by Niv Kaplan
Jack lay on the cement floor in the corner guarding his wounded knee, which had by now swollen to distressing proportions and was causing his entire left leg constant throbbing.
Confinement conditions at the A-Tur Prison facility were atrocious, much worse than Jack had seen in the Dahab prison.
He had been thrown into an undersized damp cell with twenty others with barely enough room for each to properly lie down; most were crouching or half sitting. A gloomy crowd of villains, there were murderers, thieves, druggies, and criminals of all sorts. The place reeked of hashish blended with urine, vomit, sweat and other bodily secretions. Almost everyone smoked the weed in the cell. It was the one item the guards turned a blind eye to, figuring it did a bit to calm matters.
Every now and then a fight broke out, forcing the guards to poke their bayoneted rifles through the iron bars to try and end it. Mostly they would indifferently stand and watch until blood was drawn or someone’s life would seriously be at risk. “Everyday” fights would just run their course until someone folded, his head bashed or his arm broken.
Jack understood very little of what was said in the cell. His Arabic was mediocre at best and the different dialects confused matters even further.
Confined space, overcrowding and shortage of food were factors but mostly the prisoners fought over ego and loyalty to the different backgrounds. Bedouins from different tribes stuck together, gang members watched each other’s back, and family members looked after one another. There were very few random prisoners like Jack whose loyalty was to no one but himself.
In all the madness, he needed to keep himself alive and it was proving difficult.
After the treacherous ride down the Faran wadi, the soldiers from the Katarina Intelligence base had placed him in the hands of the A-Tur police.
A-Tur was a small port town on the banks of the Gulf of Suez halfway between Sharm el Sheikh and the Suez Canal. It functioned as a launching point for anyone venturing into the high mountains. Its prison served the high mountain area of Santa-Katarina and Western Sinai peninsula. Suspected criminals would be detained in A-Tur then sent for prosecution in whatever district they were charged. The Sinai had three district courts: in A-Tur for the Northwestern region, in Sharm el Sheikh for the Southern district, and in Dahab for the Eastern region.
Well into his third day in the cell, Jack had yet to see a doctor or even visit the prison infirmary. His captors had thrown him in with the mob and seemed to have forgotten about him.
His size and sturdy build earned him a corner spot in the cell but Jack had no doubt he would eventually be targeted. His handicap was evident and it was only a matter of time before someone found an excuse to gang up on him. He was a foreigner and a rare sight to most of them. The first day they eyed him suspiciously but somewhat respectfully. The second day they ignored him. Now they were becoming hostile. He could see several inmates scrutinizing him, evaluating whether he might have something of value. Foreign currency went a long way in these parts and Jack had two hundred dollars stashed in his pants - money he now realized he had better put into use.
The rat was almost at his food when he slapped it sending it reeling back into its crack. He gulped the cold can of beans down and called the guard.
Silence swept over the cell as everyone became attentive.
It was the first time Jack had spoken since he arrived. In lame Arabic he asked permission to be heard. The guard looked him over disdainfully then motioned for him to approach. Jack stood up on his healthy leg and limped over to the front, the prisoners making a narrow lane for him to pass. In four hops he made it to the cell railing and leaned heavily on them feeling faint. He had barely moved during the last seventy-two hours and the sudden burst drained his energy.
“I need a doctor!” he said to the guard, pointing at his left leg where the swollen knee stuck out of the ripped pant covered with dried blood and dirt.
The guard looked unimpressed and Jack knew he could not offer him the bribe in front of the on looking crowd.
“Please,” he pleaded. “I feel very bad.”
The guard was sitting on a wooden stool an arm’s length from the iron bars. He turned and spoke to a second guard who was sitting opposite a second cell in the L-shaped corridor, which housed four similar cells filled to the brim with detainees.
The two guards laughed and gestured to Jack to go back to his place.
Jack would not budge. He had to get out of the cell. Desperate, he motioned for the guard to come closer. Annoyed, the guard got up and whacked Jack’s outstretched hands with his wooden club. He meant to do it a second time when Jack caught him by the neck and began to squeeze. A roar went up from the cell behind as the prisoners realized what was happening and began urging him on. The guard’s lips were turning blue as he fought for air, but Jack held strong squeezing the windpipe.
Seconds later the second guard appeared, whacking Jack on the head with his club but Jack would not let go. Then the barrel of a pistol appeared in his face and he dropped the choking guard to the ground.
It took him a few minutes to recover from his near death experience, and when he did, the guard, trembling with anger and shame, unlocked the cell gate and ordered Jack out.
Jack, out of breath and panting from the incident, hobbled out. The guard locked the gate behind him to sounds of glee and hackling of the prisoners, turned and aimed a kick to Jack’s ailing knee with all the force he could muster.
Jack rolled over causing the kick to miss and the guard to lose his balance and slip to the floor to more exultant laughter from the supportive crowd.
While the second guard managed to land a kick to Jack’s side, the first took out his pistol. In rage, he aimed it at Jack.
“Shoot!” the hoard of prisoners shouted in unison. “Kill him!” they bellowed in frenzy, banging in the prison walls.
