I shall do nothing more today than transcribe my most recent reservation.
“You comfortable here?” asked Spyro.
“I’ve gotten used to it,” I said. “But these are horrible conditions.” I told him my theory about how one can adjust to anything. It amazes me still how quickly human beings can adapt to their circumstances.
Spyro acted uninterested.
“You know,” he said. “You’ve been receiving preferential treatment. Not that I need to tell you. You’re not stupid.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re permitted to write in your cell. Sketch. No one else is allowed pen and paper. You get fresh soap, extra towels, blankets, that kind of shit.”
“I get a pen and paper because you’ve ordered me to write my confession.”
“I had it authorized. Everything you have is because of me. The magazines, newspaper clippings, the news about your play. Even time. You have time because I’ve bargained for it.”
“Are you fishing for gratitude?”
“Am I fishing for gratitude? No. No, I’m not fishing for gratitude. Let me ask you something. Do you think you’ll be able to ask that of a military interrogator?”
“The others. The other detainees. When they’re interrogated it is by the military, not by us. You must have noticed.”
“They keep me in the dark mostly.”
“Well, take my word for it. The others answer to the military. They are interrogated at all hours of the night. The others aren’t allowed to sleep for very long. They’re not treated like you. And this is all because of me.”
“Thank you kindly,” I said.
He gazed at me, calculating something. “My point is: It won’t always be like this for you. Our time is coming to an end. I’ll have to hand you over to the military interrogators. They will ask you questions pertaining to your arrest.”
“Is that what has happened to me? I’ve been arrested?”
“You see, smart-ass things like that will get you in trouble. These guys don’t fuck around. They’ll ask you questions, the same questions I’ve asked you, only they won’t be too friendly about it. You’ll stand instead of sit. You’ll meet at night instead of day. You’ll be left alone for hours upon hours, and then you’ll be forced to talk for twelve straight.”
“Nothing I’m not already used to.”
“And there are techniques to get you to talk. It will not be pleasant, I can assure you.”
“I sense a big fat ‘but’ looming.”
Spyro rolled up his sleeves. I could predict his movements before they happened. I anticipated the scar on his forearm, the dampening at his hairline, his physical tics. Fingers tapped, lips wetted, etc. How many hours had we spent together?
“I’ve read everything you’ve written so far,” he said. “When I submit my report along with your confession to the convening authority in Washington, here’s how they’ll see it. You’ve consorted with arms dealers and known gangsters. Men on international watch lists. Men banned from certain countries. Your cover as a designer of women’s clothing is a perfect front. Potentially, the money you were about to make from your business, projected over five years, could fund another 9/11. You have access to elite targets. New York Fashion Week. The New York Public Library, by way of Bryant Park. Your associates have connections with Somali terrorists. And you still say you’re just a designer of women’s clothing? There was only one other designer in history with connections like you, and that was back in 1943.”
“Who?”
“Coco Chanel,” he said.
“That’s preposterous!”
“She was arrested and charged with war crimes for her involvement with the Nazis. I’d tell you to go look it up, but I’d be wasting my breath. Chanel was banging an SS officer from ’39 to ’43 or thereabouts. He had his Schutzstaffel so far up her tight ass that she’d do anything for him, including an attempt to broker a deal between the British and the Nazis for whatever was left of Europe. Needless to say, they arrested her couture ass.”1
“You’re making it up. And the thing about the Somalis is nonsense. I never met a Somali. You know as well as I do.”
“And just like Chanel, you’re seen as a collaborator in all this. A terrorist sympathizer. A key financier. You, the fashion terrorist. They got you. Those in Washington are almost positive. But those in Washington want a confession.”
“Those in Washington think the quickest way to connect two dots is to draw a straight line. I’ve given you my confession.”
“We’re almost out of time, Boy. I need you to start telling me what I need to know.”
“I’ve done nothing but—”
“You’ve done everything but give me what I need. You’ve fed me a lot of shit.”
“I’ve fed you nothing but the truth.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way. I thought we were on a level of understanding.”
“Will you stop it? Stop. Enough! Did you or did you not know about weapons prior to Ahmed Qureshi’s arrest? Prior to May 25, 2006.”
“The fertilizer?”
