Consummate Betrayal

by Yungeberg. Mary

  Chad gave him a quick nod. “That’ll be my pleasure boss.”

  A harried looking physician with shrewd eyes behind glasses, wearing a white coat with blood on the front met him in the hallway. The doctor looked like he wanted someone’s butt. “Are you responsible for the patient I’ve been working on for the last hour?”

  He nodded. “Yes sir, my name is Ralph Johnston, Special Agent in Charge for the FBI.” Attempting a smile, he showed the doctor his badge and ID.

  The physician glanced at his credentials, didn’t appear impressed and didn’t return his smile. “I’m Doctor Anderson, head of the ER team at Sanford. Step in here, please.” The man gestured toward an open door. Stepping obediently inside, he sank into a chair facing a desk and watched as Doctor Anderson slid around to his own seat. The room was cramped, the walls crowded with varying photos, degrees and awards, all bearing either Doctor Anderson’s likeness or his name.

  The doctor leaned back in his chair, folded his hands in front of him on the cluttered desk and gazed at him with stark contempt. “Special agent Johnston, perhaps you can clear something up for me.”

  Ralph leaned forward. “Anything doctor, shoot.”

  Doctor Anderson waved his arm vaguely. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the distinct impression, from recent publicity on various news programs that our country does not torture terror suspects. Was I incorrect in that assumption?”

  Sitting up straight, feeling his face reddening, he fought the urge to tell Dr. Anderson the whole sordid story. “You are correct in that assumption.”

  Dr. Anderson glared at him. “That’s all you’ve got to say? Did you happen to notice what your agents or whatever you call them did to your prisoner? I saw the news shortly before he arrived in the ER. It’s great that he was apprehended. But that man was tortured. I can’t sit by and say nothing.”

  He opened his mouth to speak but the doctor barged on. “That man may never have the use of his hands again.” Doctor Anderson looked at his own hands and flexed them. “I have never seen such severe, deliberately inflicted injury from handcuffs. The soft tissue trauma is almost more than I can get a handle on. The radial, ulnar and median nerves must be tremendously damaged, and there are fractures in both wrists. The damage will most likely be long-term and might even be permanent.”

  The doctor gave him a grim stare. “We are also dealing with what I suspect is a torn or ruptured spleen, which a CT scan will confirm. Depending on the extent of damage, he may need immediate surgery. He’s already received a blood transfusion.” Doctor Anderson threw both hands in the air. “Maybe all this is superfluous to you – this is a terrorist after all. Was the intent merely to destroy his ability to shoot a gun, or say – feed himself?”

  Although well-schooled in managing situations requiring his utmost discretion, not responding as he wanted to the doctor’s information was excruciating. Knowing he would be grossly misinterpreted, he soldiered on, thinking that at some point, he needed to develop a closer relationship with the bottle of scotch in his dresser drawer. “Your concern is noted, doctor. You are of course free to make whatever reports you feel are necessary. My main concern is that you and the other doctors in this hospital make my prisoner as healthy as possible, as quickly as possible, so I can transport him out of here.” Well, that was the truth, as far as it went.

  The phone on the doctor’s belt rang. Ralph listened anxiously as the doctor spoke. “Yes? That’s what I suspected. Prep him for surgery. I’m on my way.” Dr. Anderson stood up. “Special agent Johnston, the CT scan revealed a torn spleen and we’re proceeding to surgery. And you can rest assured – I will be making multiple reports. You can also be assured that every effort will be made to show this man compassion and create the most favorable environment for complete healing, whatever his final destination may be.” The doctor stepped around the desk and opened the door. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

  With that, the doctor strode out of the office. Drooping in the chair, staring at the man’s receding back a moment before following, he muttered to himself. “God help you… I hope you can do everything you’ve said, doctor.”

  Dr. Anderson reluctantly led him through the hospital to the one-way locking doors that led to surgery. After calling Chad and leaving him a message, Ralph settled into a molded plastic chair against the wall. His subordinate appeared within minutes, Rowan’s laptop and briefcase in his hands. “Hey boss, the pussies…” Noting the expression on his special agent’s face, he couldn’t help a chuckle. Chad smiled weakly and tipped his head down at the booty in his hands. “The agents agreed to your exchange. They received a phone call shortly after you left. You were correct in assuming they wouldn’t be happy about the change in their plans for transporting the…uh, Rowan.”