The guard cocked his pistol and took aim at the helpless Jack when two officers burst into the corridor, astonished at the scene revealed to them.
They hollered commands at the two guards, saving Jack’s life in the process. The humiliated guard stood shaking as he lowered his pistol and handed it to his superior who whacked him on the head with it and sent him away.
Next the two officers conferred with the second guard who animatedly described the incident, then they stooped over Jack.
“Once your knee is tended to in the infirmary you will be put in solitary confinement for a week,” one of the officers informed him. “Attacking a guard is a serious offense. It will be added to your rap sheet when you are tried.”
The officer helped Jack up and escorted him out of the cellblock to the sound of cheers from his cellmates. Jack limped along the spiraling stairs on one leg supported by the officer. They came out in the bright sun to an internal courtyard. Jack blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. They crossed the yard diagonally and walked into an entrance with a red cross above.
The infirmary was lively with activity. Jack could spot two nurses tending to a sorry looking bunch of individuals lined up in front of their two counters. In another room he could see a line of beds with patients tucked in them. The officer pushed his way to the front of the line to a storm of resentment and objections, demanding to see the doctor.
The young nurse, dressed in white with a red-cross bonnet like someone out of a red-cross ad, was busy measuring a patient’s blood pressure. She looked up at the officer then at Jack as the officer gestured at Jack’s knee. When she saw it, she immediately rushed through a closed door behind her counter to alert the doctor.
Minutes later Jack was called in.
The doctor was a short, thin man dressed casually with a short sleeve shirt, who seemed on edge as he washed his hands in a sink, his stethoscope slung around his neck. He had small clean hands, was clean-shaven and looked like a worried bird as he approached Jack who had been propped up on his treatment table.
He took a pair of scissors and cut the pants around the knee then asked the nur
se to gently wash off the dried blood with soapy water, a feat that caused Jack great pain.
“I’m Doctor Shalabi,” the Doctor introduced himself in Arabic, “and this is nurse Juman. How did this happen?”
Jack told him.
“And how long ago did all this occur?” the doctor questioned as he gently tested the area.
“This happened six days ago,” Jack said.
“And had you been looked at?” the doctor queried.
“You are the first,” Jack said looking contemptuously at the escorting officer by his side.
The doctor raised his face questioningly at the officer who heaved his shoulders helplessly.
“This neglect could cost this man his leg,” Doctor Shalabi retorted.
“He is a child kidnapper,” the officer pointed out.
“Has he been tried and convicted?” Shalabi questioned.
“I have not been tried yet,” Jack stated.
“No man deserves such treatment,” Nurse Juman pitched in.
The knee was extremely swollen and hemorrhaging. The doctor checked for movement but Jack cold not bend or straighten it from its position.
“We need x-rays,” Doctor Shalabi said to the nurse. “It might be broken. There could also be blood poisoning.”
“This means the Hospital at Sharm,” Nurse Juman said. Both she and the doctor looked questioningly at the officer.
“This man just attacked a guard,” the officer exclaimed. “Nearly killed him. The only place he is going from here is solitary confinement.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with the consequences if he loses his leg or worse, dies,” the doctor threatened.
The officer looked uncertain.
“I am an American citizen,” Jack declared, pressing his case. “I should be able to at least contact my embassy. They could look after my knee.”
“You keep him here in the infirmary until I get back,” the officer said, ignoring Jack. “I’ll have to consult the commandant.”
He turned and marched out of the room.
Juman and the doctor gently cleansed the knee and taped it as best they could then escorted Jack to the sick room where he was placed in a bed and was asleep within minutes.
He awoke to a light shining in his face. It was dark outside. He had no idea how long he had slept. As his eyes focused he noticed the party around his bed. There was Juman, the doctor, the officer who escorted him, and a higher-ranking officer, most likely the commandant. They were talking among themselves in hushed voices periodically shining a light on his knee and face.
Doctor Shalabi was vigorously objecting but his protest seemed futile and weak. He was arguing for sending Jack to a Sharm el Sheikh Hospital for treatment. The commandant, a typical prison warden - heavy set, bald, intimidating and impatient - was disagreeing.
When he made his decision, the commandant gave instructions to the assembled group and abruptly left the room. Jack was propped up to a sitting position by Nurse Juman.
The officer explained the Commandant’s decision. In plain terms Jack was going into solitary confinement for assaulting a guard. They would re-evaluate matters when he got out in a week. The commandant had agreed to provide Jack with painkillers, bandages, ointment and cleansing materials for his knee.
Doctor Shalabi’s displeasure was evident but there was nothing he could do. The decision was made against his professional advice.
Jack slid off the bed and stood on one leg placing his hand on the officer’s shoulder. At least he had managed to avoid the cell, which he viewed as most threatening to him, and had his knee looked at.
Juman placed a blanket around his shoulders.
“Take it,” she said. “It will help you.”
Jack nodded to her and to the doctor and followed the officer out of the room. They once again crossed the courtyard and descended the spiral stairway one floor below the cellblock to a dungeon.
