by Eric Meyer
He gave a careless shrug and gestured to the man standing close to him. He waved to someone further away, and an engine started. An SUV drove up to the Islamist leader, who climbed aboard, with a final wave at Stoner. The vehicle drove off, and men pushed them into the back of the same truck he’d driven up the slope. They kicked and punched them to the floor, and Stoner did his best to shield Greg’s body with his own, taking the lumps intended for the wounded man. The insurgents stayed with them, their rifles pointed at their bodies and fingers held hungrily over the triggers. The message was clear. If they moved, they’d shoot. The truck engine started, and they began the lurching, bumping swaying journey back down the slope. Back the way they’d come, back to the caves.
They arrived an hour later, and the guards dragged them to the ground. More kicks forced them into the cave, and two men took one of Greg’s legs each, dragging him backward along the rock floor. They reached a heavy wooden door, and a guard slid back the bolts, opened it, and more kicks forced them into a tiny, dark room. The door slammed shut, and they were on their own in the cramped, stinking space. The smell was of damp, human waste, sweat, and the previous day’s spicy Afghan meal. But they weren’t in complete darkness. A gasoline lantern burned in a rock niche, giving them some light. Sara and Stoner immediately knelt over Greg’s prostate form. The makeshift dressing over the wound was again wet with blood, and with their hands bound; the task of replacing it was almost impossible.
“Use your teeth,” she murmured, and with difficulty she straightened up, “You’ll have to somehow rip off my shirt, and between us we’ll add it to Greg’s dressing. Can you manage that?”
“I reckon so.”
One by one, he chewed at the buttons on her shirt, working upward until he was resting his cheek against her breasts. She didn’t flinch, and when he’d got them all off, he continued using his teeth to drag the shirt off her back. Underneath, she wore a black bra, and her smooth skin was even and lightly tanned. He draped the cloth over the wound, and she turned around to use the hands fastened behind her back. Made it into a pad to press down and stop the bleeding. When she’d finished, she turned around again and inspected her handiwork.
“Stoner, why did they leave us with a light? Was it an act of kindness?”
He didn’t reply at first, for the Judas slot in the door slid open, and an eye peered through the small hole. Regarded them for a few seconds, and then disappeared. He was convinced the eye belonged to Mohammed Tarzi, and he could almost feel the malevolence radiating through the door. The slot closed, and they were on their own.
“He wants to watch us suffer.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ll beat the crap out of me, and turn this cell into a peep show for him to watch the suffering.” He didn’t add they would probably beat the crap out of her. Why make things worse for her than they already were? “What chance do you think he has?”
“Greg? I can’t say. Ghulam worked a miracle, considering it was his first attempt at real surgery. On the other hand, the knife wasn’t sterile, neither are the dressings. Even the boy’s hands would have been alive with germs. Anything could kill him, shock, blood poisoning, infection, blood loss, any or all of the above.”
“Which means getting him to a hospital.”
She grimaced. “You may as well suggest booking him into Trump Tower, Manhattan.”
He didn’t smile. “What happened to Ghulam, did they kill him?”
“Ghulam? I haven’t seen him. The insurgents came out of nowhere, and it was chaos. Rifles pushed into my face, men pawing at me, kicking me, and I tried to protect Greg from the worst of it. When I looked for Ghulam, he’d gone.”
He nodded. “Maybe he got away. Good for him, at least he’ll have a life if he makes it.”
“If he makes it,” she echoed.
Greg was still unconscious. He’d been out almost from the moment the bullet lodged in his belly. He talked to him, murmuring his name, chatting about Faria and the kids, telling him he’d be home soon. Anything to reach into his mind and persuade him not to give up. He didn’t respond, just lay there, his face waxy in the flickering light of the lantern, and his breathing was shallow and noisy.
