Shakedown

by Newt Gingrich

  Petrov spun and exploded upward. His open right palm hit under the convict’s nose, breaking it and causing the surprised inmate to fall back. Petrov kicked the inmate’s thigh just above his knee, shattering the prisoner’s bone, sending him to the floor.

  His jailhouse buddy backed away as guards ran toward them.

  “On the floor!” an officer yelled. “Now!”

  Petrov dropped to his knees and then onto his belly. The guards swarmed around him, each taught to take charge of a specific limb. They dropped in unison, pinning him to the tile floor. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, his feet shackled. A chain was attached, connecting the restraints.

  The injured prisoner’s compound fracture had ripped through the leg of his dark-green pants.

  “You blind and stupid?” an arriving captain asked the wounded inmate. “Didn’t you see his tats? He’s been down before.”

  Petrov was dragged to a solitary cell on the pod’s ground level. Inside, it was pitch-black. The toilet was a hole in the floor. They dropped him, hog-tied, onto concrete that smelled of bleach, urine, and feces. Now out of view of the pod’s cameras, the captain towered over Petrov.

  “Listen, you dumb Russian son of a bitch, I don’t tolerate fighting.” He kicked Petrov hard in his ribs, and when Petrov didn’t immediately cry out, he aimed for his head.

  Petrov turned his skull just in time to avoid a blow to his face. A guard leaned down and began hammering the bound prisoner’s face with his fists. When they left him, Petrov was spitting blood.

  Outside the regional jail, Brett Garrett poked the intercom call button and stepped back so Valerie Mayberry could flash her FBI credentials in front of a camera.

  “Who you here to see?” a voice asked.

  “The Russian rescued by the Coast Guard,” she answered.

  They heard a loud buzz, and the electronic lock in the reinforced door opened. The lobby smelled of cleaning supplies. Mayberry went directly to the glass-enclosed control booth, which was reminiscent of a drive-through bank window. She inserted her FBI identification into a retractable drawer. Garrett tossed in an old State Department ID that he’d used when working for the CIA. The guard peered through the bullet-resistant glass at Mayberry, comparing her ID to her face. Picked up Garrett’s and did the same. Retained both in a box next to him.

  “You’ll get ’em back when you leave. Any weapons?”

  “Left them in the car,” Mayberry said.

  “No phones. No cameras. No recording devices.”

  Mayberry shook her head.

  The guard nodded to a hallway directly across from the booth. “I’ll have him brought to the attorney/client room—end of that hallway.”

  “We want a contact visit, not through the glass,” Garrett said.

  “That’s not how we do things here,” the guard answered.

  “That’s how we want you to do it,” Mayberry insisted. “If he thinks you’re recording him, he won’t talk.”

  The guard turned off the speaker so they couldn’t hear what he was saying. Raised a cell phone to his ear. When he finished, he switched the speaker back on.

  “Captain has okayed it. Go through the first door on your right.”

  Mayberry led. They waited to hear another electronic deadbolt open, then entered a narrow room with a stainless-steel table and four stools bolted onto the floor. The hallway door behind them shut. As they heard its electronic deadbolt slide shut, a door opened in the opposite wall, and two guards brought Petrov through. An officer unlocked Petrov’s leg restraints, but didn’t uncuff his hands. Instead, the officer chained them to a thick steel ring on the table, preventing Petrov from lifting them more than five inches from its shiny surface.

  Both guards left, but one stood watch outside the door, peering through an eye-level window at them. Mayberry couldn’t see any cameras or microphones in the room.

  In fluent Russian, Mayberry introduced herself and Garrett. Petrov ignored them. Stared straight ahead.

  “They whipped your ass pretty good, didn’t they?” Garrett noted in English, looking at the bruises and cuts on Petrov’s face. “Everyone’s a tough guy when they’re beating a handcuffed man.”

  Petrov gave him a curious glance.

  “Did time in Leavenworth,” Garrett said. “Easy to recognize a guard ass-kicking once you’ve had one.” He rose from the table and tapped on the glass window through which the guard was watching them.

  “You already done?” the officer asked when he opened the door.

