Soft Targets

by Dean Ing

  He moved then to his last vehicle change, flex­ing his hands in the thin gloves as he waited for the engine to warm, for the flow of adrenaline to subside, for the next item on his private agenda. He had carefully planted Hakim's fingerprints on the abandoned kidnap vehicle after wiping away his own. On the other hand, Hakim had given him only a public rendezvous some kilometers to the west in Moorpark and not the location of the new Fat'ah site which, Guerrero knew, might be in any direction. Hakim's monolithic insistence on sole control was a con­tinuing problem, but Guerrero had to admit the little palo blanco was thorough. He checked the time and grinned to himself; it wouldn't do to be late picking up Chaim and Leah. Guerrero's mas­ters were thorough, too.

  By six PM, Hakim was so far out of patience that he fairly leaped from his seat in the Moor-park bus station at his first sight of Guerrero. The Panamanian bought a newspaper, saw Hakim stand, then ambled out into the street. It was too dark to read the fine print but, waiting for Hakim to catch up, Guerrero saw that they had once again made the front page above the fold. Fat'ah still had friends in print media—whether they knew it or not.

  Though Guerrero walked slowly, Hakim sounded breathless. "I told the girl to make ren­dezvous," he said, as they paused for a stop-light. "And you are four hours late!"

  "The Americans had other ideas," Guerrero growled convincingly. "Talith and Chaim tried to run a blockade."

  "Escape?"

  "I was lucky to escape, myself. They were cut down, Hakim."

  Hakim's voice was exceedingly soft. "This you saw?"

  "I saw. It may be here," he lied again, brandishing the folded newspaper, ready to grapple with the Iraqi if he saw his cover blown. Hakim Arif only looked straight ahead, and fashioned for himself a terrible smile.

  They walked another block, forcing them-selves to study the window displays, checking for surveillance as they went. "The hostages will be conscious again soon," Hakim said as if to himself. "They will be noisy, no doubt. Your delay forced me to inject them again." Then, as a new possibility struck him: "Was your van com­promised?"

  Guerrero gave a negative headshake, very much desiring to keep his own vehicle. "It is just ahead there," he indicated. "Do I abandon it now?" Always, he knew, Hakim was perversely biased against an underling's suggestion. He had seen it work many times for Leah Talith; but Talith would use it no longer.

  "We have expended twelve thousand dollars in vehicles, and two Fat'ah lives this day," Hakim snarled. "No more waste. Stay here, wait for my van, then follow."

  Guerrero nodded and sauntered to his parked van as Hakim hurried away. He knew that dis­tant friendly eyes were on him, but made no signal. One cigarette later, the latino saw Hakim's vehicle pass. He followed closely in traffic, then dropped back during Hakim's double-back maneuvers. When Hakim was satis­fied that only Guerrero was following, he turned north onto Highway Twenty-three toward the mountains.

  Well beyond the town of Fillmore the lead van slowed abruptly, loitered along the highway until it was devoid of other traffic. Then Hakim swung onto a gravel road. Guerrero sensed that they were very near the new Fat'ah site and philosophically accepted his inability to share that suspicion with the men he reported to.

  After two kilometers they turned again, and Guerrero saw that the new site was a renovated farmhouse in a small orchard. He hurried to help Hakim unload the crate at the porch, ignoring the awful sounds from inside it. Only when the crate was opened in the house did Guerrero learn why the massive blond hostage, gagged and tightly bound, was such a noisy passenger.

  On both hostages, the legs had been taped flexed, so that muscle cramps would almost cer­tainly result. More tape looped from necks to thighs, assuring that tall men would make smal­ler packages. Heavy adhesive bands strapped arms across their chests, the left hand of the second hostage heavily retaped over a crimson­and-rust bandage. Guerrero did a brief double-take, rolling the captive over to see the maimed left hand. Both hostages were conscious. Despite his gag, the injured hostage moaned at the rough movement. From Guerrero, a sigh: "Will you rid the world of fingers, Hakim?"

  The Fat'ah leader knelt to examine the ban­dage while Charlie, eyes wide in horror as he saw the hand of Maurice Everett, tried to speak through the gag. "An ancient and honored custom, my friend," said Hakim, smiling, and back-handed Charlie viciously to quell the interrup­tion. "I mailed his left small finger by special delivery to the National Broadcasting Network people. I added a promise to forward more pieces—some of them yours—until my demands are aired," he continued, staring into Charlie's face as he spoke. He wheeled to regard Guerrero. "I might have delivered it myself while waiting for you!"

  "Your demands, not Fat'ah's," Guerrero mused aloud.

  "I am Fat'ah," almost inaudible.

  "It is reducing itself to that," Guerrero agreed ambiguously, then blunted the goad. "What may I do now?"

  Hakim retained a precarious control. "Famil­iarize yourself with the house, cook a meal, mind your tongue if you would keep it. I shall arrange for our guests to—entertain us."