Stoner sat back and his eyes raked around the cell. He had to get them out. Greg needed treatment, not to have his head hacked off with some rusty Islamic sword. He needed a weapon. Going up against armed guards with his bare hands was an invitation to a quicker death than Tarzi had planned. Which he may have welcomed, all things being equal, but not this time. He needed to stay alive. They depended on him, Greg and Sara, and if there were the slightest chance to get them out of this place, he’d take it.
Freeing their hands would be difficult, but not impossible. The first big problem was the weapon. His eyes roved around the bare cell. Rock walls, roughly hacked from the mountain. The door was solid, with no internal keyhole to use an improvised pick or lever. The floor was also hard rock, bare and empty. No windows, no air vents, nothing. Just the plastic water bottle they’d left for them, but there was something else. Light. He eyed the gas lantern. The lamp was constructed of steel, and that was promising, although trying to knock out a guard with it seemed far-fetched. They’d see it coming and fill him full of lead. He sat back against the wall, thinking furiously.
If I can’t use the metal body of the lantern, how about the gas in the tank that fuels it? First, free the hands to be able to work.
“Sara, I’m going to unfasten the baling wire around your wrists. Turn around, and grit your teeth. This could be painful.”
He went to work with his fingers to unwind the wire. The process was slow and difficult, and the wire poor quality and rough. It abraded his fingers, leaving them raw and bleeding. But after an hour of working at the strands, tugging at the mass of tangled wire, she was free. She brought her arms around in front of her, and he examined her wrists. Like lumps of raw, bleeding meat, and she hadn’t uttered a single sound.
“I can free you now,” she offered, but he shook his head.
“Not yet, they can’t know we can free our hands. We have to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“First, we drink all the water, and I want you to drain some of that gasoline in the lantern into the empty bottle. About half the tank should do it, not too much or they’ll suspect.”
They drank the brackish water, and she poured some of the gas into the bottle, filling it to about a quarter. Capped the bottle, and he told her to hide it in a dark corner. Replaced the lantern, and they waited.
“I wish you’d tell me what you’re up to,” she said, “The more I know, the more I can help.”
“It’s really simple. When the lantern goes out, they’ll refill it, so they can keep up Tarzi’s peep show. When they’ve gone, we’ll put more gas into the bottle. Hopefully, it’ll be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Wait. They’ll come for me soon.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way they get their kicks. Literally.”
“They’re going to torture you?”
He grimaced. “Just a roughing up. They don’t want me dead, not yet. That’d be too easy. Take care of Greg. You’ll find it easier now your hands are free. But listen for anyone coming close to watch through the spy hole, and make it look like you’re still bound.”
They took him a half hour later. The first man into the cell struck him on the head with the butt of his rifle, and another entered to help. Between them, they dragged the semi-conscious Stoner outside, and along the rock corridor to a larger space. The room was empty of furniture or fittings, save for Tarzi lounging on a battered and torn fabric sofa. The Islamist leader smiled in satisfaction as they threw the bound and bloody prisoner at his feet, and the red eyes blazed at him.
“Ah, Mr. Stoner, the man who said he would kill me. How does it feel knowing your threats are as empty as the desert sky?”
He lifted his head and darted him a steel hard gaze. “Fuck y
ou, Tarzi. You’re gonna die real soon, you piece of dog shit.”
A guard banged the butt of his rifle on his head. He saw stars again and then passed out. He recovered consciousness when someone threw a bucket of cold water over his head. Coughing and spluttering, he waited for them to do their worst. Tarzi wore the smile of a Spanish inquisitor, a man who is convinced he is doing God’s work.
“I sentence you to twenty lashes in punishment for your insults to the chosen of God. Fasten him to the wall, and begin the punishment.”
“That wasn’t an insult, Tarzi,” he snarled, “You just heard the truth.”
His grin widened. “You have much to answer for. Some of my men are dead, and I know you killed them. You threatened my person, tried to kill me with a sniper rifle, and stole our truck. That is enough to warrant a death sentence. When you have recovered, you will receive another twenty lashes, and then another twenty. You will lose more and more blood, and you’ll become weak and powerless. Then you may watch your wounded companion and the girl suffer the same punishment. When we have tired of the entertainment, we will take the three of you outside, bury you to the waist in a pit, and stone you to death. An opportunity for my men to experience Islamic justice at first hand, or perhaps you now wish to beg for mercy.”