  “Not even started,” Garrett replied. “We need you to uncuff him, and while you’re at it, we’d like three coffees. I take mine black.”

  “You serious? This isn’t McDonald’s. We don’t do things your way.”

  “I believe that’s Burger King.”

  The guard was about to utter an expletive when Mayberry spoke. “Unless you want the Justice Department’s civil rights division coming here to investigate why this prisoner is covered with bruises, I’d suggest you comply.”

  “He got into a fight with another inmate. He lost.”

  The guard shut the door. Garrett watched him use his cell. Moments later, the captain joined them.

  “You the one asking for coffee?” he said.

  “It was a long drive from Washington.”

  The captain looked at Mayberry. “She’s FBI, but why is someone from State here? Who are you, exactly?”

  “I’m the one Washington sent to interview your prisoner. If you’d like, we can arrange a call from the US attorney general.”

  “We’d appreciate your cooperation,” Mayberry added.

  The captain looked at Garrett, then at Petrov and his officer. “Go ahead and uncuff him and bring them coffee.” To Garrett, he added, “If he throws it in your face, that’s on you.”

  Garrett smiled. “Yes, if he throws it, it will be on me.”

  The captain left, and after Petrov’s hands were unshackled and the guard had retreated, Garrett offered him coffee. Petrov looked at the cup but didn’t take it.

  “They used to spit or worse in my drinks,” Garrett said. “I’ve heard the KGB drugs people.” He reached over and took Petrov’s cup, raised it to his lips, and took a sip. “Burned my tongue, but it’s okay.” He placed it back before Petrov. “If you don’t like that one, take mine.”

  He slid his cup over next to the other one.

  Petrov picked up the first cup. “All prison coffee tastes like shit,” he complained.

  “The Coast Guard report says you jumped from the Bella Sofia cargo ship,” Mayberry said. “Can you tell us why you were trying to enter the US illegally?”

  Petrov ignored her.

  Garrett nodded at the tats on Petrov’s forearms. “We call your type dolphins in our navy. What do you Russians call submariners?”

  Petrov grunted. “Crazy.”

  “At least you’re used to being locked in small spaces.”

  Petrov smirked. “You’re a funny American.”

  “You were wearing a deepwater submarine escape suit when you were rescued,” Mayberry said.

  “Let’s start with your name,” Garrett interrupted. “You’re listed as John Doe.”

  “I was told in America you were allowed a phone call,” Petrov said.

  “Not if you’re trying to enter our country illegally,” Mayberry replied.

  “Who do you want to call?” Garrett asked. “Your billionaire pal Taras Zharkov?”

  A sudden shift in eye movement.

  “Zharkov’s dead,” Mayberry said. “He’ll not be coming to rescue you.”

  “I don’t know this Zharkov.”

  “Then we’re wasting our time speaking to you.” Mayberry turned to Garrett. “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “Listen,” Garrett said, “it’s basic. You help us. We help you. Two dead Russians wearing SEIE suits washed up on shore after you were found. Both fatally shot by someone using an underwater pistol. If you don’t help us, I’m fairly cert
ain a friendly prosecutor could be persuaded to charge you in their suspicious deaths and you will spend the rest of your life in prison drinking shitty coffee.”

  “This Zharkov, how did he die?” Petrov asked.

  “Why would you care?” Mayberry asked.

  “Murdered in the bedroom of his London mansion,” Garrett said.

  Petrov stared at the paper coffee cup in his hand.

  “We know about Zharkov’s submarine and the bomb,” Garrett said. “We think you know about them too. Help us, and we’ll help you get out of here.”

  Petrov put down his coffee. “My name is Boris Petrov. If I tell you more, I want a ticket to Moscow. No charges here.”

  “That depends on what you know,” Mayberry said.

  “Everything.”

  “That’s what everyone says when they’re trying to cut a deal,” Garrett said.

  “Do you know where it is?” Mayberry asked.

  Petrov saw opportunity in her eagerness. “Yes, but in addition to the airplane ticket, I want a reward.”

