“Your sexuality puts you at risk.”
“What,” says Monty, frowning at the hefty FBI agent’s remark. “You mean because I’m queer? That’s crazy.”
“I’m only suggesting that men who choose your orientation are more vulnerable to someone like Jamal taking advantage of you,” says Wrankle.
“What do you mean, choose my orientation, and ‘someone like Jamal’? That’s total bullshit. That kind of narrow-minded thinking went out years ago. Sexual orientation isn’t a choice. Being a snoop, that’s a choice. Besides, I’m not vulnerable because I’m gay. I’ve been out forever.”
Not exactly true, he admits to himself, but true enough.“If you say so,” says Wrankle. “I’m only suggesting you might be at risk of blackmail. Your friend’s clearly been taking advantage of you.”
“So you claim.” And, fuck, maybe he has.“Okay,” says the younger agent, the good cop, Gogetsu. “I think we should change the subject, Charlie. After all, Monty’s begun cooperating with us.”
Charlie: now I know the bad cop’s first name.
“Sorry, Jack, you’re right.”
And the cute one’s too.
Jack and Charlie. Gogetsu and Wrankle. They’re like a performing duo, like Abbott and Costello or Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. Only these two aren’t so funny—unless you find evasion and fake friendliness amusing.
They’re back at the houseboat, following up Monty’s call informing them he found something of Jamal’s he needs to show them. A heavy downpour is pelting down on the houseboat, a strong wind blowing the rain against the lake-facing windows and forming angry whitecaps on the lake.
When the two agents are seated again on Monty’s love seat, he hands over the Al-Qaeda pamphlets he uncovered in Jamal’s old suitcase and the letter he received from him, sent the day before 9/11, as everyone’s now calling the attack on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon.
“Yes, thank you for handing all this over to us,” says Wrankle. “We can tell you we suspect that this man you call Jamal, real name Zahir, is no farmer’s son, like he claimed. We think his father is a big-time warlord.”
“How do you know that?” Monty asks.
“We have our sources over there,” he replies. “We’ve confirmed his identity, and that’s who he is, not some poor farmer’s son like he led you to believe.”
“I’m not sure I believe you either. And why would you tell me this? You said you aren’t free to divulge what you know. So why now?”
“We think you should accept that whatever this character has told you is fake,” says Wrankle. “It’s no surprise you found all this terrorist propaganda.”
“Or that he wrote you just before the attack,” adds Gogetsu.
“What else have you learned about him?” asks Monty.
“Our investigations are ongoing,” Gogetsu replies, looking at the senior officer.
“Well, I’m guessing you’re getting your information directly from him. I think you’re holding Jamal and doing God knows what to get him to talk.”
“We don’t ever use torture, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” says Gogetsu. “It’s illegal. And besides, it’s well established that information obtained through torture isn’t reliable.”
“Sorry, but I don’t think you’re reliable,” says Monty. “I think you’ll say anything to get me to come up with incriminating evidence. But I don’t know anything more about Jamal than what I’ve told you.”
“We believe you now that you’re cooperating,” says Wrankle, speaking more slowly and in a lower voice.
Monty smiles. After the FBI’s last visit, he read up on interrogation techniques and learned that speaking slower and deeper is one of the methods used to put a subject at ease so they’ll relax and more readily spill the beans. He also consulted his lawyer, who advised him to cooperate but say nothing more than the basic facts.
“At least you realize this guy hasn’t told you the whole story,” says Wrankle. “Why else would he hide away these pamphlets? How else can you explain the letter he sent a day before the attack?”
“You have a brother in Canada,” says Gogetsu, abruptly changing the line of questioning.
“Yeah, so what? Is that a crime?”
“Just checking. He fled the US to avoid the draft, right? You talk to him regularly?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Don’t worry,” says Gogetsu. “Have you spoken to him about what’s happening?”
“I speak to my brother all the time. It’s none of your business, okay?”
“We’re checking everything,” says Wrankle. “And we need to follow up on a few details. Like when you first met Jamal, is that when he told you he was a farmer’s son?”
“Yes. No, well, eh. I knew it from his refugee application, which I’m sure you can easily get hold of if you haven’t already.”
“So, how could he afford to go to fancy schools and then a foreign university?” asks Wrankle. “Have you ever thought of that?”
“I never questioned it. He was a gifted child. Everyone recognized that. His family never had to pay for his education.”
“You tell us,” says Wrankle. “Isn’t it more likely his family was well off?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“That he lied to you,” suggests Gogetsu. “How sure are you anything your Jamal said in his refugee application is the truth?”
