Remember To Scream

"Who is the man?" he asked.

She whirled to him, but before she spoke she seemed to think for a moment, and said: "You figured that out. Last night in the elevator?"

"No, when I talked with Sturges. He said you never had had a flashback and there was nothing in the subject matter or the visuals that you hadn't seen or heard many times. What else was in that room? People."

She rolled onto the bed, lying on her side, and wrapped her arms around herself. Her eyes were closed tightly, her face taut. "I'm almost feeling it again," she managed to say. She said softly, "'No, no. Don't hurt me'—that's what is screaming inside me. If I saw him, I would be screaming aloud because I would be back in Iraq."

Bell sat up, pulling the covers over the lower part of his body. "My God, you mean someone here, now, was there—when they were torturing you?"

Fadime nodded, her face still pressed against the mattress. "I saw him yesterday afternoon, at the meeting. He's still here, attending the conference. He...he's a doctor, a neurologist. It's sickening to say that."

"What's his name? How can he be here from Iraq?"

"His name is Tariq Rashid. He was known in Kirkuk, my city. Here, he is calling himself Nasir Roshani. I don't know what passport he is using."

"He's here picking up the latest research about pain...," Bell said thoughtfully.

She nodded. She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her, folding her arms across her lap. She said, "Roland, when they first took me, when I knew I couldn't escape them by killing myself, I had one hope. One great hope. It kept me strong when they began on me. It was that I have a heart condition. Sometimes it involves a special vulnerability to arrhythmia. For me, unusual stress could precipitate a heart attack. That was my secret. I kept telling myself: When they really start on me, then I will die on them. Before it goes beyond what anyone can bear, the stress will kill me. I prayed for it. Do you see? The first things they did, I told myself: But this is not torture. It is humiliation. When torture comes, my heart will save me."

Bell listened, his face drawn. He had sought out this story. He had no kick coming. He reached over to pull a sheet over Fadime's shoulders.

"I'm all right, now," she said. She reached up and ran a forefinger over her breast.

"Sometimes, I can't remember exactly what happened. But when it had gotten bad, and I kept passing out, Rashid came in. Doctor Rashid. He examined me. I cried to him to help me; I thought somehow it was over if this was a doctor. He didn't answer or even look at my face. He gave me an injection; then he said something to...to one of them...and left."

Her look became distant for several moments. "After that, I didn't lose consciousness, no matter what they did. When Rashid came back in an hour or so, I screamed at him not to keep me alive. I was only asking to die, wasn't I? He went ahead and did some things. That's when I lost hope that my heart would give out."

She looked at Bell. "I never saw him again until yesterday afternoon, nine years later, in another world. I was listening to the presentation; when I glanced up, I saw him a few seats away. Next thing I knew, I was on that couch, with Alan reassuring me and feeling as though I were back there in Iraq with it happening."

Bell nodded. "Nor remembering. Re-experiencing. Being back there with all the feelings, all the terror. And last night, when he suddenly came out of the elevator..."

"But you were with me and I could cling to a tiny piece of my sanity, last night."

"He doesn't know?"

She shook her head. "You don't realize what my face looked like when he saw me—back there. I had been hanging by my wrists for hours, naked. You wouldn't recognize me, either. To him, I was just another badly mangled carcass that still could scream." She paused. "But Roland, if he walks into my presentation, I'll have an episode: on the dais, at the lectern, in front of a whole audience."

Bell abruptly tossed off the covers and stood up. "Just forget it. Forget him, for that one hour. Because I give you my promise," he said grimly, "he won't be there." He turned and walked into the bathroom. Watching him, Fadime could see the muscles of his back and arms knotting; the back of his neck was flaming red.

Bell poked his head into the "Ohio Room" 20

minutes before Fadime's presentation was scheduled to begin. No one there. At a nearby conversational grouping in the wide corridor, he chose a chair from which he could watch the doors. In about 10 minutes, Fadime came down the hall carrying a manila folder and a box of slides. She spied him and managed a slight, forced smile. "I'm ready," she said. "I can give this talk in my sleep."

Bell said, "Just go into the room and set up. It's still empty. Dr. Rashid won't be coming to this presentation." When she opened her mouth to ask a question, he said, "Concentrate on what you're going to say. We'll discuss this later."

