July 17, 2009
The rundown hotel room was even worse than Sebastin had imagined—the windows were barred shut, the air conditioner broken, and the stagnant air stifling. He sat waiting on its musty bed, motionless, the scorching sun baking the tiny room. Succumbing to the heat, Sebastin’s imagination steadily incinerated his grasp on his surroundings. The smell of the hundreds of sticky grungy bodies that had doubtless occupied the room before him was permanently embedded in its walls. No amount of cleaning, if it had even been considered, would ever dissipate the stench.
Restless and agitated, Sebastin moved to the room’s rusted iron table, which in some earlier age must have passed for acceptable furniture. Sitting lifeless in its battered chair, Sebastin relinquished control to his imagination far too easily.
He envisioned those countless bodies that had writhed together on the bed beside him or had drunk themselves into oblivion there. Each image was as vivid and real as the reflection of his pallid face in the mirror in front him.
Sweat trickled onto his lips. The engulfing foul air and the oppressive taste of fear was unbearable. Hell could be no worse.
When M. Mohammad strode in, he seemed to sense none of the bodies Sebastin saw, or if he did, it didn’t bother him. Mohammad wore a dark suit with no tie, and was more American than Sebastin had envisioned from their two phone conversations. The reality of the impending meeting flooded Sebastin’s thoughts, abruptly releasing him from the turmoil of his delusions.
Two men dressed entirely in white followed closely behind Mohammad. Sebastin hadn’t known how many there would be. Had it just been these two or an army of men screaming of Jihad, he wouldn’t have been surprised. The room was already small—with these three, it became unbearably claustrophobic.
Sebastin remained seated, unconsciously running his hands along the edge of the decrepit old table. Mohammad, in control of the room as soon as he entered, took a seat across from him. The two men in white stood silently at his back, positioned deliberately in front of the window. All three stared intensely at Sebastin. For a few torturous moments, nothing was said.
“Tell me all about this list of yours, Sebastin.”
Even if he wanted to, how could he? Who would believe a story about a list of books and an intern? Who would believe how he got that list of books? None of this would make sense. None of this, he feared, would do anything to help him make it out of this room safely. Instead, he told Mohammad again what he had already told him on the phone twice. “It has 5,000 names on it. They are people who are on watch lists . . . I called a few to make sure it was real. That’s how I contacted you. That’s all I know.”
“Why is my name on it?” It was the same question as before. How long before he just asked for the list?
“I don’t know. I told you before. I don’t know. The list doesn’t say why you’re on it. It just has your name. That’s all I know. I don’t know anything else.”
The air was stifling. Sebastin opened the top buttons on his shirt. He seemed the only one in the room who noticed the heat—the only one uncomfortable.
“What other lists have my name on them?”
“I only have this one list. That’s the only one. I don’t have any others. It’s—”
“Who gave you this list?”
This was the only question Sebastin had anticipated and the only one for which he had rehearsed a response. He needed to sound confident. “It was given to ACCL anonymously,” he heard himself stammer. He thankfully switched to automatic as he continued, “That’s how we get all of our information. We never know who gives it to us. That’s the only way we can get so much.” He sounded credible. He had to sound credible. The argument was logical. It made sense. But he wasn’t talking to others who were like him. Were they paying attention to how logical his argument was or to how little he was saying?
Mohammad slammed his fist on the table, his ring clanging loudly on the iron. “Do you know anything?” Mohammad stood up to pace the tiny room. He came back and slammed his fist again. “Do you know anything I asked you?”
Sebastin cowered in his chair. “Are you going to kill me?” How had he come to this?
The two men behind Mohammad stood motionless, enshrouded in the streaming sunlight blazing through the window. If they were laughing at him, he couldn’t tell.
Mohammad looked on impassively at Sebastin. “You have been watching too many movies, Sebastin. I have no intention of killing you, insha’Allah.”
