Hostaged Vatican

by Gar Wilson

  "I remember seeing a drainpipe," the black warrior announced.

  "Great," Encizo replied. "Where is it?"

  "On the other side of the roof," James answered.

  "That's really useful," Encizo muttered sourly. "Let's just try to move in the same direction we've been heading and see what we find."

  The two Phoenix warriors slowly crept forward. They slithered on their bellies across the tiled surface of the roof. The activity below had changed from a frenetic pace to deliberate stalking. The enemy were unprofessional, but they were not stupid. They had stopped running and shouting. Now they were scanning the area in search of their quarry.

  Encizo and James gradually moved toward the east wing. The fabled secret archives were located in the rooms beneath them. The rumors and theories concerning the contents of the Vatican's archives had added to the mystique — and the distrust — of the Roman Catholic Church. The two Phoenix commandos were not concerned about the theories. At the moment all that interested the pair was simple self-preservation.

  Something struck the building. Suddenly an explosion bellowed near James and Encizo. The blast assaulted them from every direction. The roof crumbled beneath their weight, and both men plunged into a black pit of oblivion.

  18

  Rafael Encizo experienced a strange gliding sensation. The Cuban war machine thought he was dreaming until consciousness slowly lifted the veils from his senses. His body was numb, and a throbbing pain filled his skull. Encizo stifled a groan. He did not know where he was or whether friend or foe was nearby.

  The gliding sensation transformed into the unpleasant realization that someone was dragging him by the armpits. His arms were numb and his hands were at the small of his back. Something was locked around his wrists. Encizo heard footsteps and voices uttering a guttural language he could not identify.

  Encizo slowly opened his eyes. He did not like what he saw. He was being dragged through a corridor. Several armed men surrounded him and none of them looked very friendly. The cobwebs disappeared, and recent events returned vividly to him.

  What had happened was obvious. The terrorists had hit the library roof with a grenade or rocket launcher. The explosion had blown the roof out from under Encizo and had knocked him unconscious. The enemy had found and easily captured the Cuban. Encizo wondered what had happened to Calvin James. Had the black commando escaped, or had James also been taken prisoner? Or had he been killed in the explosion?

  The terrorists dragged Encizo across the threshold of a brick doorway. They entered a drab room filled with stale air. The monotonous churning of engines hammered at the Cuban's ears, contributing to the ache inside his head. Harsh light from naked bulbs glared down from the gray stone ceiling.

  Fingers seized Encizo's hair and yanked his head back. A stern face with dark eyes and a hawkish nose leaned toward the Cuban. Ali Hussan Kamal forced Encizo's eyelids to open widely so that he could examine the pupils.

  "Parla italiano?" Kamal asked gruffly. "Capisce?"

  "Maybe he understands English," Mohammed Radmeni remarked, peering over Kamal's shoulder. "Do you understand me, pig?"

  "I hear you, but I'll never understand you," Encizo replied hoarsely. His throat felt as if it had been lined with sandpaper.

  Radmeni growled something in Farsi that hardly required translation. His arm snaked out and his fist caught Encizo in the center of the face. Painfully bright lights burst in front of the Cuban's eyes. Sharp pain lanced up from his nose through the sinus. Radmeni tried to throw another punch, but Kamal restrained the hot-tempered Iranian.

  Encizo's eyes watered, blurring his vision. Blood trickled from a nostril to his lips. The Cuban heard Kamal and Radmeni argue in Arabic and then saw Radmeni nod and smile at the Syrian. Radmeni turned to Encizo and pointed an index finger at the Cuban's face.

  "My comrade just pointed out that beating you unconscious would defeat the purpose of bringing you here for questioning," the Iranian declared. "And we want you to answer our questions."

  Radmeni jammed his finger into the bridge of Encizo's nose. The Cuban clenched his teeth to repress a cry of pain as the Iranian exerted more pressure. Radmeni laughed and wiped his finger against Encizo's shirt.

  "And you'll answer us," Radmeni stated. "If you don't, your friend surely will."

  Encizo raised his eyebrows and lifted his head. Two terrorists dragged Calvin James into the room. The black warrior sighed with relief when he saw that his friend was still alive. Encizo managed a weak smile. He was also relieved that James had survived, although he was disappointed that his partner had not escaped.

