Three days had passed since the interrogator’s visit. Yasmin was left alone in her prison with Abu Salah and that nasty old crone who barely spoke a word. Pouri had said she would return the next day, but she had not.
It was strange, but Yasmin actually missed talking to Pouri. She had taken the “Resistance to Interrogation” course during her CIA training down at The Farm, so she was aware of this eventuality.
In fact, the more she thought about it, Pouri had conducted a classic interrogation, straight from the Army Field Manual, in the style now used by the CIA and other United States intelligence agencies. There was no sleep deprivation, no slapping around, no humiliation, no loud music, no standing in stress positions for long periods, and no waterboarding. She had experienced all of these things down at The Farm in preparation for this moment. And she had been told by her instructors that torture could get a lot worse, especially in the Middle East.
She had been taught the difference between enhanced interrogation and actual torture, and the difference was profound. She did not fear enhanced interrogation, even waterboarding, because she knew it would not leave scars or have lasting effects. It would be uncomfortable, but she would live through it. This knowledge was enough to help most people resist.
But she did fear torture. The United States would never engage in it, but Hezbollah was holding her. With them, anything could be expected. The frequency of her meals was erratic, but they still came at least once a day. Maybe her treatment was unusually good because Iran was pulling the strings. Probably, but Iran did not play by American rules either.
She knew Pouri Hoseini had effectively broken her down by skillfully using information against her. The only question was how much did she really know? Was Pouri bluffing about the extent of her knowledge? Almost certainly she was but how much?
Yasmin decided she had said enough, confirmed enough. From now on, they would have to pull out her fingernails to get any more information.
When Pouri returned to the safe house late in the afternoon, she was carrying two large shopping bags. She dismissed Abu Salah with a wave of her hand and dropped the bags onto the card table in the center of the room.
“Wait till you see what I bought for you,” she exclaimed happily. “You’ve been wearing those awful clothes for far too long.”
Yasmin could not help but smile. She moved from the bed to the card table and sat down in her usual spot. “You brought me clothes?” she asked.
“Yes, you need them.” She pulled a brightly colored scarf from one of the bags and unfolded it. “Isn’t this a pretty hijab? This is for when we go out together. And that’s not all.”
Go out together?
One by one, she pulled out a pair of tan slacks, a purple, long-sleeved blouse, a sequined tee shirt, a beige sports bra, a pair of matching beige panties, and two pairs of white socks. She was delighted with herself.
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Yasmin. She was close to tears of gratitude. Did she really say that we would go out together?
“You must try them on, but first I imagine you would like to take a proper bath. I don’t suppose you’ve had a real bath since you’ve been here, have you?”
Wide-eyed with gratitude, Yasmin responded, “No, I would love a bath.”
“Then gather up those new things and let’s go.” She knocked on the inside of the door and Abu Salah opened it immediately. “We are going to the bathroom. Keep an eye on things. We’ll be out shortly.”
Pouri guided Yasmin to the small bathroom at the end of the hall. It consisted of a white, chipped, porcelain tub, a sink, and a toilet with a stained-wood seat. The dark linoleum floor was worn through in spots. Old and cheap. But at least it was clean.
Pouri closed and locked the door behind her, went to the tub, and turned on the hot water tap. “Get out of those clothes,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re in for a treat.”
While the tub filled, Pouri unwrapped a bar of green, scented soap and placed it in the soap dish. She squirted bubble bath into the running water. She looked back at Yasmin, who was standing nervously in her bra and panties, covering herself, looking confused as to what to do next.
“Get those off too. Do you want to bathe in your underwear?”
Embarrassed, Yasmin removed her bra and dropped it on the floor then hesitated a bit before stepping out of her panties. She stood there, nervously covering her breasts with one hand while the other attempted to cover her pubic area. Finally, she sighed and dropped both hands to her sides and just stood there watching the tub fill.
Pouri knelt beside the tub stirring bubble bath into the water. As the tub filled, she turned toward Yasmin. Her heart sank when she saw this beautiful woman standing nervously and fully exposed in front of her. Long dark hair, deep green eyes, flawless olive skin, ample rose-tipped breasts, flat, toned stomach, a trimmed patch of silky, black pubic hair, slender muscular legs, and perfect, small feet. Yet, she looked pale and too thin—something Pouri had not noticed during their interrogations. It finally dawned on her that Hezbollah was not treating Iran’s hostage as well as she had requested. And there was nothing she could do to change this without creating dangerous, politically charged friction. Anger and shame washed over her. Torture, even mild food deprivation, was despicable.
I am helping them do this to her.
She abruptly turned away and busily resumed her task of preparing the bath. She dared not look back.
When the tub was half-full, she turned off the water and busily stirred in more bubble bath. She turned back and noticed that Yasmin had not moved. She stood there, arms to her sides, with a strange, inquisitive look on her face.
Pouri, unable to speak, beckoned to Yasmin. She slowly walked toward the tub. When she reached it, she stopped and looked down at Pouri. Their eyes met and they held their gaze. Something small was shifting between them.
Yasmin reached out a hand to steady herself and placed it gently on Pouri’s head. She lifted one leg up and into the tub. Pouri reached out to assist and placed a hand on Yasmin’s hip, guiding her into the tub.
Yasmin settled into the warm, soapy water and luxuriated in the release of tension that flowed out of her body. She looked over at the still kneeling woman beside her and their eyes locked once again. Yasmin slid down into the tub, submerging her entire body and dunking her head under the soapy water.
She emerged with suds and water streaming from her face and hair.