He held up his hands, told the guards who he was, and went down to his knees.

Next thing he knew agents surrounded him.

The barrels of six Glocks pointed at his head.

47

47

Hashim’s hands and feet were shackled, and his wrists chained to an unmovable metal desk. He was in a room in the pallid basement of the Hoover building. Across the room, a camera was directed toward him, its red light on.

There were voices on the other side of the door. The door handle moved, then stopped, as if the person on the other side were thinking before entering.

The door opened.

The energy in the room shifted as Adrien Kurt walked in.

“We’ll be right outside, Doctor Kurt,” one of the two armed military men said when they closed the door.

Hashim stared at Kurt. There was something familiar about him.

“I trust you were read your Miranda Rights,” Kurt said, as he sat across from Hashim.

“Yes,” Hashim answered.

“So, you understand that everything you say can and will be used against you?”

“Yes.”

“And that everything you say here is being recorded?”

“I understand.”

“Good. My name is Adrien Kurt. I’m a psychiatrist and here to determine whether or not you’re of sound mind.”

“I understand.”

Kurt leaned back in the metal chair. It scraped against the concrete floor.

The two men studied each other. In spite of Kurt’s grim pose, Hashim saw a warmth in the eyes of the man across from him.

“How did you get to America?” Kurt asked.

“We have many ways to get what we need. Much like how your intelligence gets what it needs.”

“And, you’re willing to give us that information?”

“Yes.”

“Who knows you’re here?”

“I would think everyone by now.”

“Not everyone. Who knew you were leaving Mosul?”

“No one. It was my decision alone.”

“But you got a passport as ‘Nicolas Sandor.’”

“Those who provided me with it did not know its purpose.”

“So, no one knows why you came here?”

“Correct.”

“So, why are you here? And what’s the purpose of your surrender? If indeed that’s what it is.”

Hashim’s nose was running and he tried to wipe it, but his hands couldn’t reach his face chained to the metal table.

Kurt took out a small packet of tissues from his jacket pocket. He removed one, and wiped Hashim’s nose for him.

He folded the tissue inside a clean one and tossed it into the trashcan against the wall.

“Thank you.”

This was a far cry from the way Hashim’s interrogations had gone. He’d studied the Inquisition of the Middle Ages, the judicial system of the Roman Catholic Church, whose aim was to combat heresy, and the techniques of torture the U.S. military had perfected in their black sites. Hashim learned much from his fellow men.

“I’ll ask again. What is your purpose here?”