What he had in his pocket, or more precisely what he didn’t have in his pocket was the only assurance of that, Sebastin reminded himself. He had torn out only a few pages of the list to bring with him. The rest of the list he had left on his desk at home, with Mohammad’s name prominently highlighted. If anything happened, it would be found, eventually.
“Let us see the list.”
That’s what this meeting was for; that’s what they had planned. Sebastin slowly moved his hand to his pocket and took hold of the two folded papers. He looked at the men in the sunlight, their faces obscured in shadow. He hoped they were watching how slowly he was moving; no sudden movements, nothing to worry about.
“What is this?” Mohammad asked.
“It’s part of the list.”
“Where is the rest?”
“It’s not here.”
A barely perceptible movement in Mohammad’s eyes. Before Sebastin could register what was happening, one of the men in white leapt over the corner of the bed, found his way behind Sebastin, and swiftly kicked the chair Sebastin was sitting on. Sebastin folded onto himself as his forehead caught the edge of the table on his way to the floor.
“Next time, you bring the full list, yeah?”
He groaned a yes. As he tried to pick himself up, the man dug his foot deep into his shoulder. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“What am I supposed to do with two pages, Sebastin?”
“Call them . . . just call them . . . you can see for yourself if the list is good or not. That’s what you said you wanted to do on the phone.”
The man’s foot moved closer to his neck and started pressing down.
Mohammad handed the sheet to the one still standing in the sun by the window.
A few words were spoken that Sebastin couldn’t understand. Mohammad looked down at Sebastin and translated. “It seems he thinks it might be better if we use your phone. Do you mind?”
Sebastin moved his free arm to his pocket to take the phone out, and held it up feebly for Mohammad. Mohammad stepped aside so the second man could reach over and take it from Sebastin’s hand.
The only sound was the man in white making the phone calls. The other three waited in silence as the calls were placed, one after the other, down through the entire list. Words were spoken, but Sebastin understood none of it. He was dizzy. The sunlight was still blazing through the window, picking up specks of dust and debris in the room on its way to burn Sebastin’s eyes. He could do nothing but look straight up, struggling to keep out of the blinding sunlight. It was only when he saw the iron table and the smear of the still-fresh blood trail that it registered that his head was still stinging and the wet in his hair might not be sweat.
There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for all the calls to be made. Wait to see if Stephen’s list was as good as he thought it was. Wait to see what would happen next.
Sebastin woke to the sound of the three talking hurriedly. He had blacked out—he didn’t know for how long, but he suspected it wasn’t more than a few minutes. Sitting up on the floor with his back to the bed, he moved a little, but not without an immense amount of pain. His head was still stinging hot, but he was cold and sweating, and his shoulder and neck where the man had pinned him down for who knows how long were throbbing.
He hesitantly touched his forehead. He winced as he felt the still warm blood. He gingerly slid his finger through his soaked hair to find the extent of the cut…
“Sebastin, good of you to come back to us.”
“You are a lucky man. We will buy the list from you. We also want you to go back and ask your sources for more information for us.”
What should he say? What could get him out of this alive? “I don’t know how I can get more information. I told you, all of it was given to us anonymously.” There, that was right.
“Find a way to get a message to them, Sebastin. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
How much were they going to pay? How much is it worth to them? He started as high as he thought he could get away with, but how was he supposed to estimate the value of this list or how much they had access to? “I want five million.” It was fifty times what he was getting paid by Rajive.
“Dollars? You were hoping for five million dollars? Why not fifty million, Sebastin? Stop the joking. Sebastin, you lie on this filthy floor in your own blood, afraid for your life, and yet you still beg for money. Maybe we should just check your home. You wouldn’t have left the list there, would you? You’re not that stupid, are you? We could give you nothing, Sebastin, and just take the list. What would you do then? I think, Sebastin, that you are in no position to ask for anything.” Mohammad cast a slow pitying glance down at Sebastin before continuing, “But we’ll be fair. You and I will do business again. We’ll call you to tell you what we will pay.”
A kick to the head and he almost blacked out again.
Another kick. And he did.