The officer shone a flashlight to lead the way.
Total darkness engulfed them. The dungeon was damp and silent and reeked terrible odors as they walked along a narrow pathway among locked steel doors to the last where the officer produced a key and let Jack, in securing the door shut behind him. He did not shine the light into the cell and Jack and no sense where he was. He began to feel the walls around him and realized he was confined to a room no bigger than a large closet. When he raised his hand, it hit the ceiling just above his head.
A sense of panic engulfed him. The confined space and total darkness unnerved him. The damp stench was dreadful and he could only assume there was no dedicated space to rid of his bodily secretions. He sat down and brought his hand to his face trying to make out his fingers. He could not.
It was a tomb.
Shivering and on the verge of nausea he was at least thankful for the blanket Juman had given him. He covered himself with it and tried to shut everything out. His knee was throbbing and he began to hallucinate long before he managed to fall into disturbed unconsciousness.
There was little disparity between night and day in the dungeon, the only difference being a thin ray of light protruding through a slit in the low ceiling, which did manage to provide enough glow to allow Jack to inspect his cell and get a sense of the its size.
It took him a while to reorient himself when he awoke. He was lying on his back covered with the blanket, his left leg still throbbing. He fished in his pockets, found the box of painkillers and popped one in his mouth. He then positioned himself underneath the light and inspected his knee. It looked as it had the previous night, swollen but well bandaged and relatively clean.
He suddenly felt very thirsty and looked around the cell for water but none existed. It was a good few hours before food and water were shoved through his cell door. The food came on a steel platter consisting of two slices of stale bread, some warmed beans and canned meat of some sort. The water came in a plastic bottle, barely enough to last him a half-day. He had no appetite and discarded most of his food but carefully measured his water consumption. Later in the day, when darkness fell once again he received a second bottle and feasted on its water.
The second day went by much slower. Though he thought he was feeling less apprehensive and a little more accustomed to the debilitating conditions, he now had boredom and anxiety of the future to deal with. His knee pained him and he constantly worried about its condition. Blood poisoning was no laughing matter.
Mostly he tried to prepare for his imminent trial, argue his case, which he knew was weak at best. In a Dahab court he would have no chance. The judge, the police, and the lawyer had serious misgivings with him not to mention the boy’s father, all of whom he had cheated out of a large sum of money they expected to extort in exchange for the boy.
It would be a circus with him in the middle of it paying for everyone’s sins. Now he had an assault charge to worry about as well though he was quite content with that maneuver which not only punished the infuriating guard, it also earned Jack a visit to a doctor and might have even saved his life.
To pass the time and keep his sanity he decided to try some sit-ups and push-ups. He laid his blanket on the floor and did fifty sit-ups then turned and began some push-ups but that put too much strain on his bad leg. He figured he'd stick to sit-ups to stay in shape and decided to up the ante every few hours; see how far he could push himself. Then he would work on his flexibility; keep his blood flowing. In the confined space where he was and his physical condition, there was not much else he could do.
Now and then his thoughts wandered to Clair and whether she had managed to escape but everything else remained far in the background - his friend Sam, his colleagues at the Center, his previous life. Unimaginable luxuries, now.
His entire focus was now on how to survive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Elena walked into the Center just as the phone began to ring.
She fought past the door into the foyer, unwound the scarf from around her neck and ran to Sam�
�s office where she had set up camp. The room was in chaos. Sam’s desk and floor were covered with papers and files, the result of Elena’s total lack of familiarity with the office.
Being thrown into the middle of a major crisis, unprepared and untrained, she did her best to assist but found it extremely trying. Not only was she unfamiliar with the system Sam and his colleagues had contrived and had no idea of their basic filing system and computer network, she was also denied access to any classified information which made her task next to impossible.
Sam had been patiently coaching her on how to locate things: files, letters, references, and lists they needed to consult but it was all she could do to keep from conceding to the bizarre task of juggling balls with no hands.
Simple tasks like securing airline tickets, rental cars and accommodations for the crew became complicated snags due to her not having credit authorizations or access to bank accounts.
To overcome this problem, Sam had given her Metzger’s private phone and his office would pay the bills.
Elena fished the receiver from under a stack of files and answered, out of breath.
“Elena, it’s me, Sam.” She heard his voice through a great deal of static. “We have Clair and the boy out but not Jack.”
Elena was not sure she should rejoice or be dismayed.
“How are they?” she asked.
“Clair and Ibrahim are in fine shape. Worn out but reasonably healthy. It’s Jack everyone’s worried about.”
“What happened to him?”
“We’re not sure. He hurt his leg up in the high mountains and couldn’t go on.”
“So they just left him there?”
“They had to. There was no choice.”
“Could you make contact with him?”
“I’m afraid not. We’re not sure where he is now.”
“So what do we do?”
“I need you to put me in touch with Metzger in a minute. We need to find Jack and get him out quick. Meanwhile I need you to book Mai-Li and the six Brits back to Scotland. Chris needs to go to Paris and Natasha to New York. I’ll stay here until we achieve some progress.”