The Prince of Bagram Prison by Alex Carr

September eleventh attacks,” he said reverently. “Twin Towers.”
    K AT SMOOTHED HER SKIRT with the side of her hand and started down the second-floor corridor toward the Dean's Office, her reflection wavering in the floor's mirror polish. She knocked once and waited, heard the General's voice telling her to come in.
    There was a man at the window, a civilian by his dress. Wash-and-wear khakis and a blue cotton shirt. Expensive and decidedly unstylish brown walking shoes. A grandfather's Saturday-afternoon outfit, though there was nothing grandfatherly about him.
    He turned and looked directly at Kat. “Sergeant Caldwell,” he said, using Kat's army rank, her proper rank. And then, with a dismissive nod to the General, “You may go now.”
    The General hesitated before glancing sheepishly at Kat and turning for the door.
    “Sergeant,” the man mused, once they were alone. “I must admit, I'm rather baffled. Most people in your shoes wouldn't have chosen to enlist. You didn't want to be an officer?”
    Kat shook her head. “I don't like giving orders, sir.”
    “And yet here you are—Major.”
    “It's a job, sir.”
    “Fair enough.” The man smiled slightly, mockingly, as if her answer confirmed something he'd known all along. “The General tells me you're a salvation specialist.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And what about you?”
    “What about me, sir?”
    “Do you believe in God and heaven and all that?”
    It was a question people often felt compelled to ask when they found out what Kat's particular area of study was. She answered as she always did. “No, sir.”
    The man's expression changed slightly. From curiosity to admiration, Kat thought. “Your brother's death must have been hard for you.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You were with the interrogation unit at Bagram in the spring of 2002?” he asked.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I understand you were part of the team that handled a young Moroccan boy.”
    Kat nodded, wary of whatever game the man was playing. “Jamal, sir. His name was Jamal.”
    The man turned his back to Kat and looked out the window at the rain sheeting down on the parade grounds. Seventy, Kat thought, seventy-five, fighting the physical signs of his age but showing them nonetheless.
    “Am I being called up for duty, sir?” she asked, though she was fairly certain by now that this wasn't the case. She couldn't imagine the army sending someone three hours just to deliver mobilization orders. Especially someone on a civil-ian's salary.
    “You were close, then? You and the boy.”
    “I'm not sure I would use the term ‘close,’ sir,” Kat said.
    “But you spent quite a bit of time together. He must have come to trust you.”
    Kat shrugged. “No more than the others, sir.”
    “Must have been a bit more,” the man countered, turning back to face her. “After all, I understand it was you who turned him in the end.”
    “It would have happened no matter what, sir.”
    “Have you heard from him since he left Bagram?”
    “No, sir. I was told he would be going to Spain. To Madrid. That was all.”
    Silence then, and the rain, the sound like the rush of incoming surf.
    “Has something happened to him, sir?”
    Lightning flickered in the window and Kat started a slow count, waiting for the thunder to reach them. One mile for each second, a childhood rumor she had never been able to shake.
    “You understand, Sergeant Caldwell, what Jamal was doing in Madrid?”
    Kat nodded. “More or less, sir.”
    Eyes and ears, she had told the boy. All you have to do is watch and listen. And when they come to you with questions you tell them what you know. Jamal had nodded with the eagerness of someone whose entire existence was predicated on his ability to please. They'll take care of you, Jamal.
    And America? The boy had asked.
    Yes, America.
    “He's disappeared,” the man said at last. “A few days ago. We believe he's in serious danger.”
    “I'll tell you what I can, but it's been a long time,