After a moment, she said, "All right, yes. All right." She added, in a low voice, with a gentle smile, "my darling, Roland." She turned and went into the room.

Bell carefully observed the arriving audience. No Rashid. When the lecture to began, he closed the doors of the room and stood in front of them. He held a clipboard in his left hand. A minute or two later, a man came strolling down the hall. Bell recognized Rashid and felt himself go tense. When Rashid reached the door, he said, politely, "Excuse me. I'm a little late."

Dr. Rashid was six inches shorter than Bell, heavy set, and bald except for a short skirt of black hair at ear level. His expression was bland and composed, but with a hint of chronic irritability that made him look dyspeptic. His suit was tailored to the best Western standards; a Rolex watch sparkled from the dense black hair on his wrist. He looked up at Bell expectantly.

Bell said, "I'm sorry, this lecture is closed, now." It was one of many lines he had prepared to fit circumstances.

"What? Perhaps I will have stand, then."

"No, I'm sorry. It's closed."

"But all sessions are open."

"What is your name, please?" asked Bell. He glanced down at his clipboard.

"Dr. Nasir Roshani," he said impatiently.

Bell looked down. "I have no Dr. Tariq Rashid on this list." Then he looked up in Rashid's eyes.

Rashid looked as though he had been slapped hard across the face. "What?" he stammered. "Who? I said 'Roshani.'"

"Where are you from, Dr. Roshani?" asked Bell, studying the clipboard.

""From Turkey," snapped Rashid. "Istanbul."

Bell shook his head. "I see no Dr. Tariq Rashid from Iraq. I'm sorry. The lecture is by invitation only. Do you wish to discuss this with the conference chair, Dr. Rashid?"

Rashid gaped at him with an expression that kept alternating between fury and fear. His mouth opened to speak. He glanced down at Bell's clipboard as though it were a coiled snake. Then, he turned and hurried away down the corridor.

Bell planted himself in front of the doors, legs spread and braced, arms folded across his chest, until he heard applause and the tumult of simultaneous conversations and scuffling chairs in the room behind the closed doors. He stepped aside as the door pushed open, but he saw that few were leaving. Instead, there was a crowd around the lectern at the front of the room. It seemed that Fadime had hit a homerun.

Nearly half an hour later, Fadime made her way out amid a knot of persistent questioners. Her face was flushed with pleasure and excitement. She kept laughing as one questions interrupted another. When she saw Bell, she beamed radiantly, waving. Some of the young men surrounding her glanced at him with frosty expressions. He thought: who can blame them?

With many vows to swap information, stay in touch, and meet again the crowd slowly dispersed. Finally, she could come to him. "It went really well," she said. She added, "Really well!"

"I gathered that long before you emerged."

"You didn't come in."

"Oh, I was out here taking names," said Bell.

She looked at him anxiously. "Did he come?"

"Dr. Rashid from Iraq? Oh yes, but he wasn't on my list. He became confused and decided not to attend."

She closed her eyes and released a long sigh. "Thank you, my darling," she murmured.

"Okay, dinner at 7:30. We celebrate."

"I'd love that," she said, but Bell detected little enthusiasm in her voice. What had become of her ebullient mood of several minutes ago?

"You should take a nap, right now," he said.

"See you in the front lobby at 7:30, okay?"

"That will be fine," said Fadime. "Thanks for everything, Roland."

Their table on the terrace of the Jasmine restaurant commanded a perfect view of the lake and beyond it the blazing neon flower garden that was the Strip. Cooled by the symphonic exuberance of the fountains, the soft Las Vegas night invited the long, lingering exchanges of new lovers. At first, Fadime talked with animation about her presentation and her work, explaining to Bell the concept of disconnecting the body's pain signals from conscious awareness of pain. She ordered several drinks when they sat down, but then refused more. "Not tonight," she said.

Bell watched as her mood become inward and restrained. Reflecting on how much had happened over the past 24 hours, he wondered if there were so many new uncertainties that she needed down time to sort things out. He said as much.

She nodded. "It's something like that. You're very understanding, doctor." After a moment, she added, "The past doesn't just go away. The present arrives, and it may be wonderful, but it doesn't change the past. It can't, can it?"

He smiled. "That's not a question susceptible of experimental confirmation or disconfirmation. What the hell does it mean, any way?"

