The Lance

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The cell in the basement of Shin Bet Headquarters was damp and cool. It had a bare cement floor and a drain in the middle of the room. It smelled of something unpleasant, old and dark. A single bright light glared down on the prisoner.

The prisoner sat in a battered wooden chair, his arms and feet bound with stained leather straps. He had been sitting there for more than three hours, waiting. A black, coiled hose was hooked to a rusty water faucet on one wall. The walls were unpainted gray cement, stained with dark streaks and splatters that might have been anything, but might have been dried tissue and blood.

The room was far underground. No sound could penetrate the building above. The door was of steel. It was not the kind of room anyone would want to be in. It was a room heavy with anticipation.

Ari Herzog observed the man Carter had seen at the mall bombing, two days and what seemed a lifetime ago. He'd been beaten when he was captured. His face was bruised and one eye was blackened and puffed shut, but he'd suffered no real damage. Two silent interrogators stood to the side of the room, dressed in black jeans and tee shirts. They waited for Ari to begin.

In the hard and secretive world of Shin Bet, Ari was legendary for getting results in interrogations. The old school methods were not his style. Ari detested violence and torture. He believed it debased prisoner and jailer alike. He was sure there was a better way.

Over the years Ari had perfected the art of deception. The cell in which the prisoner sat was part of that deception, a prop created to prepare the subject's mind. No one who found himself in a room like that could doubt that he was about to enter a world defined by agony.

Ari stood outside the room. Like an actor about to go on stage, he took time to find the part of himself that would convince the bomber he was at the mercy of a serious and ruthless man. It wasn't far from the truth. If Ari believed it, so would the man in the chair.

He was ready. He entered the room. He stood in front of the prisoner and addressed him in Arabic.

"You are Achmed al-Khalid. We know who you are. We know where you live." Ari's voice was flat, almost bored.

Khalid watched him.

"This man," Ari pointed to one of the interrogators, "wishes to hurt you. His sister was killed at the mall the night you set off your bomb."

It wasn't true, but Khalid didn't know that.

"I set off no bomb." Khalid looked defiant, but Ari could see the fear. Khalid gave off a faint sour odor, an almost visible mist that surrounded him like primal fog. He licked his lips.

Once Khalid's identity was known, Shin Bet had discovered the rest. He lived with his wife and sons and his extended family in the West Bank area controlled by Hamas. Khalid was also Hamas. He was dedicated to the eradication of Israel.

Khalid was more than a suicide bomber. He was one of the few with operational control over the bombers as they went about their murderous work. That made him important. He could be difficult to break, but Ari knew that family, above all else, was one of the keys that might unlock a terrorist's psyche. To gain anything of value, Ari would have to trick him.

Khalid was Palestinian. In the culture of Palestine nothing was more important than family. Along with Islam, family was the center around which life revolved.

"I set off no bomb," Khalid said again.

"Oh, but you did." Ari spat on the floor. "Your denials mean nothing to me. Let me tell you what will happen if you don't cooperate."

Ari bent low and whispered for a long time in Khalid's ear. He knew how to think like a terrorist. He knew what they were capable of doing. Color drained from Khalid's face.

"My family is innocent!"

"It doesn't matter to me if they are innocent or not. If you do not tell me what I want to know before I leave this room, they will pay for your crime."

Ari spat again. "You are not innocent. An insult in blood must be atoned for in blood. Honor must be upheld."

Honor. The ancient tribal concepts of honor had fueled thousands of years of murder and war in the Middle East. They were little different today than in the time of Abraham. Both Ari and Khalid understood them well.

"Allah will throw you into hell!"

"Perhaps, but not before your family pays the price. You will be kept alive to think about what you have done." Ari paused. "Although you will not be as — healthy — as you are at this moment."

Tears ran down Khalid's cheeks. "You cannot do this."

"I can," Ari said. He smiled a terrible smile at Khalid. "I will. This is your only chance. I will not ask again."

He waited. Khalid said nothing. Ari nodded at the men dressed in black. "Begin," he said. He turned as if to leave the room. Would Khalid break? He had his hand on the door when Khalid called out.

"Wait! Wait! I will tell you what I know."

Ari turned back, his face dark. "If you lie, your family will suffer."

"No lies, no lies, I swear by Allah!"

"Did you plant the bomb?"

"Yes! It was Jibril, who now resides in Paradise, who set it off."

"Who else is involved?"

"There are others, I don't know all of them. There is another bomb." Khalid stopped. He had said too much. Now, he was trapped.

"Another bomb?"

Khalid nodded, shame-faced at his cowardice.

Ari looked at the other men in the room, then Khalid. "Where?"

"I don't know, I swear by Allah, I don't know. I was told it would be used against the American President."

Ari's heart skipped a beat. "When?"

"My family, you must protect them."

"I will, if you tell me the truth. When?"

"Today. While he speaks. I don't know."

Ari was out of the room and on the phone.