  As the dusk became darkness, Guerrero found that the nearest lights were over a kilometer away, too far to carry the sounds of Charlie George's interrogation. The Panamanian took his time, kept away from the torture room, and waited for Hakim to kill their captives in outlet for his frustration. It sounded as though Hakim was devoting all his attention to the comedian. When the screams subsided, Guerrero began to heat their stew.

  Charlie George had more stamina than either of them had thought. He managed to walk, a tape-wrapped garrotte wire looped as leash about his throat, to the table, but fell trying to sit in the folding chair.

  Hakim's smile was a beatitude, so well did his captive behave. Charlie's nose was a ruin, his right ear torn—"It will come off anyway," Hakim chuckled—but his mouth had been left equipped for conversation. He was not disposed to eat and his hands shook so badly that Hakim laughed; but Hakim needed say only once, "Eat it all," softly. Charlie George ate it all. The sec­ond captive, trussed with tape and wire, moaned unheeded in the torture room, a supply of parts which might be maintained or dispensed at Fat'ah convenience. He was, Hakim felt, of only secondary importance.

  Hakim produced a huge chocolate bar for des­sert and helped eat it. He felt no desire or need to deny himself the stuff, while the garrotte wire was in his hand. After the chocolate: "An hour ago, you maintained that this satire is too wide-spread to halt," he prodded the exhausted Charlie, "and I say you will halt it, piece by piece."

  "You underestimate their greed," Charlie replied, scarcely above a whisper. From time to time he clenched his teeth hard. "Every night-club schlepper in the Catskills is inventing stealable material—and the public loves it." he managed something that could have been a smile. "You're a smash, Charlie."

  "You will call me `Hakim'." The Iraqi flicked the garrotte wire, then looked at the wall a mo­ment. "And the new series you mentioned? What is the investment?"

  "One on ABC, one on CBS," Charlie said. "Buy 'em off if you can. Start with ten million apiece; they'll laugh at you." With this unfortu­nate phrase he trailed off; exhaustion tugged at his eyelids. Hakim reached out with delicate precision and thumped the bloody ear. "Ahhhh—I don't see what you gain by torture," Charlie grunted. "I have no secrets." It was not a lie. Nor was it accurate.

  Guerrero, taking notes, gestured at the captive with the butt of his pen. "Perhaps you do not know what you know."

  "And perhaps you are being punished," Hakim murmured.

  "What else is new," Charlie said, and was rewarded by a sudden tug on the wire. "Sorry," he managed to croak.

  "Repeat after me: 'I beg forgiveness, Effendi'," Hakim smiled, and tugged again. Charlie did it. "Now, the amputee in the next room," Hakim continued. "What is he to you?"

  The uncomprehending gaze became wonder as Charlie grappled with a new surmise. "Sy? Simon Kenton?" Charlie steeled himself for the garrotte.

  "If that is his name. He is a close
friend?"

  Charlie swallowed. "We get along; I don't hunger for his bod. He's a consultant; why is he here?"

  "You will not question Fat'ah," Hakim thumped the ear again, almost gaily. Charlie, through his agony, caught something subtly in­quisitive as his gaze swept past the face of Guer­rero. The Panamanian said nothing. Hakim pressed on with, "But the network will know him by the fingerprint." It was a question.

  "They have his prints but he's my con­sultant—like twenty other people from time to time."

  "Now tell me again how NBN amassed those tapes to be aired in the event one of their people was taken." With the change of topic, Charlie felt surer that the disguise of Maurice Everett had not been penetrated, that Fat'ah had kidnapped a major enemy by a fluke and still did not know it.

  But how long before newspapers, in their zeal for all the news, made these murderous fanatics a present of the crucial datum? Perhaps Charlie could temporize, could claim he did not recog­nize Everett in his new guise, could hope for clemency. In his heart, Charlie knew it was all a crock of shit. They would tear him to pieces when they found out. Unless Everett's contacts could do a nose-job on the news, too. It was possible. Not likely, but...

  Charlie, glad to change the subject, repeated the truth about NBN's contingency tapes. The networks had all considered the possibility that their stars might be ransomed, or worse, by ter­rorists. They would feel no pain.

  The hostages would absorb all of that.

  Hakim probed for some weak point in network thinking, asked questions that sometimes led nowhere. Eventually he saw that the answers were becoming more disjointed, less useful, and led the unprotesting Charlie to the torture room.

  Guerrero saw the captive trussed flat on a ta­bletop, feet toward the door, before Hakim was satisfied. Guerrero kept the butt of his ballpoint pen aimed at the doorway, putting away his gear as Hakim returned. Slumped in a corner, radiat­ing silent hatred, the second captive gripped his wrist and stared at nothing.

  "I will set up the media center," Hakim said mildly. "You will feed the big one, Kenton, then install this lock on their door." He handed Guer­rero a heavy push-bolt affair.

