"Hey, Rick."

Rick rose from the bar stool, so tall a man that it seemed he would hit the ceiling, and swung into a power handshake with Brent.

"Good to see you, buddy," said Rick.

"You too. It's been a long time." Brent slid into the chair next to Rick at the sticky bar counter.

"Dude, you're supposed to be a bachelor. Only married men have your dead boring social life."

"Yeah, well I've kind of been seeing somebody."

"Do tell. Come on, give me all the details, and don't leave out the measurements. 36-24-36, D cup?"

"Come on, man!"

"No, dude, I'm happy for you whenever you have a relationship that lasts more than three weeks. It's not that piece of ass secretary of yours Melinda is it?"

"No, no, her name is Debbie."

"Debbie? As in dumb blonde Debbie Does Dallas, something like that?"

"Dude! It's not like that. I'm really enjoying her company."

"So, a meaningful relationship. Dude, have fun, but wear a condom, that's all I can say."

"Very funny. What's this new case that you've taken on?"

"Really interesting. And it's your kind of case. Not one of those nut jobs you take to pay the rent."

"I've still got a few of those."

"I know, but this one is really juicy. This rag head marries an American girl, right? He's the gung-ho, I love America kind of immigrant, accountant, two kids, the house, the whole nine yards. Becomes a U.S. citizen..."

"Yeah?"

"Then his brother calls him with some kind of family crisis back in Iraq, and he goes, right? Well, his brother is involved in some kind of money laundering operation back there he's got this cash grocery business and he gets raided by MPs. Our guy gets picked up and shipped to Gitmo."

Brent almost choked on his beer. "What?"

"That's right. They're keeping him there; think he's some kind of terrorist. No charges, no counsel, no visitors. A virtual Nazi prison camp."

"Whoa, watch it. I thought you were a flag-waving Republican."

"Dude, this transcends politics. George W. Bush is wiping his ass with the Constitution."

"Careful, that's your ex-boss you're talking about."

"Yeah, the same one who said to the Brazilian president, 'Oh do you have blacks too?'" Rick snorted and took a gulp of beer.

"How about, 'Africa is a nation that suffers from incredible disease,'" said Brent, wiping away tears he was laughing so hard.

"It would be funny if it wasn't so tragic." Rick gargled his beer between laughs.

"My favorite one is, 'this foreign policy stuff is a little frustrating.' Like he's learning it in high school or something."

"How about, 'I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe. I believe what I believe is right.' It's almost enough to make me turn into a Democrat, like you."

"Dude, I'm not a Democrat, I'm a Libertarian."

"A Libertarian's just a Democrat whose vote doesn't count. Same thing."

"How'd you find out about this case anyway?" asked Brent, trying to get back on a serious track.

"Dude, I'm a secret agent man."

"From someone in the Bureau."

"Exactly, a confidential source. Look, I've talked to his wife and I recommended you for the job."

Rick was right. Brent was so enthusiastic about the case he had to practically fight him not to go back to the office.

"I can't wait to take this case, Rick."

"Dude, chill out. It'll still be there in the morning. I'm not letting anyone else have it."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Brent's secretary Melinda announced Catherine Khury. Brent walked into the office waiting room to greet her and show her in.

Mrs. Khury was not what Brent had expected. She was American, of obvious European descent, about 30 years old, with light brown hair and eyes. She seemed a little shy and more than a bit nervous.

"Brent Marks," he said, extending his hand.

She took it. Her hand was warm and pleasant, but the handshake was shaky. "Catherine Khury."

"Please have a seat."

Catherine sat down in one of the two classic wooden, unpadded chairs across from Brent's desk. It was designed to encourage a visit of the required length only.

"Mrs. Khury, as I told you on the phone, I am interested in helping you with your husband's matter," said Brent.

"I'm so thankful your investigator Mr. Penn found him, but I can't believe he's being held as a suspected terrorist. How can I see him?" Katherine asked, fidgeting with her purse on her lap.

"Actually, Mrs. Khury, I didn't find him; he was located by a confidential source who asked me to reveal the information to you. And, as far as being able to see him, I'm not sure the Government will allow that yet."

"Why not? Ahmed's a good man. He never had anything to do with terrorists."

"I believe you, but they haven't even acknowledged that they have him."

"What do we do?" Catherine started to cry. "It seems to be impossible."

"Of course, you have no obligation to hire me, but what you could do is file a petition for a writ of habeas corpus in Federal Court here in the States. If that's granted, he will have a hearing in a U.S. Court on U.S. soil instead of being held indefinitely in Cuba."

"Indefinitely?"

