The Prince of Bagram Prison by Alex Carr Read Free Book Online Page B

him,” she said after a moment, surprising herself with the confession. “I didn't even like him.” It was the first time she had admitted this to anyone, but it seemed necessary, a reciprocation of his honesty.
    T HE KIND OF TOWN Susan had always wanted them to end up in, Morrow thought as he surveyed the hilltop campus and the neighborhood beyond. He had been here before, not this town, exactly, but ones just like it. Green hills and narrow streets, brick colonials looming importantly over garden club lawns. Carriage rides for the weekenders from D.C. Main Street storefronts selling overpriced antiques and useless knickknacks. The reek of history and horse shit. The past and all its idols like a cudgel.
    A place to which old spies retired. Wives finally getting their due after a lifetime of reheating dinners and going alone to dance recitals and high-school football games. On the drive in, Morrow had seen more than one of the discreet bumper stickers people like him used to quietly announce themselves as members of the club. It was the kind of thing you wouldn't see unless you knew to look.
    It was early afternoon, but the sky was dark as dusk, the horizon bruised and black by the fist of a thunderstorm moving across the valley. Down on the green plain of the campus, a handful of figures hurried to beat the rain, while the first-year cadets kept their slow and painful stride.
    On the far side of the parade ground, a solitary figure in faculty green emerged from behind one of the barracks and darted forward, her heels sinking into the soft turf as she ran, her stride shortened by the hem of her skirt.
    “Here comes Major Caldwell now,” the General said solicitously. He raised his arm over Morrow's shoulder and pointed out the window.
    She was smaller than Morrow had expected, with a soldier's precision of appearance, her brown hair cropped short against her neck, her shirtsleeves holding their creases in the damp September heat. Though even from a distance Morrow's practiced eye told him her meticulousness did not come naturally. Fifteen years in the military and she still walked with the cautious carriage of someone who had worked hard to learn her part. Precision and something else. Anger, perhaps. Years of resentments. What she'd had to fight for and what others had been given.
    Caldwell, Katherine. Morrow reminded himself of the details of the woman's file as he watched her cross the parade ground. Date of Birth: 7/2/1971. Place of Birth: Boise, Idaho. A childhood patched together from nearly a dozen addresses. Spokane. Billings. Denver. Tucson. Las Vegas. Mother's various boyfriends. Father nowhere to be found.
    And the ROTC. Not a ticket in, Morrow thought, but a way out. She'd been a mediocre student at best through high school, but the army must have seen promise in her, enough to funnel her into the intelligence corps. And then on to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, where someone must have seen more than just promise. For at the DLI she'd been assigned to the Arabic course, which, at the time, was not only one of the smallest programs but the most difficult as well. A matter of chance, someone else's idea of where she belonged, and yet the assignment must have fit.
    The first fat drops of rain spattered the window and the woman picked up her pace, sprinting the last few yards before disappearing into the building below.
    “What did she do her doctoral work in?” Morrow asked.
    “Islamic soteriology,” the General answered. “I'm afraid the details are a bit over my head.”
    Salvation theory, Morrow thought, not what he would have guessed at all. But, at the same time, her choice made a kind of sense to him.
    “I assume you know about her brother,” the General offered.
    Morrow shook his head. There had been nothing about a brother in her official army file.
    The man glanced hastily over his shoulder as if to confirm that they were alone, then lowered his voice a notch. “He was killed in the