In the Company of Liars

ONE DAY EARLIER
FRIDAY, JUNE 4

He knows immediately that no one will escape, and that few will survive. He knows it the moment he is blasted out of his drowsiness in the back of the dark truck by a deafening boom, the explosion of what he assumes to be the lead truck in the convoy. He knows it as the truck in which he is traveling screeches to a halt over the uneven terrain, as the men seated on benches on each side of the darkened cargo area fall into each other, and as the truck behind them slams into their rear, sending the men sprawling to the floor.

He knows it as he and the others in the second truck scramble for their weapons. He knows it when he hears, over the sounds of his brothers’ cries, thethwip, thwip, thwip of rockets cutting through the air-undoubtedly in the direction of the rear truck in the convoy-followed quickly by the explosion upon impact with the gasoline engines.

He knows that the Americans have found them.

And they know who is traveling in this convoy. That is why the obvious security flanks have been eliminated from the outset. In no more than ten seconds, the front and rear trucks have been obliterated, trapping the two middle trucks on a narrow, winding road.

Ram Haroon looks toward the rear of the truck, where the sheath covering the back is flapping open. He sees small flashes from the red-orange gasoline fire two trucks behind.

Haroon races for the exit as the gunfire erupts-thepop pop, pop pop from the M4s, therat-a-tat-tat from the stationary machine guns-lead splitting the canvas exterior of the cargo cabin and hitting skulls, torsos, bone. Haroon extends himself horizontally as he dives through the sheath, trying to minimize himself as a target, trying to freeze out the sudden smells of blood, of bowels releasing, of death.

He lands on the hood of the third truck, slamming his head onto the cold surface, and everything goes dark.

First he dreams in smells: the odor of burning gasoline, the copperlike scent of burning flesh. Then he dreams of dust filling his mouth, of wounded cries and urgent prayers before death. He dreams of his mother and sister. He dreams of his leg on fire.

He dreams of a man talking to him in broken Arabic, and Haroon’s eyes open. Two sets of boots, two sets of legs, two M4 rifles within inches of his cheek.

“Irka,”one of them shouts. “On your knees, fuck-face.”

U.S. Army Rangers, working in pairs, searching for survivors and confirming the dead. One of them steps back, training the rifle on him, while the other pats Haroon down for explosives. Then he grabs Haroon’s shirt and pulls until Haroon is on his knees. His shirt is violently ripped from his body, his hands zip-tied behind his back.

He knows why they attacked and who they wanted. Their high-value target. Muhsin al-Bakhari.

Haroon struggles to gain his bearings, his body limp from the assault and his mind in chaos. He is in northern Sudan. It is early June. It is close to midnight.“Kiff! Kiff!” the Ranger says to Haroon, yanking him to his feet. A blindfold is wrapped over his eyes, and he moves forward tentatively, his legs unreliable, assisted by a Ranger’s hand cupped under his armpit.

Don’t let them take you alive, he has been told.They will torture you. Corrupt you. Take you to Guantбnamo Bay and make you turn on your brothers.

Die with dignity, they have told him.

But resistance is obviously futile. This whole thing was timed perfectly. The Americans did not plan for a gunfight. They planned for a massacre.

Ram Haroon recalls other instructions as well, outside the presence of the leaders.Show them your hands and they won’t kill you.

He hears thethwop, thwop of the rotors of a Chinook helicopter as he is marched forward, forced into a jog. He feels a wash of air as he approaches the Chinook, and a hand on his head pushes it down, even though Haroon knows the rotors are well overhead.

He is turned around. A hand on his shoulder forces him to sit on a cold aluminum floor. He shivers. The rotors spin faster and louder, the copter shakes-even sitting, he lurches to one side and bumps into the barrel of a rifle pointed at him. The copter shakes again and rises.

He feels a boot pushing against his arm.“Hal Tatakalm Alingli’zia?” an American shouts at him in passable Arabic.“Ma Ismok?”

“Zulfikar,”he answers wearily.“Sorirart Biro’aitak.”

A moment passes. The Americans are speaking to each other in excited voices. This is a moment of celebration for the Rangers. Nausea overtakes Ram Haroon, the jerky movements of the helicopter and the smell of burning flesh, still lingering in his nostrils, combining to launch the bile to his throat. They are enjoying themselves, these Americans. A moment for which all Americans have waited for years-the capture of Muhsin al-Bakhari. A story they will share with their grandchildren someday.

Where he will go now, he does not know. They have quickly whisked away the few survivors, including the one whom the Americans prize the most. Left behind is a massacre; over thirty Islamic soldiers dead.

And then it comes to Ram Haroon. He remembers the woman at the airport in America four days ago.McCoy, that was her name. Yes. The woman at the airport knew this was going to happen.

Haroon shakes his head, silent. He will probably be sent to Guantбnamo Bay, along with the others. He will never see his homeland again. His life will never be the same.

He wonders what has become of his partners in the States. He assumes that they will soon be in U.S. custody as well. And if they have gotten so far as to coordinate this attack, they have probably learned what really happened to Allison Pagone, the American novelist, as well.