She shrugged. "You have helped me as much as anyone can. Last night you gave me my life, my present life. You even...it's old-fashioned to say--you made me a woman."

He shook his head.

She repeated, "Made me a woman who now, for the first time, has known love." She was studying his face with a gentle smile. "But life did not begin yesterday, just because yesterday is what we want most."

Bell felt helpless, frustrated because every exchange of the evening had veered into these ominous generalities. He sternly reminded himself that she was coping with emotional wounds he could not conceive. She had a baffling, often-unpredictable brain disorder that sentenced her to perhaps years of terrifying flashbacks. But sharing it was denied to him by the remoteness that had risen between them. After another half hour, he gave up and said, wearily, "Let's get to bed early. Tomorrow is the last day of the conference. We'll each have traveling to do."

She stood up immediately. "Yes." Then she said, in a low voice, "Roland, I can't be with you, tonight. It isn't that I don't want to be, that I don't crave it..." She stopped. There were tears on her face. "I just can't."

He said easily, "I told you. I'm a long-haul guy. Just give yourself all the time you want. But don't think you can out-wait me. I'll be here."

"Thank you," she said, in a voice he barely heard. "And thank you for dinner." She took her wrap off the back of the chair. "I must attend to something before I go up to my room," she said. "I'll leave you, now. Should I give you some money for this time?"

"You can't buy me off. I'll be waiting, when you're ready."

"Then good night." She started away, then glanced back. "Good night, my darling." She blew him a kiss.

Bell reflected that the previous evening's lovemaking had surged ever-higher on energy he scarcely had known he possessed. He would have to be careful not to doze off. In the dark room, the easy chair was far too comfortable. The lights were off and the heavy curtains drawn tight. Although he was dressed in his evening clothes, he had kicked off his shoes and laid his jacket on the bed.

It was past 2:30 a.m. Fadime had left him at the restaurant at 10:00. After he had paid the bill, he had gone to the front desk and confirmed what he already knew: Dr. Roshani had checked out that afternoon, less than an hour after his run-in with Dr. Bell. Bell had asked to speak with the night manager. It had taken several telephone calls by the manager, and by Bell, before Bell had gotten what he needed and headed for the elevators.

Now, he suddenly froze. Very slowly, he sat up in the chair, listening. A room card had been inserted into his door, almost noiselessly. Had he not been awake and listening for that particular sound, he would not have heard it. For several seconds, he heard nothing more. Then, a pencil-slim ray of light shot across the floor. Again, some seconds passed with no sound. The line of light suddenly widened, then disappeared a moment later. Although he knew that the door had closed, he had heard nothing.

Sitting in the dimmest corner of the room, his eyes accustomed to the darkness, he had the advantage. He saw her hair and shoulders as a faintly lighter shape against the blackness. She seemed to hesitate. She would be peering at the bed. In another moment or so, she would see that it was empty. He fervently hoped that she did not have a gun.

He said calmly: "Fadime, it's Roland."

It was a cry of pure shock. "What?" she gasped. "You? Roland?"

He reached up and switched on the light. Fadime stood frozen in a posture of utter disbelief, gaping at him.

"Everything is all right, Fadime," he said. "Let me explain..."

"But how could you..." She waved at the bed. "Where is he?"

"How did you expect to kill Rashid?"

She lowered herself to the edge of the bed, as though afraid that she might fall. He could see the changes flitting across her face as her mind raced through the possibilities. She reached into the waistband of her pants and withdrew a length of pipe. She held it up, and said, indifferently, "Hit him with this, knock him out. So merciful, so gentle. And then give him an injection"—she held up her clutch purse in the other hand—"with what's in here."

"What is it? Professional curiosity, you know."

"A witch's brew of temporary knockout, muscle relaxant, and pain."

He nodded: "Go ahead."

"He's out for a little while. He comes around but can't move or speak, just feel pain. Chemically not so different from the sting of the Portuguese Man-O-War; with this dose, he would have been dead by morning. He would have suffered—a little." She spoke off-handedly, as though her mind still whirled with the sudden turn the world had taken. "But...but how did you get in here?"

Bell laughed in sudden, pure enjoyment of absurdity. He said: "I hope that the CIA can still get into an unoccupied room at the Bellagio if it can afford to pay for it. Dr. Rashid checked out this afternoon. I'm afraid I upset him. I suppose you wheedled a pass key? From a maid?"

