“Nope. That monster will never see the light of day. You don’t have to worry about being recognized.”
She nodded. “You sure he doesn’t speak English?”
He frowned. “Ninety-nine percent sure.”
Viviana sighed. “If he’s never getting out it doesn’t matter anyway. I just thought I’d ask. Force of habit.”
Agent Cosgrove said nothing to that. He was too socially awkward, amongst other things, to tolerate in long doses.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Can I bring in my coffee?”
“Yeah. He’s handcuffed.”
“Then I’m ready.”
They walked down a long stone corridor until they reached the cell. Agent Cosgrove nodded to a soldier who stood guard at the interrogation room currently housing al-Raqqah. The soldier turned the key, opened the door, and waited for Viviana and Cosgrove to walk inside. Once they were in, she heard the door close and the key turn, locking them in.
This was so routine Viviana didn’t even bother to glance at the prisoner as she took one of the seats opposite him at the table. She sipped on her coffee while flipping through the folder of notes Agent Cosgrove had given her. Without looking up, she introduced herself in Arabic to al-Raqqah.
“My name is Dr. Viviana Lincoln.” She saw no reason to lie about her name. Translators weren’t exactly hot targets to the jihadi cells. “I’m only a linguist, not an interrogator. Will you speak to a woman or would you prefer to wait until a male translator is available…however long that might take?”
She reverted to English. “Can we get some air in here, agent? And preferably some food.” She continued browsing through the notes.
“Yeah,” Cosgrove told her. He banged twice on the door. “I’ll be right back.”
“Will you speak to a woman?” Viviana asked again in Arabic. She blew out a breath as she rifled through his rap sheet. He definitely would never see the light of day again. “Will you speak to a woman?”
“Naam.”
Naam—Yes.
Viviana finally glanced up. She stilled. Her breathing hitched as her gaze flicked over his face. “What the fuck did they do to you?” she rhetorically murmured in English.
Muhammad al-Jihad al-Raqqah had been tortured so badly as to be unrecognizable. She wouldn’t have been able to tell what he looked like had she not been holding a photo of him in her hand. The forty-year-old jihadist was handsome as demons go. Or at least he had been.
Viviana started feeling nauseous. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the other lacerated and purple with bruises. What looked to be lashes from a whip had cut up his face, some of the wounds still seeping. Remnants of a beard that looked to have been painfully yanked out in patches matted into deep gashes. She lifted a shaky hand to her mouth. This had never been part of her contract.
“Air’s on high and danishes are in my hand,” Cosgrove said as the door closed and locked behind him. “Will he speak to a woman?”
“Yes.” She craned her neck to look at Cosgrove. “But this woman won’t be speaking to him. What the fuck, agent?” Angry or not, Viviana was careful not to use his name in front of the prisoner. Unlike translators, interrogators were high on retribution lists. “I do not translate in situations like this and you damn well know it!”
“I know,” Cosgrove said. He sighed and set the danishes down in front of her. “They insisted on a translator with security clearance though and you—”
She held up a palm. “Do you really think I can eat something that resembles the oozing, pus-filled slashes on his face?”
“Doctor, can we please get on with this?”
Viviana blinked. “I just said I’m not doing this. I do not agree with tactics like this used on anyone and I won’t help.” She set down her coffee and splayed her hands. “Period, the end.”
Cosgrove’s face turned red. “I’ll make sure you never translate for another camel fucker in your life if you keep this up!”
Her green-blue eyes narrowed. “How. Dare. You.” Her back stiffened. “Even if you wielded such clout, which you don’t, I won’t take part in this.”
He ran a hand through his balding hair. “We shouldn’t be talking in front of him on the off-chance he knows English, but fuck it at this point.” He grunted. “What do I have to do to get your compliance?”
Viviana glanced back at the prisoner. The one eye he could see out of was trained on her. She swallowed against the bile in her throat. She wasn’t an eye for an eye type of person. She loathed this barbaric warlord who was responsible for the deaths of so many Americans, but what the CIA had done to al-Raqqah was making her feel sorry for him—the last emotion on earth she wanted to feel towards a terrorist.