“Weapons. Weapons of mass destruction. Whatever that may mean to you. Ammonium nitrate fertilizer. Whatever. Did you know about weapons? Did you know about a deal?”
“No.”
“See, you’re lying. You did know about a deal. It says so right here in your confession.”
“It says I suspected Ahmed was a liar. That I couldn’t believe half the things that came out of his mouth.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“If you tell me now, you’ll make it a lot easier on yourself before I give you over to the CO for another round of interrogation.”
“Why do I have to talk to him?”
“Because I’m off. I’m done here. I’m sorry to say it, but our time together is through. Every good thing must come to an end. And when I’m gone, they’re going to start all over again. All the shit you’ve written down so far gets filed away, and they take it from the top. So if you tell me now, you’re going to save yourself a lot of time and anguish.”
“I told you. I don’t know about weapons. I know only what I’ve already told you. I was entrapped.”
“That’s a big word for you. Do you even know what it means?”
“I was set up. That’s the only way I can deduce my being here.”
“You weren’t set up. You were given up. Your friend Ahmed fingered you out over everyone else. Qureshi talked. Your other friend Hajji, he didn’t get pinched. He’s fine. He’s a cooperating witness. Ahmed fingered you when they put it to him. He gave you up. He said you’re the brain behind all this. You’re the money.”
“The money came from him! It was all from him!”
“But you come from a rich family. A family of doctors, you said yourself. Private school, et cetera.”
“My family doesn’t have any money. Check them out. They supported me here and there when I got to New York, but that’s all.”
“You came to the U.S. and you set up shop. You sought out Qureshi and took up residence in the same building. You’re consorting with known gangsters. The funds are all in place. Ahmed finds the buyers. Somalis. He gets the goods. Ammonium nitrate fertilizer is just the beginning. He makes promises to the Somalis for more weapons. RPGs, antiaircraft guns, night-vision goggles, tanks for Christ’s sake. We’ve been following him for a year. Your name comes up on the tapes. Once you get the money you funnel it through your business, you produce women’s clothes because it’s very lucrative, and on the other end you have the Somali deal.”
“You have it all wrong. It’s the other way around.”
“That’s your defense? ‘Your honor, it’s the other way around. It was the chicken not the egg.’ Look at it through their eyes. They see a textbook example of a terrorist ring at work. And I got to say, it doesn’t look good for you, my friend.”
“I want my lawyer,” I said.
“Now you want your lawyer. You didn’t need a lawyer when we started here. Why not?”
“Because I believed you. I thought you could help me. Only you’re just a pawn like I was. So now I want my lawyer.”
“Good news, he’s on his way. He’s still waiting for his security clearance. Should be any day now.”
“I will say nothing else. It’s all in my confession.”
“Your confession has a lot of holes.”
“I dare you to prove me wrong.”
“Is that a threat made from a detainee to a special agent of the FBI? Do you know what can happen to you when I snap my finger! Before our time is up, and I give you over to the marines, I need to know, Boy. Listen to me, to them you’re just another number. They don’t care where you’re from—Mr. New York City big shot who-gives‑a‑fuck. You are just a number.” Spyro stood up. “Now I’ve treated you like a man. Like an honest man. And we’re at the end of our road together. I’m leaving. I’m not coming back. So I need to know. It’s your last chance to confess before I feed you to the jarheads. Did you know about any weapons prior to Qureshi’s arrest? Prior to May 25, 2006. If you had any involvement and you confess it now, I’ll give my highest recommendation to Washington. You have my word.”
“I’m already a number. I’m prisoner number two-two-seven.”
“Did you know about weapons before Qureshi was arrested, prior to May 25, 2006?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve told you. What I knew I put in my confession.”
“This confession stinks. I’m asking you here and now. For the last time. Did you know about weapons? Did you know about fertilizer? What did you know?”
I felt that complying with my interrogator at this stage would be to waste my breath. These were roundabout questions. Questions I had already answered.
I refused to gratify him with another answer.
1. This is true, for the most part. Coco Chanel was in fact arrested for war crimes in 1943 for her involvement in the Nazi plot Operation Modelhut (Fashion Hat). However, she was later acquitted on all charges, due to an intervention by the British royal family.