12. New York, December 13, 2017.
I slept fitfully that night. The Chief and I had agreed that if we heard nothing from Barb by the morning New York time, he’d contact a high-level guy he knew at the State Department, but that we didn’t have enough to go on right now to justify waking him up at this late hour.
Finally, around 3 AM, I dozed off, only to be awakened by my phone interrupting my dream, in which Barb was stripped to the waist and I was attaching her to a whipping frame, only it was in my office rather than in the courtyard of the Molabayo Detention Center. I glanced at the screen. It was Barb’s number.
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“Thank God, you’re OK, Barb. I was very worried. Why didn’t you answer my email?” I said, happy to hear from her but a bit peeved that I had worried for nothing.
A voice, definitely not Barb’s, but rather, male, fluent in English but with an accent that sounded African replied, “Is this Jerry Goldman?” he asked.
“Yes, it is. Who is this and how did you get Barbara Moore’s phone?”
“It is a pleasure to speak with you, sir. I used to read your newspaper all the time when I lived in New York. Rich businessmen would often leave it in my taxi and I like to keep up with things that are going on in the world. I believe I remember some stories you wrote from Afghanistan, or was it Iraq. Your country is so violent, always getting into wars, is it not?” he cooed.
Now I was very concerned. “I am guessing you didn’t call me up at this hour on my private phone to discuss US foreign policy. So who are you and where is Barbara Moore?”
There was a pause. “My name is Tuma. I am with the Security Services here in Zilawe. Ms. Moore is safely in custody. Or in custody at any rate.”
“Listen, Mr. Tuma,” I said, annoyed now. “Ms. Moore is an accredited reporter with this paper covering the case of Ms. Meghan Shanahan in your country, a case, which, may I say, was a gross miscarriage of justice.”
“I read your editorial the other day, Mr. Goldman. Your paper can bloviate all you like, but Zilawe is a sovereign country. We have our laws and Ms. Moore has violated them and must face the consequences.”
“What laws has she violated?” I demanded.
“She was admitted to cover the flogging of Meghan Shanahan on the express condition that she not film it. However, not only did she film it, she sent a video file to you. You did receive it did you not?’
There seemed little to be gained in denying it. “I did.”
“And did you watch it?”
“Yes, I watched it,” I admitted. There seemed nothing to be gained from telling him how many times I watched it nor what I did while watching.
“And what did you think about it?”
I thought for a moment. If he had Barb, I needed to be careful. “It was brutal, horrible by our standards. Nevertheless, I understand that different countries follow different paths.”
“That is indeed so, Mr. Goldman. At least you have been wise enough so far not to post this video on any public web site, including that of your paper,” Tuma said. “If you care about Ms. Moore’s welfare, I suggest you do not publish this nor leak it to the outside world.”
“OK, I won’t.” I said. “But I don’t think Ms. Moore filmed that video and I don’t think you do either. Nor do I think she sent that email to me, even though it was from her account. Email accounts get hacked all the time, as I’m sure you know. I’m going to have our IT department look at it as soon as it’s morning here and I’ll bet they’ll find she was hacked.”
“Possibly,” Tuma replied, “But it doesn’t matter. Ms .Moore will very shortly confess to having shot the video and sending it to you.”
“Why would she confess to something she didn’t do?” I asked.
“In Zilawe, the Security Services have wide latitude to use extraordinary methods to solve crimes.”
“Extraordinary methods?” I asked, though I was pretty sure he didn’t mean serving them stale donuts.
“Permit me to show you, Mr. Goldman.” A video image came on the screen. Tuma was passing through a doorway into a small tiled room. The camera panned around the room before coming to rest on a metal table, bolted to the floor. On the table lay a female body, naked, arms over her head, shackled to the table at the wrists and ankles.
Tuma approached the prone prisoner and focused the phone camera on her face. Although her hair was wet and plastered to her face, whether with water or sweat or both, I could not tell, her features were unmistakable. It was Barb. She was muttering something unintelligible her eyes staring blankly into the distance.
Tuma panned slowly down to her breasts. I had long wondered what Barb’s breasts looked like and I was not disappointed. They were quite lovely, smaller than Meghan Shanahan’s, but nice. What was not so nice was the jewelry that adorned them-attached firmly around each nipple was an alligator clip, each trailing a wire which no doubt led to a control box that would deliver a controlled shock at the whim of the interrogator.
Tuma panned down further to Barb’s crotch. It was neatly trimmed, the hair the same color as that on her head. Another wire led away from her slit, at the end of which I could make out the top of an alligator clip. I couldn’t see for sure where the business end was attached, but I could imagine.
Tuma panned back to Barb’s face. “Ms. Moore,” he said, “I have your editor in New York on the line. Perhaps, you would like to say hello.”
“Jerry,” she groaned. Her voice was hoarse, no doubt from screaming in agony at the shocks to her most sensitive places.
“Barb, what have they done to you? I know you didn’t shoot that video and we are going to prove it. Stay firm and don’t confess to anything you didn’t do.”
“Respectfully, Mr. Goldman, I do not think that will be possible,” Tuma said. He took a step back from the table and I saw Barb’s body go completely rigid. Her entire torso rose from the table shaking wildly, her legs and arms pulling desperately at the shackles that held her in place, even harder than Meghan had pulled on the whipping frame. Wild, wordless screams came from her mouth. The terrible torture went on for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably not much more than five seconds. Finally, she collapsed limp on the table, panting desperately for breath.
“You see, Mr. Goldman, I have great experience in these types of interrogations,” Tuma said. “It is very easy for us; all we have to do is press a button, so we can go on for as long as it takes. Everyone confesses in the end and Ms. Moore will do so as well. She can be brave and suffer or she can give in quickly, but the end result will be the same.”
I wanted to tell him he was a disgusting perverted bastard and that he wouldn’t get away with this, but I didn’t think that would help Barb, so I held my tongue. They let Barb catch her breath and then they shocked her again, eliciting the same paroxysms and ghastly screams. I suspected Tuma was right and that Barb wouldn’t be able to take much more of this.
Finally, the current stopped and Barb lay exhausted on the table. “You are a smart man Mr. Goldman and I think you get the picture. She won’t be able to take too much more. We will have her sign a confession for the trial. The international press will not be able to say much about a confessed criminal. In fact, you are welcome to come and cover her trial and see Zilawean justice in action.” Then the screen faded to black.
I made myself a pot of coffee and sat in my kitchen in the dark thinking. I had sent Barb to Zilawe and bore some responsibility for her suffering. I couldn’t just sit here at home and leave her to her fate. I showered, got dressed and packed a small suitcase, then boarded the train for the office. I sat in The Chief’s office and gave him a summary of the situation, leaving out some of the gory details.
“I don’t like your going Jerry, but I understand where you’re coming from. For God’s sake be careful. I got a reporter in a jam and having an editor in one as well won’t help things. I’ll keep it quiet for as long as I can, but there’s no way it will stay secret for too long in this day and age.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have to go Chief, you know that.”
“Yeah, Jerry, I do. I’ll speak with my contact at State and have the Embassy keep an eye on you. There are limits to how much they can do, but it can’t hurt, right?” He stood and shook my hand.
I took the elevator down to the street and walked to the next block to my bank. I withdrew $ 10,000 in $100 bills and stuffed them into the travel pouch with my passport and credit cards. Out in the street, I waved down a taxi.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asked in African-accented English.
“JFK,” I told him. I sat back and watched the steam rise over the East River on this chilly winter morning as we crossed the 59th Street Bridge.