“About his sexuality or that his life was threatened back there?” asks Monty. “That he taught English at a high school? Or what?”
“Anything at all he’s told you,” says Wrankle. “Are you sure, for example, that he attended the Aga Khan Foundation’s university? Did you check with him or them?”
“No, did you?”
“We’re checking everything about this guy, I assure you,” says Wrankle.
“Look,” says Monty, “I’ve had enough of all your damn prying into my life. I’ve told you everything about Jamal, your Zahir. I haven’t held one thing back. So tell me what else you’ve found out. How could he possibly have taken part in the attack? He was here, in Seattle.”
“We’re following up a number of tips we’ve received,” says Gogetsu. “Obviously your friend didn’t take part in the attack itself, or he’d be dead. But there’s been a lot of secret jihadist recruitment of gullible young guys all over the world, and plenty of fundraising.”
“What, are you suggesting, that Jamal was involved in that?” asks Monty.
“All we’re able to tell you at present,” says Wrankle, “is that a lot of what you believed about this person isn’t true. Maybe everything. He’s covered up his real identity. He may or may not share your, eh, sexual preference, but other than that, he isn’t who he says he is. For all you know, he has a wife and kids back home in Afghanistan waiting for his return as a hero.”
“Right, sure. My ‘preference.’ Back to the queer stuff,” says Monty. “You guys are something else. You don’t know anything, do you?”
“Look, we’re trying to help you,” says Gogetsu, letting out a long sigh, another technique to coax suspects and witnesses into divulging whatever they’re hiding. “I’m afraid this character has pulled a fast one on you. I sympathize with how you must feel.”
“Yeah, right, sure,” says Monty. “You don’t know anything about how I feel.”
“Honestly, our job is to protect Americans,” says Gogetsu. “If we could reveal more to you, we would. We only want you to be on your guard. Call us right away if he contacts you again or if you find out anything more.”
“That’s real nice of you. I mean, tell me the truth. Are you holding him? It’s been five days since he disappeared. Are you questioning him or not?”
“I’m sorry, we’re not at liberty to divulge that information to you,” says Wrankle.
“In other words, yes,” blurts out Monty, his breathing quickening again.
“We can’t say yes or no.”
“We’re getting nowhere,” says Monty, throwing up his hands. “Forget about my boyfriend’s lying to me. I don’t believe a word you’re telling me.”
“But we’re doing this to protect you,” says Gogetsu, trying again to ease the tension. “Our country’s been attacked. We’ve got to take extraordinary steps to protect the homeland. I’m sure you understand that.”
“I understand you think I’m hiding something about Jamal. That’s why you keep turning up. I’m fed up with all this crap.”
Though Monty doesn’t trust anything the agents say, he’s no longer confident he knows much about Jamal either. He’s not telling the FBI that. But what they’ve insinuated has a ring of truth to it. He doesn’t have any firsthand knowledge about his lover’s former life, only what was written in his refugee file, and whatever Jamal told him after he arrived in Seattle.
Is he actually a warlord’s son? And if so, why didn’t he tell me? Would it have changed anything between us? Would it have hurt his refugee application? Is he even genuinely gay? Nothing makes sense anymore.
At this point he’s hesitant to confide in anyone other than his brother about what’s been happening, anxious what they’ll think about him as well as Jamal. Since the attack everyone seems on edge. People are afraid their letters are laced with anthrax powder, the latest scare. They leave all their mail on a table outside their house and wear a face mask when they open stuff. Everyone’s suspicious of anyone different, especially Muslims. None of his friends have called or asked about Jamal. You’d think since his boyfriend is from Afghanistan they’d say something. Monty no longer knows what to believe or who to trust, except for Dave.
And how dare that damn agent make such a big deal about my being vulnerable because I’m gay?
Back when Monty was growing up, homosexual acts were illegal, and gays were routinely persecuted. The Red Scare in the forties and fifties zeroed in on homosexuals, thousands of whom were fired from civil service jobs, mainly from the State Department, where they were deemed vulnerable to blackmail and enlistment by foreign spies. But then came the sexual revolution and Stonewall and the gay revolution.
Monty had exaggerated his response to Wrankle’s insinuation, saying he’d been “out forever.” In fact it took him years to admit his sexual orientation to himself, let alone reveal it to family or friends. He’d ached to come out, to fulfill his desire and proclaim his identity. But he also feared he’d be ostracized, called a freak, an aberration.
“Your sexuality puts you at risk,” the agent declared. Tempting to say that’s bullshit. But maybe I have been vulnerable—all my life.