The Prince of Bagram Prison

one So, then, Jamal," the American said, resting his hands on his knees as was his habit. "How's everything going?" He was a tall man, his arms and legs too long for his torso, his head square, with a neatly shorn cap of blond hair, pale eyelashes set in a pale face. Justin, he had insisted more than once that Jamal call him. But the boy could imagine nothing more awkward than addressing him this way. It was evening, still barely light outside, and through the open window Jamal could see into the apartment across the street, where the woman in the pink abaya was cooking dinner, as she almost always was during these meetings with the American. Harira, Jamal thought, smelling the heady odor of garlic and spice. Last week there was lamb. And, the week before, the pleasant aroma of sugar and cinnamon. The promise of seeing her was the one thing about these weekly meetings that Jamal did not dread. "There are some very important men coming to see you," the American announced, not waiting for a reply to his earlier query, apparently not wanting one. "They're going to ask you some questions about Bagheri." Jamal's mind raced anxiously back through everything he had said. He had not meant for it to come to this, and now he wasn't quite sure what to do. Somewhere in the building, a baby was crying. A baby was always crying, though whether it was the same baby or different ones Jamal could not say. "From Washington?" he asked, trying to conceal his panic. The American nodded, the gesture somehow both encouraging and unkind. "Just tell them what you know, what you've told me, and everything will be fine." Jamal thought for a moment. "Will Mr. Harry be there?" The man sighed, clearly exasperated. "We've talked about this, Jamal. Harry-Mr. Comfort, that is-doesn't work with us anymore. But you have me now." He conjured a smile, leaned forward, and handed Jamal a scrap of paper with an address scrawled in black ink. "There's a safe house in Malasana. We'll meet there at midnight tomorrow." Jamal took the paper. "And after I tell them about Bagheri I can go?" "Of course." The American shrugged, pressed his hands against his knees, and unfolded his long body from the chair. "You can go right now if you'd like," he said, not understanding. "No." Jamal followed the man's face as he rose. "I can go to America?" The man paused to recover himself. Clearly he had not expected this, and his mouth was suddenly grim in the room's fading light. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, of course. We'll talk about that later." Jamal nodded, sensing that this was the right thing to do, though he knew the American was lying. He had seen this same look many times before. Not pity but guilt. Shame at what had been done, at what was about to be done. "Trust me," the man said. Pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his pants, he slipped a hundred-euro note-much more than the usual payment-from the billfold and handed it to Jamal, then turned for the door. Jamal could hear the American's footsteps as he made his way down the stairs, the scrape of his leather soles on the gritty concrete. Then, far below, in the building's foyer, the front door slammed closed. Give me five minutes, Mr. Harry used to say after he and Jamal had played their usual game of gin rummy. He'd had an easy way of talking, as if it was all just a game, a joke between the two of them. Make them think we've been up to something in here. But Jamal was in no hurry to leave. After the American left, he sat alone in the apartment and watched the woman cook. It was not something he had ever permitted himself before, andCarr, Alex is the author of 'The Prince of Bagram Prison', published 2008 under ISBN 9780812977097 and ISBN 0812977092.