  "You okay, amigo?" James inquired, his voice little more than a dull croak.

  "Nothing broken," Encizo replied. "Hang in there. Whatever happens. Hang in..."

  Radmeni swatted the back of his hand across the Cuban's face. Encizo's head barely moved from the blow. He smiled at the Iranian and slowly shook his head.

  "No wonder you need to have me chained," the Cuban told Radmeni. "I know girls who can hit harder than that."

  The Iranian glared at Encizo and swung a clenched fist under the Cuban's jaw. Encizo's head bounced from the punch. His teeth clashed painfully together and his jaws stung. Kamal grabbed Radmeni and pulled him away from Encizo before the Iranian could continue the assault.

  "Hey," James sneered. "Why don't you assholes take the cuffs off us and we'll see who can hit harder?"

  "You'll soon beg for mercy. You are no better than a dog," Radmeni snarled. He pulled away from Kamal's grasp. "But I won't soil my hands on either of you. I shall leave that task to the experts among my followers. Experts in the art of inflicting pain and extracting information."

  "Does that mean you brought your dentist?" James asked in a mocking tone.

  "You will not make jokes when my men start working on you," Radmeni warned. "You may think you are brave, but they will reduce you to quivering cowards. I will enjoy watching you beg for the mercy of death."

  "You might welcome death before we are through with you!" an angry voice announced.

  The terrorists pushed James and Encizo to the floor. Several gunmen tried to swing their weapons toward the trio of men that appeared at the entrance of the boiler room. Two machine pistols erupted, blasting 9 mm rounds through the chests of three Iranian flunkies. The bullet-torn bodies fell to the floor. Radmeni, Kamal and two surviving Iranian henchmen raised their hands in surrender.

  James and Encizo glanced up at the three men at the door. They had expected to see the other members of Phoenix Force, but the trio wore peasant trousers, sheepskin vests and red berets. Although the Basque gunmen had clearly turned against Radmeni and Kamal, they did not seem to have any real interest in rescuing the two commandos. Whatever gripe the Basques had with the Iranian and Syrian terrorists, it seemed to be a personal matter.

  "So you speak English, Radmeni?" a Basque gunman carrying a Beretta M-12 remarked as he stepped closer. "So do I. That's good. We don't have to talk in French with that Syrian piece of shit. I don't like to hear French. It makes me angry. But I am already... how you say? Pissed off?"

  Calvin James interrupted. "If you dudes will get these cuffs off, we'll help you with whatever your beef is with these jokers, and we'll throw in a lesson on American slang..."

  "Shut up, blackie," the Basque snapped. "This does not concern you."

  "Let the man talk, Calvin," Rafael Encizo urged. The Basques were aiming their weapons at the other terrorists. For the moment that was enough to be thankful for.

  "What is the problem, Gaston?" Radmeni inquired. "I'm certain we can settle this without violence..."

  "You Muslim scum lied to us," Gaston declared. "You promised no harm would come to His Holiness the pope or to any members of the Catholic clergy. Yet you had Monsignor Cellini murdered. You bastards shot him in the back while he was giving condemned men their last rites!"

  "If this is true, there has been a terrible misunderstanding," Radmeni insisted.

  "No
!" Gaston shouted. "You ordered the executions. You personally selected the hostages to be killed, Radmeni. You and the rest of your Islamic fanatics don't care if Christian men of God die. But we Basques are Catholic, and we will not stand for the murder of our clergy!"

  Without warning a dark gray shape appeared at the doorway. The ninja held a drawn sword in his right fist and a Beretta 9 mm pistol in his left. He raised the sword overhead as the Beretta roared. A parabellum slug crashed into the skull of an unsuspecting Basque. The bullet punched through his brain and blasted the right eyeball from its socket.

  The gunman collapsed as his comrade turned toward the ninja. Steel flashed, and the sharp edge of the sword struck the second Basque in the head. The blade cleaved through the man's beret and sliced deep into his skull. The Basque died on his feet before he could trigger his chattergun.

