harold saw the diversion tactics, ignored him, and continued. "So was it for the sake of the Afghans, who worshiped your grandfather as their leader and as someone who so bravely fought off the Russians he went back there?" Harold's voice dripped sarcasm. "He secured free clearance to live in the USA or anywhere he wanted, with you, your father and mother. I'm sure he took all the opium money he made, never mind what the Americans had given him to fight the Russians. He had absolutely no reason to be back there," he added flatly. He poured himself a glass of water and took a breath of musky air deep into his lungs.

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Excerpted from "Blink of an Eye"
by .
Copyright © 2018 John H.K. Fisher.
Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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