"Yes, some suspected terrorists have been there since 2003. If they are accused of being 'enemy combatants' they can be held as long as it is deemed fit, without a trial. But they do have a right to challenge whether they are enemy combatants or not."

"Ahmed is not an enemy of the United States. He loves America. And he's not a terrorist!"

"The Government thinks he is, and they think that gives them the ability to foreclose all his rights."

"Is this expensive, this habeas corpus?"

"Yes, it is. I can give you a very good hourly rate, but I can't work for free. We'll be fighting the Government, and they'll throw everything at us to crush our petition. It's going to take a lot of hours."

"I'll do whatever it takes to save Ahmed. I've got some savings, and I'll borrow money if I have to."

"I'll see if I can get the Government to admit they have him, and the next step will be to go down there to talk to him."

"I'll go with you."

"Let me see what I can do first, then we'll try to set up visitation for you, okay?"

"You're my last hope, Mr. Marks. I've tried everything and every door closes in my face. The only ones who even tried to help me were that FBI agent and Mr. Penn.

Brent was accustomed to the way tribal bias and prejudice gave way to mistreatment in his native America, his Hispanic looks being mistaken for Mexican more than once.

Brent left Catherine with the assignment of digging up every piece of paper she could on Ahmed: a copy of his passport, his naturalization papers, his work history, even his banking records.

Brent would have to present on paper the picture of a good American citizen. George W. Bush said, "It will take time to restore chaos." Brent was about to confront Bush's creation head on.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Ahmed's tortured soul finally got to rest, but it wasn't for long. In the middle of the night his tormented sleep was interrupted by a strong hand over his nose and mouth. Ahmed swung his panicked arms, which were caught by another strong pair of hands, which restrained him as his ears were muffed and his head was bagged with some type of hood device. Am I dreaming? he thought.

Unfortunately, it was no dream. Ahmed was still blind, but his heightened senses of smell and hearing could not help him. The hood and ear muffs deprived him of both. As the two men took turns pushing him along, once again he had the sensation of falling in space, only to be broken by the reality of the hard ground. Ahmed struggled to get up, to the laughter of his captors.

The two men shoved Ahmed into a room and pushed him down onto a flat, cold surface. He felt them immobilize and strap his arms and legs with some kind of restraints. Then, as the hood and ear muffs were ripped from his head, the room exploded with brilliant white light and a symphony of sounds. His eyes stung. I'm not blind! He moved his head from side to side, as blurry images came into focus. What's happening? But just as he experienced that realization which should have given him tremendous happiness, his torturers confronted him, once again.

"Now you're gonna tell us, Haji, what you were doing in Baghdad," said a grinning Sergeant Brown.

"My name is not Haji."

"Shut up! Everyone's a Haji here," screamed Brown, an inch from Ahmed's face. He could feel the spit from his lips and smell his stale tobacco breath.

"You fucking maggots are all the same, and, if it was up to me, I would squash every last one of you!"

Brown moved back, and two suited strangers moved in. Their lack of military garb and their stoic expressions set them apart from the rest of the robots in camouflage gear. One threw a cloth over Ahmed's face.

"What were you doing in Baghdad?" asked one of the strangers.

"I went to see my brother, he needed my help."

"You helped your brother with his money laundering operation?"

"What? No. He's a grocer. He said he was in trouble. I came to do whatever I could to help him."

"So you helped him launder money for al Qaeda. Who did you meet there from al Qaeda?"

"I don't know anyone from al Qaeda!"

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Who did you meet from al Qaeda? I want names."

"I didn't..."

Ahmed gasped for air as water was poured on the cloth over his face. He felt like he was drowning, as one of the men poured water into the cloth. He gasped for air, but all he felt was water in his nose and mouth. It was impossible to breathe, so he held his breath.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the cloth was lifted and Ahmed sucked in and blew out air one, two...three times, then they slapped the cloth back on his face and he was drowning again.

"You went to Baghdad to help your brother launder money, didn't you?"

The cloth came off, and Ahmed sucked in air, as if he had reached the surface of the water.

"No! He needed my help!"

They again slapped the wet cloth over Ahmed's face and poured water over it. Ahmed held his breath for what seemed like the longest time. This is it, he thought. If I stop holding my breath, I die.

CHAPTER NINE.

After an eternity, Ahmed was moved from solitary confinement to a concrete block cell, with concrete walls, a solid steel door with no bars and no windows, about ten feet long, seven feet wide and about eight feet high. Unlike his solitary cell, it had a stainless steel wash basin/ toilet combination, and a part of the wall was fashioned into a bed with a thin mattress and a pillow. Bright light blazed through the wire mesh ceiling, accompanied by loud, heavy metal music.