He’d thought about that often in the ensuing years. Of why he’d forsaken his path to freedom to save a woman’s life. He had no answer still. She’d prevented his death at high risk of her own demise the day before, and that had triggered some strand of loyalty he didn’t know he possessed. She could have let him die, but did not, and that had meant something to him. He’d returned the favor, and in so doing had been captured again, but the conditions had changed. The man who’d captured him—now a second time—had appreciated what he’d done, and while it hadn’t earned him his freedom, he had been removed from his solitary cell and given the apartment. It was still a prison, but better than anything else he could expect, and now even that was coming to an end.
Marley closed the cell door and said, “Hey, Ghost. I just wanted to make sure you had everything ready to go tonight. We’ll have to inspect anything you want to take with you.”
Rahman nodded, saying, “I just have the backpack you gave me. It’s full of toiletries, socks, and some writings I’ve done.”
Marley set down the duffel, saying, “Here’s a change of clothes. You won’t be wearing the prison jumpsuit on the trip.”
Rahman smiled and said, “So no American will question who I am?”
Marley smiled back and said, “You know the game.”
Rahman took the duffel and opened it, surprised to feel another bout of melancholy in the chore. He’d come to like Marley, not the least because of their conversations. Inquisitive, the man had no malice, and he’d literally been only one of two who’d ever held a conversation with Rahman outside of an interrogation.
Honestly, the worst part of his incarceration was the loneliness. At first he’d been visited by all manner of intelligence personnel, but, as his information had grown cold, so had the visits. If it hadn’t been for Marley, he might have literally gone mad.
Through the years, outside of his duties as warden of the one-man prison, Marley had visited once or twice a month, having long conversations with Rahman. Initially, Rahman had been convinced it was simply a new interrogation technique—trying to befriend him to give up information—but eventually, Rahman had come to believe the visits were genuine. Marley never pried for anything useful, instead wanting to learn about the root causes that had brought Rahman to his prison. Wanting to learn his enemy. Unlike the other interrogators, he’d never even asked Rahman his real name, only calling him “Ghost.”
They’d developed a mutual respect for each other. Not quite a friendship, but no longer hated enemies either, and Rahman was sorry to see it end. Even as that respect had allowed the Ghost to put his escape plan in motion.
Rahman sorted through the clothes, saying, “Where am I going?”
Marley said, “You don’t even know where you are. Would me telling you matter?”
Rahman chuckled and said, “No, I suppose not.” That wasn’t true. Not only did he know Mr. Black’s true name, but he also knew precisely where he was and most definitely wanted to know where he was going.
He stopped his work and looked at Marley, saying, “Will I at least get to say goodbye to Mike?”
Mike was Marley’s son, and the only other person with whom Rahman had normal conversations in ten years of captivity. He was seventeen years old, a senior in high school and about to join the Army. After the Hamas attack in Israel, he’d been assigned to write a paper on the conflict for a senior class, and Marley had asked the Ghost if he’d help his son understand the intricacies. Marley suspected it had much more to do with his son’s future employment than any high school writing assignment, and had agreed.
They’d spent numerous study sessions together, at first under the direct supervision of Marley, but later, only under the watchful eye of the camera, with Rahman handcuffed throughout. Rahman knew the camera had no audio and had put a nascent plan in motion. While he had faithfully answered Mike’s questions, giving him a view from his eyes of what was transpiring in the Middle East—honestly wanting to teach the boy about a labyrinth of competing interests half a world away—he really had another agenda.
Using a little manipulation, he’d innocuously learned the location of the prison, the closest town, the father’s name, the mother’s name, and the future career of the son, among a host of other things. Eventually, once he was sure he’d lulled the father into not spending each session staring at the camera feed, he’d begun working on the son, with one goal in mind: access to the son’s cell phone.
Marley said, “Unfortunately, no. Mike’s got an away baseball game. You won’t see him again. I’m sorry.”
Rahman said, “Me too. You have raised a good man. He’s smart. Will he even know I’m gone?”
“Not unless he asks. He eventually will, because I’m leaving this job. It’s why you’re being transferred to another prison. One that has others like you, at least for a time.”
Rahman said, “I’m sorry I won’t get to say goodbye.”
He meant the words, but what he was truly sorry about was not being able to use Mike’s cell phone one last time to confirm his final message had been received.
During the latter parts of his tutoring, he’d convinced Mike he wanted to show him various websites about the war that he couldn’t access because of his internet restrictions. The son had told him there wasn’t anything he could do about that, and Rahman had raised the question, crossing thethreshold: Did his son have a cell phone? They could use that as a hotspot, and his father wouldn’t even know.
Mike had agreed, feeling like he was learning something secret and not seeing the harm. The Ghost had connected his computer to the phone through Bluetooth, and, in between typing in Arabic for websites, had sent a message through one website in particular, all the while giving Mike various excuses of what he was doing.
He didn’t even know if the website was still monitored, had no idea if it was still being used by the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps of Iran, but it was the only contact he had. On their next tutoring session, he’d found a reply.
He’d begun conversing through the website at each tutoring session, conducting digital dead drops right under the eyes of Mike and the camera, setting up what he hoped would be his escape. Using the American’s own insistence on the secrecy of his existence to help him, he explained the minimal guard force and the fact that he was the only prisoner. He had begun to hope the IRGC was actively contemplating trying to help and then had had his hopes dashed when he’d learned he was being transferred. He knew there was no way he would be able to duplicate what he’d done here. Even if he could, it had taken ten years to get this far.
He’d tried to glean his future prison location through Mike but got nowhere. Mike had no idea. His final message was simply that he was being moved and the date. He didn’t even know if the IRGC had received it.
Marley said, “Hey, I’ll be the one driving you tonight, so at least you’ll have that. We won’t be leaving until after midnight, so you’ll have a final meal here. I won’t make you eat the microwave stuff. What would you like? I can get whatever you want, my treat. We have a Middle Eastern deli that serves shawarma, falafel, hummus, whatever.”
Rahman smiled at his outreach and said, “I’d rather have you stay for dinner just once. I’m tired of eating by myself. Will you do that?”
“Hey, we’ve talked about this. I don’t eat that Arab stuff. It made me sick in Iraq, and I swore off it forever. Honestly, nobody else here eats it either. If you don’t ask for something, that restaurant will go broke.”
