officers glanced at him warily. Each grasped one of his arms just above the elbow. In their other hands, they held submachine guns.
He turned his attention to the officer working the electronic lock. The door must lead into the airport security room , he thought. I’m going to be interrogated . He had only a moment to gather his wits and calm himself. The officers had made a mistake. Maybe his name was similar to someone on their watch list. Or could something have been wrong with his visa? If he calmly explained who he was—a respected Jordanian surgeon—they would have to listen. He might have to wait while they checked out his story, but many people at theKing Hussein Hospital in Amman could confirm his identity and legitimacy. With his hands bound behind his back, he couldn’t see his watch, but he estimated that his flight wouldn’t depart for another two hours. If he remained calm and professional, maybe the security men would clear everything up in time for them to return home that afternoon.
As the lead officer opened the door, Mousa reminded himself not to antagonize the men during the questioning. Regardless of his innocence, he surmised that the security forces in the UAE were like those in Jordan—not to be trifled with.
A wall of hot, dry air rushed into the air-conditioned hallway and dismantled his resolve to stay calm. The door didn’t lead to an interrogation room. It led outside.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded.
The black-clad men shoved him into the naked sun.
“I haven’t done anything!” he screamed. “You’ve made a mistake.”
Then he noticed the vehicle. Parked on the tarmac just in front of the sidewalk sat a gray, late-model van. It had no markings, and he noted with a growing sense of dread that its windows were blacked out. The lead officer hurried to the van and slid open the side door, revealing a stripped out interior with a metal floor. The only seats were the driver’s and the front passenger’s. Mousa stopped, forcing his feet in front of him. He leaned backward against the pressure on his arms.
“I am a respected doctor in Amman.” He attempted to use his most authoritative, professional voice, the one he used to navigate cumbersome hospital bureaucracy. “I demand to speak to your superiors! You have made a career-threatening mistake here.”
He couldn’t allow these men to remove him from the airport grounds. If they did, he knew that the odds of seeing his family again were slim.
As the words left his mouth, the man to his left swung his submachine gun. Mousa caught only a blur of its movement before the blow struck him in the solar plexus, sucking out his breath. His legs buckled. He would have doubled over in pain, but the men held him aloft. The desert sun became blurry as his diaphragm spasmed in a failed attempt to draw a breath.
The men shoved him into the van. When he landed on the scuffed aluminum floor, a screw in the floorboard cut a gash along his cheek. The men jumped in around him and slammed the door. One jerked his head up by his hair, bringing tears to his eyes. The officer then pulled a black sleep mask, the type the airlines gave out in first class on overseas flights, over his eyes.
In short gasps, Mousa’s breath returned. The air tasted of oil and sweat. Once he recovered his faculties, he opened his mouth to yell again. This time he resisted. The officers had a plan, and telling him anything was not part of that plan. As the adrenaline coursing through his body dissipated, the indignation over his arrest and the frantic urge to be released was replaced by a new emotion: fear. The sudden realization that something more serious than a faulty visa was behind his arrest opened a pit of darkness in his gut.
Before his mind could race through the possible permutations of his predicament, the van stopped. They’d traveled less than five minutes. He heard the door slide open, letting in a deafening noise along with the hot desert
He turned his attention to the officer working the electronic lock. The door must lead into the airport security room , he thought. I’m going to be interrogated . He had only a moment to gather his wits and calm himself. The officers had made a mistake. Maybe his name was similar to someone on their watch list. Or could something have been wrong with his visa? If he calmly explained who he was—a respected Jordanian surgeon—they would have to listen. He might have to wait while they checked out his story, but many people at theKing Hussein Hospital in Amman could confirm his identity and legitimacy. With his hands bound behind his back, he couldn’t see his watch, but he estimated that his flight wouldn’t depart for another two hours. If he remained calm and professional, maybe the security men would clear everything up in time for them to return home that afternoon.
As the lead officer opened the door, Mousa reminded himself not to antagonize the men during the questioning. Regardless of his innocence, he surmised that the security forces in the UAE were like those in Jordan—not to be trifled with.
A wall of hot, dry air rushed into the air-conditioned hallway and dismantled his resolve to stay calm. The door didn’t lead to an interrogation room. It led outside.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded.
The black-clad men shoved him into the naked sun.
“I haven’t done anything!” he screamed. “You’ve made a mistake.”
Then he noticed the vehicle. Parked on the tarmac just in front of the sidewalk sat a gray, late-model van. It had no markings, and he noted with a growing sense of dread that its windows were blacked out. The lead officer hurried to the van and slid open the side door, revealing a stripped out interior with a metal floor. The only seats were the driver’s and the front passenger’s. Mousa stopped, forcing his feet in front of him. He leaned backward against the pressure on his arms.
“I am a respected doctor in Amman.” He attempted to use his most authoritative, professional voice, the one he used to navigate cumbersome hospital bureaucracy. “I demand to speak to your superiors! You have made a career-threatening mistake here.”
He couldn’t allow these men to remove him from the airport grounds. If they did, he knew that the odds of seeing his family again were slim.
As the words left his mouth, the man to his left swung his submachine gun. Mousa caught only a blur of its movement before the blow struck him in the solar plexus, sucking out his breath. His legs buckled. He would have doubled over in pain, but the men held him aloft. The desert sun became blurry as his diaphragm spasmed in a failed attempt to draw a breath.
The men shoved him into the van. When he landed on the scuffed aluminum floor, a screw in the floorboard cut a gash along his cheek. The men jumped in around him and slammed the door. One jerked his head up by his hair, bringing tears to his eyes. The officer then pulled a black sleep mask, the type the airlines gave out in first class on overseas flights, over his eyes.
In short gasps, Mousa’s breath returned. The air tasted of oil and sweat. Once he recovered his faculties, he opened his mouth to yell again. This time he resisted. The officers had a plan, and telling him anything was not part of that plan. As the adrenaline coursing through his body dissipated, the indignation over his arrest and the frantic urge to be released was replaced by a new emotion: fear. The sudden realization that something more serious than a faulty visa was behind his arrest opened a pit of darkness in his gut.
Before his mind could race through the possible permutations of his predicament, the van stopped. They’d traveled less than five minutes. He heard the door slide open, letting in a deafening noise along with the hot desert
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