  Garrett snickered. “Listen, Boris, no one is going to reward you for taking part in a nuclear attack against the United States. But I can promise you this. If there’s a bomb and it goes off, you’ll be executed.”

  “There is a bomb. I have seen it.”

  “We could just make you talk,” Garrett threatened.

  “Americans don’t do such things. Tell your bosses I can take you to the exact location of the submarine in time to neutralize the bomb.”

  “How do you know where it is right now?” Garrett asked. “I assume it’s out there, moving around.”

  “We need something to show you’re not lying,” Mayberry said. “Work with us, and we’ll help you.”

  “You are searching for a Soviet-era Romeo-class submarine capable of traveling at twenty knots with advanced stealth technology, and it is not out there moving around. I brought it here, and it is grounded at sea in a location that you will never find.”

  “You brought it? You grounded it?” Garrett unfolded a map of the Virginia coastline. “Where is it grounded?”

  Petrov extended his middle finger and touched the map without taking his eyes off Garrett’s. “Here, or maybe here, or maybe here, or maybe there,” he said, slipping his finger along the entire coast. “Five million, ten million, a hundred million—what is it worth to stop a nuclear attack?” He waved at the guard watching them. The officer opened the door. “I’m finished,” Petrov said, then turned back to Garrett and Mayberry. “Don’t wait too long. Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

  When Garrett and Mayberry reached the parking lot, both made calls.

  Garrett telephoned the agency and asked to speak to Director Whittington. Mayberry the FBI.

  “I can’t get by the bureau’s switchboard,” Mayberry said moments later.

  “Same here,” Garrett said. “Let’s drive.”

  “Where?”

  “The White House.”

  Forty-Two

  The Israeli surgeon handed Esther a glass container that resembled a tall drinking glass.

  “How much time do I have?” Esther asked.

  “Maximum two hours.” He opened the hospital emergency-room door so Esther could enter the brightly lighted room.

  Ibrahim Antar was still groggy but opened his left eye. He blinked and realized that his right eye was covered with gauze and bandages. He tried to move his arms, but they were strapped to the hospital bed. His legs too. A monitor was nearby. Heartbeat, blood pressure, respiratory. He suddenly realized he was wearing a hospital gown.

  “It will take a few moments for the anesthesia to wear off from the surgery,” Esther told him.

  “What surgery? What have you Jews done to me?”

  Esther moved next to his hospital bed. Lowered a satchel to the floor.

  “Where is Fathi Aziz?”

  Antar ignored her.

  “Your friend Khalid Basara is dead, and so is the woman who was sleeping in his bed. No one in Gaza knows where you are. They cannot rescue you, and we can easily make you disappear.”

  Antar turned his head away from her.

  “Ibrahim, we know you are a member of the Jihad Brigade. I will arrange for you to be executed as a terrorist, unless you tell me where Aziz is hiding.”

  Antar pulled on the bed restraints. Spat out a series of insults and then defiantly proclaimed: “I welcome martyrdom.”

  “Where is Fathi Aziz?”

  More insults. More defiance.

  “You welcome martyrdom,” Esther repeated. “Martyrdom is too easy.”

  She bent and removed a photograph from her satchel. It was the picture of the Israeli solider who’d been tortured by the Roc. She cupped Antar’s chin with her left hand. Forced him to stare at the gruesome photo inches from him.

  “Do you see how the skin was removed while he was still alive? Imagine the pain. The suffering. Your people did this to one of our soldiers.”

  Antar’s eyes narrowed, filled with hatred.

  “His name was Avraham,” she continued. “Only twenty years old. Not yet a father. Look at the floor. See his flesh? Tossed there like pieces of garbage.”

  “A Jew,” Antar said, spitting out the words. “You torture and murder Palestinians every day. Children, mothers, old people. I only wish I had been the one cutting your friend.”

  Esther pinched his chin hard between her fingers. “The Jihad Brigade just murdered schoolchildren in Manhattan, children visiting a museum.”

  “Aziz is merely an instrument of Allah, the holy one.” He spit, hitting her chin. The spittle dripped onto her olive-green military uniform. She took a cloth from a nearby medical tray and wiped her face. Tucked the photo back into her satchel.

