This blog post is taken from The Syrian, a political thriller, available on Amazon. In this scene Sonia has just been arrested by Hezbollah and presumed to be an Israeli spy. Her interrogation is about to begin.
Sonia had never felt so scared. Images of Khiam prison flooded over her—the torture box, the table and stirrups, the probing instruments and dangling wires. She didn’t want to die. Not like this, not alone in some hell-hole like Khiam. She peed on herself.
When the Jeep came to a halt, a strong-armed man yanked Sonia out and tied her hands behind her back. She heard a metal door open. She was pushed inside a building and made to walk. She assumed Camille was just behind her, but soon realized her shoes and the guard’s were the only ones smacking the floor. When she tried to slow her pace, her escort shoved her so hard she almost fell; he pulled her up and pushed her forward. Her pulse quickened. She felt dizzy. A creepy clamminess crawled over her scalp, down her neck. She gasped for air.
“I can’t breathe,” she cried out.
“Shut up,” the man yelled.
He relaxed his grip on her shoulder and shouted at her to stop. Another metal door opened and she was led into a room. Someone untied her hands. She could barely massage them before hands forced her into a straight back chair. She had no time to adjust her short skirt, to at least pull it down a bit to better cover her thighs. Gruff hands twisted her arms around the chair frame, tied her wrists together and removed her shoes. The burlap sack flew off and she looked around the room, blinking.
She sat before a man with hollow cheeks and pallid skin. His eyes were sharp and piercing, his hair cropped, like Kamal’s. He stood and approached. His rancid body odor filled her nostrils. Repulsed, she instinctively jerked her head back.
“Where is Judge Camille?” she asked.
“He has been taken elsewhere.”
“Why can’t he be here with me? Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”
As if on cue, from some other part of the building, she heard Camille yelling, “I demand to be with her.”
“Sorry Judge,” said a male voice. “Under the circumstances, that isn’t possible.”
Camille asked, “Circumstances…what circumstances?”
She strained to hear the response.
“We suspect she is…” and the voice faded as Camille was led away.
“I demand to know why I am here,” she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice.
“Israeli spies don’t ask questions,” said her interrogator, talking into her face, his breath reeking of nicotine. “They answer them.”
“I’m not an Israeli spy.”
“Two days ago you were seen walking with an Israeli we know to be a spy. You carried on a lengthy conversation. He kissed you before he
turned and walked back to his car.”
“That doesn’t make me a spy.”
“At the very least, it makes you a collaborator, which makes you just
as guilty. What is his name?”
“Kamal…at least that is the name he used with me.”
“Why are you in Marjeyoun?”
“I’m working on a story. I’m a journalist.”
“Does Judge Camille work for Israel, too?”
“Neither of us works for Israel.”
“You are lying!” he shouted then rushed back to his desk. He pulled open a drawer and slammed it shut. He opened another and another until he found what he was looking for. When he returned, Sonia saw the whip in his hands. “One more time…is Kamal your boss?”
“No,” she shouted. Wide-eyed she watched him lift the whip.
This book is available for purchase on Amazon. amazon