Hasan shook out a cigarette from a hard pack and offered her one.
“I don’t smoke,” she said.
“Neither do I. It’s a nasty habit,” he replied, lighting his cigarette, and slowly exhaling.
His denial didn’t make sense, and she wondered if her exhaustion was clouding her thoughts. Suddenly Hasan leaned forward and stuck the burning tip of his cigarette into her neck. She screamed and jerked back as the smell of burned flesh reached her nostrils.
He eased back into his chair and sucked on the cigarette until its tip glowed again.
“Now for the bad news,” he said sternly. “I will hurt you much more than that.”
Showers was breathing rapidly.
“I don’t think you have ever been interrogated,” he said, “but I know you have thought about it. Everyone does. ‘Can I keep quiet? Or will I break?’ It is a fool’s question. Do you know why?”
She shook her head.
“Because everyone talks. They talk or they die. The only real uncertainly is how long it will take for you to tell me what I want to know. For me, it doesn’t matter. A minute, an hour, a day. But for you, well, it matters a great deal.” He looked at the red tip of the cigarette and leaned forward. She instinctively pulled back. He flashed a toothy grin of yellowed teeth.
He said, “Tell me, do you like to read?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said. “I love literature. I try to read a book every day. I have done this since I was six years old. I do it because I want to learn. I am always trying to improve my mind and reading can help you deal with problems. Have you ever read Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich? No? It is an important book, a very important book about life inside a Soviet prison camp where people were abused. And if you had read it, then perhaps you would have learned something from it that would be helpful to you now.”
She stayed silent.
“Do you know what Solzhenitsyn said about Americans after he was exiled from the Soviet Union and had lived in your country for many years? He said Americans lacked the moral fiber to defeat Communism. He said you didn’t have the stomach for it.”
She drew a deep breath and responded, “Maybe you missed it, but the Cold War ended and we’re still standing—unlike Communism.”
“Defiant. I like that. The challenge.”
By now, the cigarette was spent, and he dropped it on the floor and stepped on it. He reached into the satchel and removed a spool of heavy white cord.
She watched him intently.
He said, “There was a reason why I mentioned books. It’s because I believe a person should strive to improve themselves in their chosen profession. Consider my field, for example. I could use the same interview techniques whenever I interrogate someone, but then how could I improve? This is why I am always searching for something more efficient. This cord, for instance. Do you know how many positions a human body can be tied into that can cause extreme pain?”
She did not answer.
“The Japanese have incorporated the use of knots and ropes and pain into their sexual customs. They call it Kinbaku or Sokubaku—sexual bondage using ropes. Did you know that?”
Again, she kept silent. He was showing off.
He grinned again and said, “What’s the matter? As you Americans say, ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Or did I say that wrong, too?”
He placed the spool on the floor and took a new item from his bag. It was two strands of electrical wire. “Electric shocks, especially applied to a person’s private parts can be extremely painful, but everyone who watches television knows this. There is no imagination involved. It’s mundane torture.”
He put down the wire and said, “You see, a true professional, such as myself, attempts to tailor the various tools at his disposal to the unique personality of the individual being questioned. It’s my job to find just the right motivator to insure that you will tell me what I need to know. You should be grateful that I am not some brute, but a true professional, because I’m actually doing you a favor. It is incredible how much pain some people can tolerate, but I can save you from that by recognizing your deepest fear and tapping into it. It is quicker, more humane, really. Why, I will be doing you a favor. You should thank me, really.”
“I’ll thank you if you undo this chain and let me go,” she said.
He looked into Showers’s eyes and smiled. He said, “I have used all sorts of devices on women such as you. They scream, but then, so do men.” Hasan removed a clear plastic bag filled with soda crackers from the satchel. “This looks refreshing, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Hardly an instrument of torture. Are you hungry?” He opened the bag, took a bite of a cracker. “But in the right hands—someone knowledgeable, well, let me tell you a secret.” He shook the bag and its contents. “If I put this bag over your head and crumple up little dry crackers in it, eventually you have to breathe them into your lungs and those crumbs will scratch your insides. You will start spitting blood.” He finished the remainder of the cracker and placed the bag onto the floor. “Now, are you still hungry?”
This time, he withdrew a pair of stainless steel shears from his case. “Mutilation—cutting off toes, fingers, or a man’s sexual organ can be effective. Disfigurement terrifies people—especially women—and it is pitifully easy. The chopping off of a hand or foot. The gouging out of an eyeball. The scarring of a cheek. Have you ever smelled your own flesh burning …? Well, yes, you just did.” He smiled again and added, “All it takes is a cup of gasoline and a match.”
He placed the clippers in the row that he had created neatly on the floor. Next from the satchel came a small wooden club. “Beating people is perhaps the most pedestrian form of persuasion, and the most common.”
She realized he was showing her these articles not only to intimidate her but to observe her reaction.