“Not from you, pal. You’re a dead man, I already told you.”
He glanced at one of his men. “Begin.”
Hands grabbed him, and they fastened him to an iron ring set in the rock, using a loop of wire around his neck. He couldn’t escape, couldn’t move without strangling himself. Neither could he see what was happening. They ripped off his coat, and men murmured to each other in anticipation. The first blow felt like he’d been struck by lightning. He almost bit his tongue, the agony was that bad. If there was any consolation, at least he knew what the next nineteen lashes would be like.
The whipping seemed to go on forever, and he felt his back becoming a mass of raw, pulped flesh. When it ended, they left him hanging from the iron ring, swaying in agony from the wire noose that prevented him from escaping. For long, agonizing hours, men came and inspected his raw back. Prodded the deep weals in his flesh, and he had to struggle to stop himself from crying out. He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, no way. Eventually, they tired of their cruelty, released him, dragged him back to the cell, and tossed him inside. The bolts rattled as they closed the door.
Sara was waiting, hands held behind her back, and when they’d gone, she rushed to him. “Stoner, what did they do?”
“It was nothing.”
But she’d looked at his back, and her gasp of horror was loud. “You’ve lost blood, and I can hardly begin to imagine the pain. We need more dressings, but we’ve used everything on Greg.”
“I’ll survive. What happened with the gas?”
“It ran out about an hour after they took you. They took it away and refilled it.”
“Drain most of it into the plastic bottle. We’re getting out of here.”
“How?”
“First, I’ll deal with the guards when they come back. That’ll give us their rifles, and from there we’ll play it by ear. When you’ve done the gas tank, unfasten my wrists. We have work to do.”
She took down the lantern and drained the gas into the bottle, glancing at him with a curious expression. “What do they plan to do with me?”
“The same as me.” She was entitled to know the worst.
“At least Greg would have been spared.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
He heard the sharp intake of breath as she took in what he meant. She finished decanting the gas and started on his wrists. When he was free, he picked up the gas lantern and smashed the glass so the flame was exposed. He began measuring angles, to make sure they wouldn’t spot him when they next opened the door. Then he positioned himself out of sight, and all he could to do was wait. Deep inside the cave system they had no way of knowing the passage of time. The insurgents had taken their watches when they took their weapons and other possessions, so all he could do was guess. Around late afternoon was his best estimate, and another few hours meant they’d have darkness to help them get away, unless he was fooling himself.
There’ll be any number of insurgents milling around the caves, and our chances of getting out are remote. Even breaking out of the cell will take a miracle, and escaping from the cave system and away from Tora Bora virtually impossible.
As if to echo his thoughts Sara said, “What do we do if we get out of here? How can we escape?”
He almost told her the truth, that he had no idea, but all he said was, “I’m still working on it.”
“You’d better work fast, Stoner. They could be here anytime.”
“I know.”
If they came too soon, it would be daylight outside, making their chances of getting away even worse. In any event, he considered what would cause plenty of chaos and confusion, to allow them a chance to get out unseen.
A fire, an explosion, either would do the trick. But I need something incendiary or explosive. Which means what?
“The armory.”
“The armory?”
He hadn’t intended to speak aloud, but he continued, “We need explosives, something to cause a diversion. Give us a chance to slip away.”
“But how could they not see us? They’ll be everywhere around the front entrance.”
The front entrance! Of course, that’s it. Why leave by the front door? Wayne Evers inhabited part of the cave system for many years. He said there were many entrances and exits.
“We’ll go deeper into the caves until we find an exit. If we keep climbing, we’ll come out further up the slope, near the cave Wayne lived in.”
“And from there?”
He shook his head. “No idea. From there, we’re into the unknown. But if we’re gonna die, I’d sooner it was in the open air.”
