A feast for the Almighty

M— let the file fall—slap—onto the table. As his superior D— stared at them the pages, compressed by the impact, relaxed and expanded a little.

"How is our friend today?" D— asked, not taking his eyes off the file.

"Sleeping it off, sir."

D— looked up at that, prompting M— to continue: "It's day five of the current cycle, sir." A shrug. "He gets to sleep. Anyway, the doctor recommended it after Friday's interrogation."

Pacified, D— slid the file towards himself across the desk, like it was paper-thin and couldn't be pinched and lifted. With the other hand he flicked over his glasses and put them on. Both hands reached the file as it overlapped the desk edge and began to turn over the sheets from right to left: notes of sessions were filed on top as they were completed. D—'s bottom lip jutted out further and further as he read, and his nostrils flared occasionally as if at a bad smell.

M—, for his part, registered a different kind of distaste and dismay. He continued with the delicate but petulant air of someone spitting out cat-litter like cherry stones, one lump at a time.

"As you can see, sir," he clipped, "we've tried almost all of our techniques on him. All the major incentivization types in the Orange Book. Nothing has worked. So for the recent interviews we sought permission for... special dispensation."

D— was nodding. "A—'s idea, I'm sure?"

M—'s mouth tightened. As D— looked up at him for an answer, he just nodded, and his hand clenched briefly on the rest of the wodge of paper he carried before relaxing with a controlled slowness. There was a pause. D— sometimes used pauses to take stock of his visitors, and though everybody in his department knew it there were few who could resist the pull of the long silences. (Look at the file.) He looked up at M—, who had assumed an air of unconcern. No, unconcern wasn't it: it was distance: from the office, from the file, from its contents. D— decided that he'd make sure that M— would get a holiday in the next round of leave-taking, whenever that happened. (Look back at the file; pause, another second or two.) But for now....

"And?" D— rapped out, his eyes leaping up again.

M— started a little, stifled the movement. "And: nothing. A lot of shouting. Quite strained at times. You can see the notes for yourself. Sir."

"Yes, so I can see. He gets quite repetitive towards the end, I see. That could be some sort of conditioning taking over, of course.... But you'd disagree."

M— was having difficulty keeping calm. "Well, sir. By that point—approximately where he switches from sustained please to Allah to a mixture of that and exhortations that he won't talk—A— was applying a particular treatment of his own devising, whereby-"

"Yes, yes, M—," interrupted D—. "I'm aware of your unease at some of the methods A— seems so fond of. That's why I let him conduct his enquiries, but let you write and file the reports. I trust your judgement in these matters...."

He left the rest of the sentence to the clock. But. But it was necessary. But it was wrong. But they were so close. But the young man could not yet be fully implicated. But they had intelligence. But he apparently did not even know the password. But they had processed him as thoroughly as they dared. But he had raved. But: no answer. But. But.

But did he, the detainee, know the secret after all?

"M—!" This time, the junior jumped noticeably, an inch or two. "I do trust your judgment. But I trust your Turkish even more. You translated all of this, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir, as instructed." He was trying to work out where this was leading. "We've let him speak in whatever language he wanted since day three of the last cycle."

"He says here-" D— prodded the page, turning the file a little towards M—: "-he's promised to be silent."

"And I ask him, promised who."

"Whom," D— said absent-mindedly. "But what did he actually say? In Turkish, not your translation" M— began to scrabble through the papers he was carrying but D— continued. "I might not have used the language properly for years but this-" he tapped the page repeatedly: "is ringing a bell. A faint, rusty bell. Well?"

M— had dropped a sheet of paper. As he picked it up he dropped another, but suddenly had the whole bundle under control and was riffling through it, licking his fingers and turning pages the right way round. D— stopped tapping the file and started tapping a pen on the desk, which served to increase the tempo of M—'s rummaging.

"He talks about fasting here," mused D—, almost to himself, "before he loses control...."

M— found the page, and read out in Turkish:

"'I have made a vow of silence.'"

D— replied sententiously, completing the couplet, and surprised himself: "'I am not talking today to anyone.'"

"Later he says: 'I have declared a fast for the Almighty.'"

"'And I will not talk today of mankind,'" D— finished

They looked at each other, and D— began to grin a toothy grin.

"The Quran." M—, in contrast, was touched. "It's just the Quran, sir. Two different versions, I think. He's praying."

"Maybe he is. But I don't think so." D— gestured for the notes, which M— handed over. "Towards the end of the interrogation," D— mused, "what was he saying then? 'I will not talk. I will not talk. I will not talk.' Is that what you'd say, if you were in his situation? Hmm? I hardly think so. Whatever happened to a simple 'no'? Right, where are the encrypted documents?" He moved over to his computer and began searching, all the while continuing to talk.

"This could be it, M—.... But get the rest of your transcripts. Bring them all up here. I want us to start looking for repetition of religious phrases. I can't believe we haven't thought of this before. Ah, here they are." He tapped his mouse to open the files, and looked up.

"All the transcripts. From all the detainees."

As D— returned to the computer M— made to leave. "The ends do justify the means, then," he said, but quietly: he knew from past experience that it now wouldn't be heard. Pausing at the door, he felt that there was more to come from his superior, before he could consider himself dismissed.

D— was slowly and painfully typing a word of Turkish script into the box on the screen: I will not talk. As he started to hunt for the last few letters, he shouted over to M—: "This could be the victory we're looking for. We might have saved lives by the time the cleaners come round. And if you're really lucky, I'll even get you a holiday." M— closed the door as D— pressed the enter key.