  “Where is Aziz hiding?”

  “You are deaf and stupid. A Jew cow!”

  Esther reached into her satchel, and when she raised her hand, she was holding the tall glass container that the surgeon had given her outside the emergency room.

  “Look,” she said. “Look—at yourself.”

  He didn’t understand.

  An object floated in the clear fluid. She turned the container slightly. It took him a moment. A detached human eyeball staring back at him.

  “This is from your operation,” Esther said.

  Antar immediately tried to raise his right eyelid under the bandage. Closed his left eye and tried to see with only his right. Nothing. Only blackness.

  “It’s not there,” Esther said calmly. “Now it belongs to me. It belongs in this bottle.”

  Antar unleashed a primordial scream. The numbers, beeps, and lines on his monitor went haywire. He cried again and bruised his wrists, trying to break his restraints.

  “Where is Aziz?” Esther said in a menacing whisper.

  “I will kill you!” he shouted. “Every one of you.”

  “Where is Aziz?”

  Antar hollered again and tried to rip free.

  Esther motioned for the surgeon, still standing behind her, to come closer.

  “Ibrahim has made his choice,” Esther said, standing up, stepping back from the bedside stool to make room for the doctor. “Time to remove his other eye.”

  The surgeon retrieved a syringe from the nearby table. He inserted its needle into a vial and pulled back its plunger.

  Antar began thrashing. He twisted his head, wrestled with the restraints, jerking them back and forth helplessly.

  Esther called two men. They positioned themselves on opposite sides of the bed and grabbed Antar’s skull. He tried to bite one, but they immobilized him. He was breathing rapidly now, covered in sweat. Like a rabid dog.

  Antar’s remaining eye shifted from Esther to the surgeon, who raised the needle.

  “Where is Aziz?” Esther asked.

  Antar clenched his teeth. Esther nodded. The surgeon inserted his needle into Antar’s cornea and injected the syringe’s contents. The two men clutching his head released their grip, and Antar screamed in intense pain, lif
ting and dropping his head against the pillow.

  “The first injection necessary for me to detach the eye,” the surgeon said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “This is your last chance,” Esther said. “Tell me now, before he cuts it out.”

  Antar again locked his teeth.

  “Blind him,” Esther ordered.

  The surgeon inserted his hands into white latex gloves and retrieved a scalpel. Its shiny blade flashed in the overhead light. He touched the blade’s tip just under Antar’s eyebrow. “First, I will remove the eyelid,” he explained, as if lecturing student doctors. “For easier access behind the eye, so I can sever the optic nerve, causing irreversible blindness. Then I will pull the eye from its socket.”

  The surgeon began to cut into Antar’s flesh, drawing blood.

  “No!” he screamed. “Stop! Stop!”

  The surgeon hesitated.

  Esther stepped forward as a droplet of blood from the incision trickled into Antar’s left eye. He blinked, verifying that he still had an eyelid.

  “Where is he?” Esther asked.

  “Outside Dera Ghazi Khan. Punjab Province, in Pakistan.” He began sobbing.

  “When did you last contact him?”

  “Only an hour before you kidnapped me,” Antar said. “I swear it.”

  “If you are lying, you will lose more than your eyesight.” Esther placed the tall glass that held the severed eye on a metal tray for him to see.

  “The pain,” he begged. “My eye is on fire.”

  The surgeon gave him a shot of local anesthesia. Regaining his composure, he spat out: “Allah will punish you!”

  Once outside the emergency room, Esther checked the time.

  “Less than two hours,” she said to the surgeon.

  “Perfectly played. Once the paralyzing agent wears off, he will know the eyeball in the glass next to him is not his. It will be impossible to deceive him a second time.”

  “If Aziz detonates a nuclear bomb,” she said, “there will be no need to deceive him.”

  Forty-Three

  “Saeedi,” General Kardar said, hoping to disarm the Roc by using his first name, “we are brothers. Not enemies.” He had no idea how the assassin had obtained his private cell number. The general was still riding in his government-issued car from the Tehran airport to the Iranian president’s house.