  Ralph scratched his head and stared at Chad. It left a nasty taste in his mouth to refer to Rowan as a prisoner. “I heard you the first time, special agent. Thanks for a job well done. Listen, stay here and keep me informed. The docs aren’t close to being done with him. I’ve got some exceedingly unpleasant phone calls to make. Then I’m going to take a cab to the hotel and get cleaned up.”

  * * *

  It was nine-thirty in the morning, Pacific Time, when Khalil Milani turned on the TV for the first time that day. It was a gorgeous, sunny day in Carpinteria, California, perfect for a walk on the beach. He and Janice, his wife of over thirty years had done just that. Now, while she made coffee, he grabbed the remote, plopped down contentedly in his favorite recliner and switched on FOX News. The first thing he saw was the red and yellow alert banner: Alleged Terror Master Captured in Sioux Falls, SD. Rowan’s picture flashed on the screen. Then he saw the ambulance, and glimpsed his son on a stretcher, surrounded by paramedics and men with guns.

  The anchor droned on and on about someone called Ismail Hassani. At first he thought they’d confused Rowan with another man. But no, the anchor said Rowan was that man. His son was being named an international terrorist. A roaring sound filled his ears and he felt lightheaded. Bending over, he put his head between his knees. The next thing he knew, Janice was next to him on her knees beside the chair. “Khalil, honey, are you all right? You’re pale as a ghost, what’s the matter?” She pressed one hand to her chest, gripping his forearm with the other.

  Taking a shaky breath, he pointed at the TV. They both stared at the screen. The headline remained, but it couldn’t be true, this couldn’t be happening. Rowan – his son – would never betray his country. Janice put her hands over her face and began weeping quietly.

  The phone rang and he clambered up, answering it automatically. “Hello, Milani residence.” Perched on the edge of the chair, he put a hand on Janice’s shoulder. Ralph Johnston’s voice answered his hello and he wanted to respond, but felt like he was in some kind of trance. Placing a hand over his eyes, he tried to concentrate. “Ralph, it’s good of you to call. Yes, we’re just seeing it now.” He listened intently as Ralph described the whole situation as a mistake that would be sorted out soon and apologized for not calling earlier. Ralph paused and he interrupted. “What happened to Rowan? The TV says he violently resisted – capture.” His gorge rose at the words. “How badly was he hurt, and where is he now?”

  Caution and hesitation came across clearly in Ralph’s voice. His hearty assurance that Rowan would be fine sounded hollow. Concern for his only son constricted his chest. If Ralph had trouble lying to him, Rowan must be in bad shape.

  The front door slammed, he heard running footsteps and his daughter Bettina shouting. “Mom, Dad, did you see the news?” She appeared in the living room, fluffy black hair whispering around her face. Khalil watched his daughter kneel and take her mother in her arms. They clung together crying until Bettina looked up. “Who’s on the phone Dad, it’s not Rowan, is it?” The desperate hope in her eyes nearly killed him.

  He smiled kindly at her. “It’s Ralph Johnston, Rowan’s boss.”

>   “I want to talk to him.” Handing her the phone, he sank back into the chair, watching her determination take over. “Mr. Johnston, I want to talk to my brother. What do you mean? I understand he’s in the hospital, but can’t I talk to him? He’s not a prisoner, is he?”

  Khalil watched as tears gathered in her eyes. “He’s unconscious? I want to know what happened to my brother. Please tell me he’s OK.”

  When she collapsed, shaking with sobs, he gently retrieved the phone. “I’m sorry Ralph. I guess we’re all taking this pretty hard. Thank you for calling, and I trust you will keep us informed?”

  Bettina wrenched the phone from his hand. “Mr. Johnston, where is my brother? Sioux Falls, South Dakota? He’s still on assignment there?” Her voice wavered. “He’s in the hospital there, right?”