“Actually, I am mistaken,” he said in a sinister voice, “just like when I said Disneyland and meant Disney World. You see, beatings may be a common form of torture, but you could argue that there is another practice that is used just as frequently in jails and prisons. Sexual violation. Rape.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Showers said. “You’re a big, brave man with your little bag of horrors, especially when you are facing a woman with a useless arm who’s chained to the floor. If you get into trouble, all you have to do is call your goons from outside. But you don’t fool me. I see right through you. You’re nothing more than a sadistic little pervert, a bug, a piece of human garbage who gets his kicks out of picking on helpless people who can’t defend themselves. Does it make you feel important? Does it make you feel potent?”
Showers watched as Hasan blushed. At the FBI academy, she’d been told that it was important for agents dealing with hostile witnesses to take command of the interview and then to both intimidate and befriend a witness. Now she was on the other side. She was the witness, and she suspected that Hasan had not read the same textbook, nor did he plan to play by the FBI’s rules.
“Torturing you,” he said, “is going to be very enjoyable for me.”
“That’s just what I would suspect a bug like you to say,” she replied.
CHAPTER NINE
“It’s not going any further,” Storm declared.
Dilya pushed the Range Rover’s gas pedal and the car’s engine roared, but even with its four-wheel drive and climbing ability, the SUV had reached its limits. Switching off the engine, Dilya left the keys in the ignition and stated the obvious: “From here we go on foot.”
The four of them moved to the vehicle’s rear gate, where they collected their gear. All were wearing hiking boots and had sidearms. In addition to his backpack, Casper was carrying a twelve-gauge pump shotgun on a sling, Dilya had a sniper rifle, and Storm was armed with an AK-47. Oscar, meanwhile, was carrying a bag of various geological gear.
“How far to the border crossing?” Storm asked.
“Only three miles,” she replied. “We don’t have to climb
to the top of these mountains. There is a pass that cuts through them, but it will take us at least two hours to reach because of the terrain. It’s important for everyone to watch their footing.”
Storm asked: “How long until we get to Jizzakh?”
“We’ll be there by nightfall.”
“That’ll give them plenty of time to interrogate your girlfriend,” Casper said, taunting him. “Maybe they’ll give her a pretty little scar on her face, too—after they’ve passed her around like a bicycle.”
“You talk too much,” Dilya said. “Save your breath for climbing the mountain.”
“Are there border guards?” Oscar asked.
“Only occasional patrols. There are so many miles of border in these mountains that it would be impossible to watch every pass.”
Dilya led. Oscar immediately began following her, but both Casper and Storm hesitated.
“After you, sweetheart,” Casper sneered.
Storm shook his head, indicating no. He did not want Casper behind him, and Casper knew it. He chuckled and fell in behind Oscar, leaving the rear to Storm.
There was no formal trail and the incline soon grew steep, but not so much that they needed to be roped together. The tops of the mountains were covered with deep snow, which they avoided where possible. About a half hour into their trek, they came to a mound of loose rocks that they needed to climb. It required them to use their hands to help pull them forward as they scaled a series of jagged rocks on all fours. Dilya scrambled up the surface with ease, but Oscar lost his footing and a half dozen fist-sized rocks broke loose and shot down the incline behind him, nearly hitting Casper and Storm.
“Sorry,” he called to them.
Casper cursed, and Storm immediately regretted his decision to be at the bottom of their line. He knew what was about to happen, and a moment later, he found himself dodging another rock that came bouncing down toward his face. It was followed by another, larger stone that barely missed him.
“Oops,” Casper said. “My bad.”
When they reached the top of the loose rocks, they began walking on a goat path that soon led them to a cut between the mountains. The air was thin, and all of them were struggling to catch their breath. Dilya suddenly raised her hand and they stopped. She dropped to her knees. The rest did, too. About three hundred yards ahead of them were two men in Uzbekistan border patrol uniforms. Both carried automatic weapons. They were smoking cigarettes and talking.
Casper duckwalked to where Dilya was hiding.
“Give me the M-24,” he said, referring to the American military-issue sniper rifle that she was carrying. “I’ll kill them.”
“There are two of them,” she said.
“Yeah, so? I’ll drop the second before he figures out what happened to his buddy.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You could miss. One might escape. We will wait.”
“I never miss,” Casper said. “And they could be here for hours.”
“And for what reason?” she replied. “This is a routine stop for them. This path is well known. We will wait.”
Casper let out a sigh in disgust and moved back nearer Storm. He sat, leaned his back against a rock, and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t help but taunt Storm. “Tick, tick, tick,” he whispered. “Every minute we’re stuck here is another minute for them to play with your lady friend. Maybe they’ll just pull off a fingernail, or maybe they’ll take a complete finger or even her hand. How do you like the nickname ‘Stumpy’?”
Storm moved up to where Dilya was watching the guards through field glasses, which she immediately handed to him.
“Every moment we’re stuck here counts,” Storm reminded her.
“These two men are part of a twelve-man squad. They ride in a truck to known crossing areas and then fan out searching for drug runners and other illegal aliens. If Casper shoots them, their companions will know. We cannot save your friend if we are discovered.”
Through the field glasses, Storm saw one of the guards flick a spent cigarette. The guard then turned, and the two of them began walking away from the pass.
