Firefight Read Free

his body
trembling even more violently than before.
    He was awoken from his cold-induced stupor by water, a
bucket of the stuff being thrown over him. His body temperature
was so low that he couldn't tell how hot it really was,
but to him it felt boiling. He screamed. Then he felt cold
again.
    The two men were back. They were standing in front of
him.
    'Please,' he shivered. 'Don't hurt me. Please.'
    'You have information that we need,' the American
insisted.
    'I do not know what you are talking about. I promise
you, I do not know. If I knew, I would tell you.'
    'Does the name Faisal Ahmed mean anything to you?'
    Abdul-Qahhar blinked. Now more than ever he needed
to sound convincing.
    'I have never heard that name in my entire life. I swear
to you.' His wet clothes stuck to his skin.
    The two men glanced at each other and something seemed
to pass between them. Then the American looked over at
the tinted dark window and nodded. 'Bring them in,' he
called.
    Moments later, the door opened again. Two more men
walked in, both wearing blue overcoats. One of them was
pushing a steel trolley, the other had a shiny metal drip
stand. They stopped just by Abdul-Qahhar's chair, then both
of them pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and wrapped
cloth masks around their faces.
    One of the masked men spoke. 'You sure you don't want
to take him to the waterboarding room?'
    'No need,' the American replied. 'We'll have this guy
talking in no time.'
    Abdul-Qahhar started to shake more violently as he
watched one of them hand a plastic bag full of colourless
liquid to the drip stand. It was the second man, however,
who spoke to him.
    'I'm going to insert a needle for the drip,' he said, his
voice muffled slightly by the mask. 'It will hurt less if you
do not struggle.'
    Abdul-Qahhar felt his eyes bulging as the medic approached
with a small needle. He started banging his restrained arms
up and down against the chair, but it made no difference to
the medic. He placed one gloved hand on the prisoner's arm
and slowly slid the needle into one of the plump veins halfway
up. Abdul-Qahhar gasped. The medic attached a long plastic
tube to the pouch of liquid suspended from the drip stand,
then turned and undid a small screw-top cap at the end of
the needle hanging limply from Abdul-Qahhar's arm. A jet
of blood spurted momentarily on to the concrete floor, but
the medic soon had the drip tube attached. He turned to
the interrogators. 'It's ready,' he said.
    The American nodded, then looked blankly at Abdul-
Qahhar. 'SP-17,' he said cryptically. 'Developed by the KGB.
    The most effective truth serum we have at our disposal. Of
course, if you still refuse to talk, then we have other means
of extracting the information we want.'
    He paused, as though waiting for that to sink in, then
bent over and placed his face only inches away from his
captive. 'It's up to you what method you choose, but let me
tell you: by the time we've finished with you, you're gonna
be singing like a fucking canary.'
    Abdul-Qahhar closed his eyes.
    It is a mistake.
    I have done nothing wrong.
    I have to believe that.
    'Please,' he whispered. 'I have nothing to hide. If you
would only tell me what this is all about, maybe I could
be of some assistance to you—'
    But the American had already stepped away and nodded
at the medic, who turned a valve on the drip tube. Abdul-Qahhar
felt something cold rush into the vein in his arm.
    There was silence in the room. Abdul-Qahhar, feeling his
teeth chattering again, clenched them together to stop it
happening. After a minute or so, however, he released them.
It suddenly seemed as though the room was not so cold.
There was warmth, or maybe it was just him. The light
didn't seem so harsh; it was softer, warmer. He glanced at
the needle in his arm, then smiled as he understood what
was happening. It was the drugs. The drugs were making
him feel better. Maybe, he thought to himself, this was what
Westerners felt like when they drank alcohol.
    'I'm