  Bettina wiped away her tears and he marveled at her fortitude. “Mr. Johnston, I am going to see my brother.” Her face scrunched up with fresh pain. “I will be in Sioux Falls, South Dakota…wherever that is, tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Ralph stared at his cell phone, a mixture of consternation and disbelief rolling through him. Snapping the phone shut, he blew out a heavy sigh. What in God’s name were they going to do with Bettina Milani? He kneaded his forehead and considered. How would she handle being told Rowan was his prisoner? He’d barely left Chad outside the doors to surgery when his boss, Rodney Ainsley, the Director of the FBI, had called. Although Ainsley proclaimed outrage over what had happened to Rowan, he detected a subtle resistance in his boss’s voice about whether it was a mistake.

  To top it off, his boss insisted on knowing how he was so connected, that he’d gotten the president out of a meeting. He’d been forced to admit that a very long time ago, as a Navy SEAL on leave, he’d happened to be in the same hunting party as a certain businessman turned politician. They’d bonded over guns, fighter jets and scotch, remaining clandestine friends over the ensuing years.

  Rubbing tired eyes, he relived the revolting conversation. Ainsley had insisted that the prisoner remain secured and under guard. Special agent Milani had shot a federal agent, so they could do nothing less. How would anyone know, he’d countered? It was non-negotiable, his boss replied. The conversation had become acrimonious at that point and he’d launched a full-scale assault – ranted, raved and threatened to resign. Ainsley remained unmoved and in the end, he’d said Yes sir, I’ll see to it, and hung up.

  It had taken steely resolve, but he’d called the county sheriff’s office and made the request. They’d already delivered leg irons, since handcuffs were out of the question. As soon as Rowan was out of surgery and transferred to a room, the deputy assigned to guard him would place them on Rowan’s legs and lock them there, keeping his special agent, his friend, the man he thought of as a son – secured to a hospital bed with a chain. He’d sat on the bed in his hotel room and held his head in his hands as tears like he hadn’t experienced in years poured down his face, and gut wrenching sobs wracked his body. All he could think about was the terror Rowan would feel if he woke up alone and realized he was a prisoner. That broke his heart and he didn’t give a damn who knew it.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Early Tuesday Morning

  While Ralph snored in a chair and Danielle dozed next to the hospital bed on a cot, Rowan’s tortured mind floated through layers of trauma and sedation toward consciousness. He’d promised to tell her good-bye…but he couldn’t, because they’d taken him. Somehow he’d been betrayed and now he was lost. As he blinked in the semi-darkness, awareness crept into his mind. He stared at the ceiling, felt the IV in the crook of his elbow and smelled strong antiseptic. Turning his head a fraction, he saw machines with blurry neon numbers and drapes pulled shut across a window. He tried to move his hands but couldn’t. His feet were bandaged. He felt cold metal above his ankles.

  When he moved his leg, a chain clanked. His eyes widened as everything came rushing back. There were leg irons above his ankles and a chain that kept him secured. Oh no – oh Jesus, they still had him, he was their prisoner. His heart pounded, his breath came in labored gasps and sweat drenched his body. Someone coughed and he waited in abject fear and terrified helplessness to see his monstrous captors, but saw Ralph instead, looking down at him with a sad, haggard face.

  Ralph leaned close. “Hey Rowan, it’s me. We’ve got you now and you’re going to be all right. You’re safe.” He winced, eyelids fluttering, expecting a blow as Ralph reached down and touched his forehead. “You feel hot, son. I think you’ve got a fever.”

  Moving restlessly, he felt the cold metal again and moaned in raw despair, the sound barely audible. Ralph moved out of his line of sight, and then he saw her. Danielle hovered over the bed, clutching the rail with her hands. “Rowan, I’m so sorry. I wish I could help you.” Her fingers skimmed his hair. “I love you and I’ll be here, no matter what.” And then she was gone. Had he imagined her standing there? God, he hoped not.

  A nurse appeared. He watched her professional concern as she checked his vitals, frowned at the thermometer, and made a note. Desperation washed over him in crashing waves. He’d never confess to being a terrorist – they couldn’t make him do that. Closing his eyes, he turned his back on consciousness, following the darkness to the place where he was no longer in agony.