“We’ll wait fifteen minutes for them to rejoin their comrades and leave. Then we will cross into Uzbekistan. I only hope that the guards did not discover our new vehicle hidden on the other side of the border. It is a long walk down the mountain to the nearest town.”
Storm thought about Showers. Alone, being interrogated in Jizzakh. He was not a deeply religious man, but he said a silent prayer that there would be a car waiting and that Showers would still be alive when they reached her.
Minutes later, the unlikely foursome walked gingerly through the pass and started down a narrow footpath. Coming down the mountain proved more taxing than climbing it. Gravity tugged at them, pulling them close to the path’s edge, trying to make them hurry their footing and break into what surely would be a fatal run.
They watched for the border guards but didn’t see them.
After about an hour, Dilya said, “There!” She pointed to a clump of trees. Storm caught the reflection of the sun off the windshield of a four-wheel drive Chevy. When they reached it, they shed their gear and paused to catch their breath.
Oscar disappeared into the trees to pee. Casper inspected a diagram that had been left inside the SUV along with a handheld satellite GPS. This left Storm and Dilya together. They walked to a large rock jutting from the terrain, and Dilya took a drink of water then handed her canteen to Storm.
“It’s beautiful,” Dilya said, scanning the picturesque plains that spread for miles before them from their mountain perch.
He knew better than to ask, but couldn’t help himself. “Why did you get involved with Jones?”
“When the Soviet Union collapsed, more than two million Russians ran back to Russia because they knew what would happen if they stayed here. But we had grown dependent on their handouts and there was chaos. People were starving. My country is mostly Sunni Muslim, and the Jihad Group, which is linked to Al Qaeda, soon began launching terrorist attacks because our government became friendly with Americans. My parents, husband, and daughter were murdered in a bomb blast in a café. I wanted to die, but first I wanted to kill as many terrorists as possible. Jones’ people found me. They helped me infiltrate the Jihad Group.”
She made it sound simple—like signing up for Terrorism 101. But Storm knew better. He was familiar with the Jihad Group, and it was one of the most secretive and deadly of all the extremists. One of the group’s top commanders, a radical known simply as the Viper, was why Storm had been sent to Tangiers. Jones had needed Storm to help track down the Viper, and the CIA had learned that the terrorist was meeting in Tangiers with another Al Qaeda operative. For years, the northern Morocco city had been known as a safe haven for spies and terrorists. Jones told Storm that as soon as he was able to identify where the Viper was hiding, an agency team would be sent to capture or kill him. Casper had been part of that “kill team.” It had been housed separately from Storm’s group in Tangiers, waiting for a greenlight. But a day after Storm landed in Morocco, he and the others with him had been ambushed. Everyone but him was killed. It had been a trap and the Viper escaped.
“Do you know the Jihad Group?” she asked him.
“Yes, the Viper is a truly evil man.”
“They all are.”
Oscar emerged from the bushes and Casper finished with his map. “You girls going to chat all afternoon or are we ready to go kill someone?” Casper asked.
Dilya said, “Why must you be so unpleasant?”
“Actually, Scarface, I’ve been on my best behavior just to impress you.” Looking directly at Storm, he added, “Tick, tick, tick.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Let’s begin with the most obvious question: Where is the gold?” Hasan asked Showers.
“What gold?” she replied.
Hasan chuckled. “So this is how we will play our little game.” He scanned the various torture devices that he’d carefully placed in fron
t of him and then yelled something in Uzbek. Two men hurried into the room. One carried a metal folding chair, which he set up directly across from Hasan. He hoisted Showers from the mat and forced her into the chair. The guard jerked her injured right arm behind her, sending a jarring pain up her shoulder, but she refused to scream. He handcuffed her wrists in back of the chair.
The other guard brought a large truck battery with jumper cables into the room and dropped it near her feet.
“Didn’t you say shocking people was mundane?” she chided.
“Consider this foreplay,” Hasan hissed. “I will get more creative as our evening together progresses.”
At least now she knew it was nightfall. Hasan rose from his seat, walked behind her, reached down, and suddenly grabbed her right shoulder, digging his thumb into her wound.
Showers screamed. He pressed again, clearly trying to separate the collarbone that the hospital surgeons had labored to repair. The pain was so intense, and she was so exhausted that Showers mercifully blacked out.
“Langley has a bird’s-eye view of the dump where they are entertaining the FBI broad,” Casper announced as Dilya drove the SUV toward Jizzakh. “Intel says there are currently only four men inside the building.”
“Four?” Oscar replied.
“What sort of building is it?” Dilya asked.
“A slaughterhouse,” Casper said, chuckling. “I didn’t think Muslims ate meat.”
“Muslims practice Halal,” Dilya said. “We don’t eat pork or any meat that has blood in it. Nor do we drink alcohol.”
“Pity for you, Scarface. No booze to help you sleep during those lonely nights,” Casper said. “Maybe we can get together after this little escapade and I can introduce you to a friend of mine named Jack Daniel’s”
“Does this mean women only find you attractive when they are drunk?” she asked.
“What’s your rescue plan?” Storm said.
A Bloody Storm Page 5