XI: Prison Grove

The final briefing was never something Sayid enjoyed or cared to sit through. If he were to be blunt and honest with himself about it, it bored him, and he knew it interested none of his coworkers. His supervisor tried to make it compelling, talking with them in informal tones, impressing upon them the necessity of their work and the duty to the great state, but they had heard this all before. It was always required. It had not been interesting since the third repetition.

The supervisor remarked upon the capture, the people involved, ways that they might be broken, how they could approach each individual in terms of a tactic. That was more compelling to Sayid than the rhetoric about Iraq. Virtually anything would have been, though. For all that we decried the Americans' jingoism, we seem plenty open to the exercise of it ourselves, he thought, and then brought his senses back to the matter at hand. From across the cheap table, he caught Omar smiling towards him, as if the man could read his thoughts. He drew himself straighter at that smile, wondering if he should take the risk to sketch a salute towards Omar. He didn't, though. It was unnecessary.

The supervisor was now discussing the likelihood of any of those captured to break, imploring them to exercise great care. This was a more sensitive issue than most, and Sayid murmured obligingly along with the rest of them. He would exercise care. He was always careful. He had learned that over the past few years, and not just caution in the field of torture, either.

They had already received their responsibilities, so there was nothing to be said on the issue of delegation. They were only encouraged to work as a team, to talk with others at all time, to not rule out any possibilities of what they would encounter or be told. The supervisor looked around the table at all of them, too quickly for Sayid or any of the others to meet the man's eyes. "Let them know you mean business," the supervisor said.

Sayid thought: Before I started in this line of work, I would have taken that as a suggestion to threaten. Now, he knew, it was only an encouragement of professionalism. He knew as well that neither he nor Omar, nor any of the others seated here, needed any reminders to conduct themselves expertly. He started to file out with the others, and saw Omar motion to the hallway. The fellow needed to talk, and Sayid was quite willing to chat. It would be a few minutes before the traitors were brought in. Talking with Omar was less of a struggle, as well.

––

It was a solemn matter, almost furtive. They grasped hold of whatever they could, what little shreds of humanity they had left, amidst cracked teeth, split lips, the faces of both men and women bruised and black-eyed. There was little light in a place like this, though he could feel the sun glint down upon him as he walked away from the first session and outside into one of the breezeways, looking for Omar.

The one thing he liked about Omar was that, on some level, his friend understood the need for solitude and secrecy in what they were doing. Omar never talked business around him, and for that little kindness, he was grateful. They talked about the football leagues and the latest films that had shown up on the black market, nothing but niceties, and that sort of idle chat always took some of the weight off of Sayid's shoulders. Today, however, he could do none of that. Omar was nowhere to be found. He wished he wasn't separated from his friend. They reassured each other about what they were doing, and Sayid was sure that he could have used that today. He could only hope that he would not disgrace himself, from his own unevenness.

He did not have the chance to consider it. The alarm rang, and he took his pistol out of his holster, preparing himself. The shouts from another path a few buildings over told him he had nothing to be afraid of at the moment, but he went over that way to investigate all the same, despite the relative lack of threat. He had to be sure. If he was being evaluated, he had to do his best, and although he did not suspect it, he was paranoid of it; there was always a chance, and if he was caught off his guard, he would be the next one interrogated for failure to support the state. Given his disinterest in the ideology, he was frankly surprised it hadn't already happened.

His prisoner could be let sit there, alone, for a while. The man had been uncooperative, and he got better results if they were left alone for at least a couple of hours before the interrogation was redoubled. That way, the element of uncertainty worked in his favor: When would he come back? What would he do when he came back? He knew from previous interrogations how well the tactic worked. Besides, although he would never have admitted it if asked, he was curious what had caused the alarm. He started for the other causeways, his arm taut and his face feeling even more tense.

––

Sayid had not expected the escapee to show any sort of contrition for the attempt. He was not sure what he expected out of the newly captured prisoner, but he was nonetheless disturbed by what he saw. The face was blank, slack, as if that of an idiot. On the wrists that they'd handcuffed before he got there, the veins stood out in sharp blue contrast, protruding from the skin of the man's arms like a dual portion of a topographic map. Some of his fellows stood around the man, huddled as if they could hope to read the man's mind from simple surveillance.

There were many suggestions, and their variety unnerved him. They had their orders. Their orders were not to beat the man to death, nor to fix a rusty, outdated bayonet to a rifle and stab the man, neither to hang him (shooting was the prescribed method), nor to inquire of him why he had escaped, what he hoped to accomplish by that. He agreed with the last one, the questions, but he knew better than to ask.

Why did his fellows not agree with the party line on escapees? They were to be interred and then, if it was requested, shot. It did not need to be a crueler fate than that, and he was disturbed by all the enthusiasm for alternative courses of action. Perhaps he had a weak stomach for this business. It gnawed at him a little, before he shook his head, cleared his mind, and looked where the ruffle of paper had just sounded, trying to ignore the sound of another Guardsman putting the boot into the escapee's side.

Someone had the man's identification papers out and was passing them around. Sayid took the papers and stared at them. He would have gasped, but he did not dare. "I knew your relative," he told the prisoner, and received no answer. The captive lay there, staring up at the sky, mute. He pressed his lips together for a moment, timing himself. "Noor Abed-Jazeem."

"Nobody calls her – "

"Noor. Yes, I have heard that." Sayid's voice was quiet. He guessed it did not sound too urgent. He hoped that he had not already given himself away. "Whom is she to you?"

The prisoner's face had a stopped twitch, as if the man would have spoken again given a chance. Sayid had every intention of listening to him talk further. He could only think of clockwork, of a watch stopped just before it was about to tick to a crucial few seconds. However, Omar had drawn up beside him, and he glanced towards the taller man, felt confusion lance through him at an expression of his friend's that he happened to catch. "The man has already admitted complicity with the journalist's communiqué to us, Sayid. That is why he was brought in to us." Omar's voice grew slightly harsh. "Do you know an acquaintance of his?"

Sayid wanted to say, Yes, of course I know an acquaintance of his. I know his cousin, or second-cousin, whatever she is to him to share his father's brother's name and to also be from Tikrit. I know the rich family, and I know her. I have known everything about her since I was a child. He could not say that, though. He did not dare say that. He knew quite well what would happen to him if he admitted familiarity, because familiarity was the same as complicity, even when it actually was nothing of the sort.

He shook his head at Omar, trying not to make it too forceful, trying not to signal at all to his friend that he had any stake in whether Omar believed him. Trying to fool an interrogator was a difficult process, he knew, and he disliked being on the other end of the procedure. "No, sir," he responded evenly. "Only in passing." He smiled at Omar, knowing he was losing his only chance to find Nadia. He would get no sleep tonight, he knew, but it was better to lose sleep than to lose his life through shooting or hanging. Unlike the escaped prisoner, it would likely be the latter fate for him. He was a Republican Guard. He was expected to be the better soldier. He had done his best to be so, no matter the cost.

He would continue that path, he resolved. As much as he suddenly wanted to find her again, never seeing Nadia would have to be the sacrifice for keeping himself alive. Feeling his feet shuffle beneath him, he stepped back, leaned against the stone wall of a nearby building, and did his level best not to meet Omar's glance again. He was not a good liar. He was aware of that. He hoped Omar would not be aware of it as well.