  * * *

  Later Tuesday Morning

  Ralph woke with a start to his ringing cell phone. Fumbling, he pulled it out of his pants pocket and dropped it. The damn thing kept ringing. Grunting, he strained to reach it, feeling like he was eighty years old. Another night in a chair would be the end of him. Grabbing the phone, he sat up and smacked it resoundingly against his ear. “Ouch, damn it. Johnston.”

  “Morning, Ralph.” What could his boss want at this hour? Twisting around, he swatted at the closed drapes. Weak sunlight filtered into the room, but he had no idea of the time. Scratching his face, he realized his boss had continued talking in his calm, unhurried way. “The upshot of all the information I’ve been provided with, from sources I trust, is this. Our intelligence shows credible evidence that special agent Milani has been playing us very cleverly.”

  Not believing what he’d just heard, he interrupted. “What?” But his boss continued before he could say anything else.

  “It’s going to be difficult for you to accept that, Ralph. After all, you’ve worked with special agent Milani – or perhaps we should accustom ourselves to his real name, Ismail Hassani – closely, but oftentimes that puts a good agent in the position of not seeing the forest for the trees. We’ve all been there. Don’t beat yourself up. The fact that he shot a federal agent, who is now hospitalized, doesn’t help the situation.”

  As usual Ainsley had succeeded in pissing him off. He knew his agents, and he hadn’t, by God, been played by Rowan. A thorough, diabolical betrayal of his special agent was rapidly unfolding, but he’d be damned if it would succeed. Someone, or more likely some entity had invested considerable time, resources, and manpower in the endeavor. It made no sense, but one thing was glaringly obvious – they’d managed to co-opt his boss.

  It was time for serious subterfuge. Taking a deep breath, he marshaled his thoughts. It would be his best performance – because it had to be. Rowan’s life hung in the balance. Allowing a dry chuckle for Ainsley’s benefit, he began. “Your point is well taken, sir. In the interests of national as well as local security, considering the danger inherent in housing a terrorist in a regional medical center, I believe it would behoove us to move him to a more secure facility. The only drawback is his physical condition, but I will confer with the doctor in charge and determine a plausible date for transfer.”

  Ainsley became animated. “Yes, yes, I’m glad you understand. We need to transport our prisoner as soon as possible. Please meet with the doctors there. Perhaps they can liaison with the medical team at Quantico, which is the facility I prefer. I want this man in shape for interrogation, and I don’t want
anything to interfere with that happening as expeditiously as possible.”

  Ralph pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. The urge to throw it as hard and far as he could was beyond strong. Finally, he simply released his fingers and let it clatter to the floor. Ainsley kept talking in a tinny voice. “Are you still there? Did I lose you?” Next he resisted the desire to stomp the phone to pieces. Grunting in irritation, he bent over and picked it up.

  Faking a chuckle, he addressed his boss. “Sorry sir, butter-fingers this morning, I dropped the damn thing. You were saying?” He’d find a weakness in whatever blighted plot Ainsley came up with. His boss wouldn’t be moving Rowan anywhere, anytime. It would be, he decided grimly, over his dead, stinking carcass.

  Ainsley continued. “Sounds like I caught you off guard this morning. It’s still early there, only eight o’clock here.” You jerk, Ralph thought darkly as he sat hunched in the chair, chin in one hand, elbows boring into his knees. His boss never did anything without a reason. The conniving man had every intention of taking him by surprise, but two could play that game.

  He sat up. “Well sir, if you can ready things on your end, I can make the arrangements here.” Hoping his utter disgust wasn’t evident in his voice, he glanced at Rowan and almost dropped the phone again. His special agent laid in the bed staring at him, listening to him.

  Ainsley sounded relieved. “It’s good to hear you’re onboard with this situation. I’ll begin making arrangements for secure transport. Keep me informed of what’s happening on your end. Have a good day, Ralph.”

  Snapping the phone shut, he slung it away, watching as it skittered across the floor and out the door. “Yeah, I’m onboard all right, but it’s a different fucking train. You just don’t know that yet.” He looked down at Rowan again. His prisoner gazed back at him. Despite the situation, he had to smile. With his disheveled, coal black hair and ragged beard edging his bruised face, Rowan looked like the real deal.