  Gaston pivoted and swung his Beretta machine pistol at the ninja. Radmeni swiftly seized the barrel and shoved it toward the ceiling with his left hand while his right drove the blade of a dagger into the Basque's chest. Gaston screamed in a mixture of pain and anger. He pulled the trigger of his machine pistol. A three-round burst shot into the ceiling. One bullet lodged in the stone, but the others ricocheted. Kamal cried out as a deflected slug struck his left shoulder.

  Radmeni twisted his wrist, turning the blade in Gaston's chest. The Basque dropped his Beretta and slumped against the Iranian. Radmeni shoved the twitching body to the floor. He kicked the dying man in the ribs and contemptuously spat in Gaston's face.

  "Don't move," Fukuda the ninja warned, aiming his pistol at James and Encizo. "I will shoot you if you try to get up."

  "So you speak English as well as Arabic," Radmeni commented. "Good work, Fukuda."

  "I followed the three Basques," Fukuda explained. "Their manner seemed hostile. I didn't trust them."

  "It's fortunate for us that you didn't. Fukuda-san," Radmeni confirmed. "Perhaps you'd care to assist us in questioning these two Americans. Your people are famous for the Death of a Thousand Cuts. Correct?"

  "You're thinking of the Chinese," Fukuda answered, an edge of resentment in his voice. "And I am ninja. It is against my code to torture a helpless enemy. I will kill them quickly, but I will not torture them. Such brutality has no honor, and only inhuman scum would indulge in such behavior."

  "That's your opinion, Fukuda," Radmeni replied with a shrug. "Luckily I have men who are not as squeamish about such matters."

  Kamal clutched his wounded shoulder. Blood oozed between his fingers. The Syrian spoke to Radmeni in curt Arabic. The Iranian nodded in reply and helped Kamal to the door. Radmeni barked an order to the two surviving Iranian goons. They nodded eagerly and turned to aim their weapons at James and Encizo.

  "I must make certain my friend receives medical care," Radmeni explained. "However, a team of interrogation experts are already on their way here. Naturally they're bringing all the necessary equipment required to loosen tongues. I'll be back when you have decided to tell us everything we want to know."

  Radmeni, Kamal and Fukuda left the boiler room. James glanced up at the two terrorists who stood guard over them. The gunmen seemed nervous because of the unexpected encounter with the turncoat Basques. This did nothing to comfort the Phoenix Force pair. Frightened men are more likely to squeeze a trigger than calm men.

  "These dudes are fighting among themselves now," James told Encizo. "Hell, we just saw half a dozen of them kill one another. They're coming apart at the seams, man. All we have to do is hold on for a little while longer."

  "Sure," Encizo replied, unable to repress a shiver of fear. He had been tortured before and knew the pure hell men could inflict on other human beings.

  Encizo knew that many people believed that once a person endured torture without breaking, he could do it again or that at least it would be more difficult for the torturers to break him. In reality the opposite was true. Victims of torture were often regarded as security risks. They were mentally and emotionally scarred by their experiences.

  The Cuban recalled the torture he had suffered in Castro's prison. The thought of experiencing that horror again was bad enough, but an even worse dread filled the Cuban's mind. The Communists at El Principe had been willing to spend weeks breaking down their victims. The use of torture was gradual, and care was taken not to inflict crippling or fatal injuries. The terrorists, however, would be eager for fast results. That meant they would be willing to use extreme methods to force the pair to talk.

  Encizo usually carried a handcuff key taped inside his belt at the small of his back. It was an old cop trick — in case a hoodlum used the policeman's own cuffs on him. Most handcuffs could be opened by any key designed for that purpose, and Encizo's hidden key had saved his life on more than one occasion. However, the terrorists had taken his belt when they had stripped him of weapons.

  He tried the Houdini trick of tucking the thumb into the palm and attempting to slide the hand through the cuff. The manacles were too tight. He kept trying. He was willing to suffer a certain amount of pain if it would spare him the nightmare of a torture chamber.

  His fingertips touched metal. The object moved slightly. Encizo picked up the small cylinder and tried to identify it by touch. He was like a blind man reading braille for the first time. The object was small, round at both ends, but hollow. Encizo had handled such objects many times before. It was the spent cartridge casing of a 9 mm parabellum and had probably been ejected from one of the machine pistols used by the Basque gunmen.