She shuddered. “I don’t want to die at all.”
“No.”
“Stoner, there's something you haven’t thought of.”
“What would that be?”
“Greg. We must take him with us.”
“Of course he’s coming with us. Be patient, Sara. I’m getting us out of this.”
She didn’t reply, and he sensed her disbelief. All they could do was wait, and the hours drifted past. He willed himself to ignore the pain. Occasionally, they heard voices outside in the passage, but no one came near. He guessed it was an hour before sunset when the bolts rattled.
It’s too early.
* * *
Ivan waited for the right moment to call Langley. Too early in the working day, and his bosses would be grouchy if he woke them after a hard night on the Beltway party circuit. Too late, and they’d be on their way home, and less than impressed with any interruption. Besides, he had plenty of other diversions to occupy himself with. He’d returned to Ma Kelly’s, and availed himself of the delights of the pretty whore he’d grown fond of while he wiled away the time. He finally figured the time was right, about mid-morning on the East Coast, and he put the call through. After a delay of almost a half hour, he reached his boss, the Deputy Director for Operations.
“Go ahead.”
“This is Ivan.”
“What’s up?” He sounded impatient. No doubt he’d had a hard night on the Washington cocktail circuit. Spies were always in demand to satisfy the public’s fascination with the secret world.
“Sir, they missed him. They had to run, and one of ‘em got hit pretty bad.”
“Run? Run where?”
“I don’t know.”
“They didn’t hit the Chief of Staff’s daughter? Dear God, tell me she’s okay.”
“She’s fine, the casualty was Greg Blum. He’s a nobody, a half-Afghan, half-Russian pal of Stoner.”
“Just make sure Sara Carver gets back in one piece.”
“Yessir.”
He sighed, and Ivan waited for the eruption of anger. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Why did you send these people in there if they weren’t up to it? Dammit, Ivan, we allocated a lot of money to this operation. You should have gone in yourself and done it right the first time. We needed the best.”
He’d known it was coming. “I assumed they were the best, Sir.”
“Yeah, well you were wrong. Make sure we get that money back, you hear, Ivan?”
He cursed. Stoner’s failure had cost him a few million bucks, and missing the target meant it would be difficult to justify spending the money.
Shit!
“I’ll do that, Sir. I can always try again. It can’t be impossible to kill off this bastard.”
“We’ll handle this. You can forget it.”
“An airstrike?”
“We’re considering all the options. Don’t forget to return the money.”
“Yessir.”
“Ivan, I’m not happy with the way you handled this. Not happy at all. Don’t fuck around, not anymore, unless you’re considering a transfer. We have a slot on our Antarctic satellite monitoring station.”
“There’ll be no more mistakes, Sir.”
“There’d better not be.”
The call ended, and Ivan felt like smashing the phone against the wall. A lousy break, he’d deposited the money in his offshore account, and now it would have to be returned to Langley.
Shit!
The female voice interrupted his thoughts. “Ivan, come back to bed.”
He glanced across the room, and the girl he’d spent the night with was beckoning to him, her eyes filled with desire.
They told me she was the best; so I guess I’d better get my money’s worth.
He climbed onto the bed next to her. He was still naked, and her hands reached out to him. He’d seen his dreams of big money go down the drain, but maybe it wasn’t all bad.
* * *
He was cold, icy cold, hungry, and thirsty. When the insurgents arrived, he’d found it easy to blend in with them. His ragged clothing was like theirs, and his youth a perfect excuse for his lack of a beard. He carried an assault rifle; the M4A1 Stoner had left behind. Nothing too unusual about that, several men had American and German weapons, M16s and G36s, although most carried the ubiquitous AK, the terrorist’s badge of membership. He edged away, and when he was clear, broke into a jog. He had no idea of how far he had to travel. What he did know was he had to get help for the man to whom he owed his life. All he could think of was the men he’d seen Mr. Stoner talking to at Torkham. They’d mentioned something about a man at Jalalabad, a place called Ma Kelly’s, so he’d go there to find him.