"A hospitality guy," she said bleakly. Her shoulders slumped. "Rashid's gone, then. Back to Iraq. But...why did you take this room?"

"I expected you. You said a lot of things at dinner, this evening. But the message was that the past had come to claim its own. We had no future. You were saying goodbye. But if I had asked you, would you have admitted that you planned to kill him?"

She shook her head. "Don't you know why?" she asked dully.

"I think I know," he said. "All you wanted, at the end, was to die without giving them names. Rashid kept you alive. So they broke you. As they can break anyone if they have enough time. Anyone. That's why they finally let you go?"

She put her face in her hands; her shoulder began to shake before he heard the sobs. She kept nodding. Bell came over and took her in his arms. "And you really blame yourself? " he asked in amazement. "You showed courage beyond anything I ever could imagine. Don't you realize that?"

"I told them every name."

"Fadime, did you ever wonder how they caught you in the first place? You told me 'they must have known my address.' Did you ask yourself how?"

She frowned. He said, "Because you never wanted to ask yourself that, when your time came, you expected the impossible. You know," he added, "back in the old days, when an agent was taken by the KGB, we used to hope for at least a day to warn the people he knew. Sometimes, if an agent had a fertile imagination, we got a few days. These were agents we had trained for years in levels of revelation. You were a girl who just graduated from college."

She said, dully, "They dropped what was left of me on a street somewhere, at night. It was a message to the others: We got what we wanted, you can't resist." Suddenly, her face jerked up, and she said, furiously, "I would have died. He took my hope—a doctor! Now, he's going back to Iraq!"

Bell leaned back in the chair. As though musing, he said, "Well, the last I heard, he had been arrested at McCarran International Airport. FBI checked his passport. Turned out to be on the Interpol computer list of passports forged in Belgium. A very serious offense."

She turned to him. "That's true? He's arrested?"

"Well, I understand they searched his luggage. He was carrying a few ounces of cocaine. Exceptionally well hidden, if I do say so. He swore he had no idea where it came from—frantic. Unfortunately, he made things worse by trying to hand an agent a big bribe." He shook his head. "How can one guy get in so much trouble?"

Fadime began to giggle, but quickly put a hand to her mouth. "What are you saying, Roland?"

"If he ever gets to Iraq, after maximum security prison, here, how will they like his having been busted on a cocaine charge and blowing a bribe attempt? And then, I imagine he'll talk to us. The FBI, CIA, and National Security Agency all will want to have a turn. I don't know what he'll tell. We have more scruples than he does—to say the least. But then, I would guess he has much less courage than you do—to say the least."

Like a tired child, Fadime leaned against him. She put her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. "And what have I done to myself?"

"Well, you broke into my room. I think you're in trouble." She nodded against his shoulder. With a sign, she slipped her hand inside his shirt and slowly scratched his chest. "Maybe as they say here, you 'get off' on the idea of punishing me? Kurd girls expect that. What would you do to me?"

"Jesus, I hate being a psychiatrist, "he muttered. "I have to answer that?"

She murmured, her lips touching his ear. "You can do anything you want with me, you know. I won't cry out."

"I will take advantage of that," he said sternly. "Ruthlessly. First, let me have those." He pointed at the pipe and the purse still in her hands. "I should recycle them."

"All right," she said, "you do that, and I'll take a bath to be ready for my penalty. It isn't every day an innocent girl falls into the clutches of the CIA."

Twenty minutes later, when Bell returned to the room, he heard only a dripping faucet and a soft, rhythmic buzzing. He pushed open the door of the bathroom and looked in.

Thanks to the luxuriously long tub, her entire body, with the exception of two serene, brown atolls, was submerged in the warm water. With her head resting against the rear slope of the tub, several inches of long black hair floated over her bare shoulders. She snored softly but steadily, her mouth open slightly. With her chin pressed down against her chest, her lips pouted as though at some small disappointment. The scars on her breasts, legs, and belly, softened and distorted by the water, could have been the scrapes and bruises accumulated by a little girl on a busy summer day.

Bell was tempted to put a folded towel under her head, but decided not to risk waking her. Instead, he offered up a brief, profane prayer—or perhaps it was meant as a grim threat—to whatever gods watch over us. And he closed the door.