  The brass cartridge casing could not cut through steel links, and it could not work the lock of the handcuffs, but Encizo held on to it. He pressed the casing against the stone floor and flattened its hollow tip. The edge of the cylinder was sharp. Encizo thought he might be able to use it as a weapon. The Phoenix commando did not dismiss the possibility of severing the veins in his own wrists if necessary.

  "My name is Abdul," a voice announced. It belonged to a short, very fat Iranian with close-cropped curly black hair. He smiled at the Phoenix Force duo. "I speak English. This is good because we must talk. Yes?"

  The fat man carried a tripod with an iron dish. He casually set up his equipment. The torturer struck a match and placed it among the coals in the dish. Flames danced from the container.

  "I'm supposed to learn certain information from you gentlemen," the man explained. "We need to know where we can find your friends. We must know how many of them are still alive and where we can find the bodies of the dead so that we can confirm that they no longer threaten us. We also want to know who sent you and what plans your superiors have of taking further action against us."

  Abdul placed a pair of pliers in the fire and then inserted the tips of two needlelike devices into the coals. He frowned slightly and took a small tube of lighter fluid from a pocket. The torturer squirted the fluid on the coals, and blue flame flared up from the dish.

  "That's better," Abdul remarked. "Now this is going to be very unpleasant for you. Very unpleasant. You can spare yourselves a lot of pain and discomfort if you simply answer me now. Confession is good for the soul, yes? So talk to Abdul."

  "Go fuck yourself," Calvin James replied.

  "That has always seemed a strange expression to me," Abdul sighed. "I don't see how such a thing is possible."

  "Eat shit, fatso," James said, glaring up at the torturer. "If you can't figure that one out, I'll be happy to help you with it."

  "You have spirit," Abdul chuckled as he took several copper coins from his pocket and carefully tossed them onto the coals. "That's good. It will be more fun for me. Your friend is quiet. Is he too scared to talk?"

  "I don't feel much like conversation," Encizo stated. "I think you'll find that I'll scream loudly and curse in two or three languages, but I won't tell you a damn thing."

  "Oh, everybody talks to Abdul," the fat man declared as he wrapped his hand with a thick piece of material so that he could pick up the pliers. "They need to heat up a bit. I like pliers. Th
ey crush and tear things off people. Fingers, toes, noses, ears..." The Iranian looked pointedly at the crotch of Encizo's pants and laughed cruelly.

  James opened his mouth to reply, but he could not think of anything to say. The sheer horror of the situation was beginning to strike home. Two men dragged a pair of heavy armchairs into the boiler room. Abdul gave a few instructions in Farsi, and the other Iranians nodded.

  "Now," the torturer began. "One at a time, we will strap you in these chairs. Don't put up a fight. If you do, these men will simply shoot you in an arm or leg to calm you down. They won't kill you, so don't beg for death."

  Two terrorists seized Encizo and hauled him up from the floor while a third Iranian aimed a pistol at the Cuban's groin. The fourth gunman kept an AK-47 pointed at Calvin James. Encizo was tempted to kick and butt at his opponents, but he realized that would be foolish. A better opportunity might occur later.

  The enemy forced him into a chair and shoved his head between his knees as they removed the handcuffs. His arms were pulled in front of him and braced against the arms of the chair. Leather straps were buckled to his wrists. Encizo felt the sharp edge of the cartridge case hidden in his fist. He squeezed the tiny piece of brass, clinging to it as one might a good luck charm or medallion of a saint.

  Another strap was fastened around the Cuban's chest, binding him to the backrest of the chair. There were no ankle straps, probably because the restraining devices had been added to the chairs rather hastily. The straps were simply ordinary belts. Encizo saw it as a glimmer of hope because the belts would be easier to escape from than the handcuffs had been.

  The terrorists pulled Calvin James from the floor and herded him to the next chair. The black warrior considered trying some tae kwon do techniques, but dismissed the notion for the same reason Encizo had not tried to struggle. The enemy strapped James to the chair as they had Encizo.

  "That's better," Abdul said with a smile. "Now I can work on you in the manner I'm accustomed to."