  Guerrero ascertained that `Kenton' could feed himself with one hand temporarily freed, saw in the steady motions a reservoir of strength. He offered the big man a glass of water which was emptied in one draught, and reclaimed the glass by spreading his fingers inside the rim. Hakim had not seen the exchange. Guerrero caught the captive's eyes with his. "You are wondering how you can surprise me while securely lashed with wire, Senor Kenton," he said evenly. "Of course, you cannot. Even if you could, you cannot surprise us both. You would be dead in sec­onds if you tried. It would be small loss. Suit yourself," he added.

  "I hear you," was the growled response. No promises, no pleas, no hollow threats.

  Guerrero had seen the same stolid calm in corridas, as a wounded Miura waited for the matador to make one little mistake. But Bernal Guerrero had graduated from Panama by making very few mistakes. "Just remember that I know, and Hakim knows, what you are wondering," he said.

  Guerrero was wrong. Everett was wondering why they called him `Kenton' even after captur­ing him; why the Iraqi had grilled Charlie George about so many things without once men­tioning Maurice Everett; whether it was all part of the torturer's art to wear him down by forcing him to stay in the room, to hear the guttural screams of a friend in agony without being able to cover his ears.

  It simply had not yet occurred to Everett that he was a target of purest opportunity, a means to distribute more tokens of Fat'ah power and Fat'ah horror without killing the comedian too quickly. Everett considered the care with which Guerrero had handled his water glass. Not with aversion, but with delicacy, as though his own use of the glass had made it special. Yet all he had given it were smudges. Fingerprints. And why study those when they already had him?

  Unless they didn't know they had him.

  A filament of hope began to glow in the core of Everett's being. He did not think Fat'ah had ac­cess to print files. In this he was correct, but at certain levels of international quid pro quo, a more potent organization than Fat'ah did have access.

  Guerrero set about clearing the bowls away, taking care with the water glass, as Hakim brought his HP unit and media monitors in. "I saw lights of a village from the porch," Guerrero reported. "With only two of us left, you might brief me to that extent."

  "I might—when you need to know. Informa­tion is at a premium now, is it not? We have not even a telephone here. But no matter," he said, setting his small portable TV sets up. "We can do what we must."

  Guerrero paused, framed another guarded question, then thought better of it and went after tools for the door lock. From his van, he saw that the windows of the torture room were boarded. Returning with the tools, he installed the simple lock, pausing to watch the monitors with Hakim. There was no mention of a shootout between Claim and police—naturally—but there was also absolute silence on the daring daylight abduction of Charlie George and the consultant. Guerrero saw Hakim's subliminal headshakes and was emboldened; the Iraqi might have doubted Guerrero's story if the kidnapping, but no capture of Fat'ah elements, had received major coverage. As it was, Hakim focused only on television as his primary source of dis-, mis-, and non-information.

  When the last newscast was done, Hakim read and made notes on alternative courses of action, now and then consulting the HP unit which lay among his media equipment. The HP told Hakim what he already knew: Fat'ah was nearing bank­ruptcy now.

  At last Hakim put away his tools of strategy, ascertained that Charlie George was breathing heavily, and sought his own bedroll. Then, for the first time, he missed Leah Talith until he thrust the image of her youthful body from him. "We shall see, tomorrow," he said to the sentry, Guerrero. Then he fell into a sleep of confidence.

  The next morning, there was still no news of theabduction on television. Hakim made a quick trip into town for newspapers and chocolate, vaguely aware that his supremacy over the hostages permitted him to relinquish some control over his simpler desires.

  The Panamanian checked the lashings of his captives as soon as Hakim was gone, loosening the wire that looped from behind Everett's knees to his neck. He withdrew the Browning automa­tic from his waistband, held it up, then replaced it. "A unique weapon," he said. "A bit heavy, but it carries seven rounds for each of you. See that you do not move closer together. I shall be back immediately."

  They heard the bolt grind into its socket, heard the floor creak and the door slam. Charlie, taped supine to the table, moved his head to see his friend staring back at him. Neither spoke until they heard the engine of Guerrero's van start, a peculiar whine piercing its throb.

  "He's leaving," Charlie wheezed.

  "No he's not. Probably bugging us from outside."

  Charlie considered the possibility. The engine note was unchanging, a fast idle. "Sorry I got you into this," he said, choosing his words carefully. "It's not as if you were responsible for it."

  "I'm beginning to think you're right," was the reply. "But they're gonna snuff me anyhow."

  "Maybe not. You have a better chance than I do, sure as your name is Simon Kenton."

  A nod to Charlie. "Maybe if I stir around a bit I can get circulation going." With heels and rump, he began inching toward Charlie.

  Charlie knew the words had covered another intent, but: "You can't chew wire, Simon. And there's dust on the floor." Fear in the voice. It was a thinly disguised plea. "I'm sorry, Simon."

  After a long hesitation: "It was just an idea."

  "Not one of your better ones." Charlie flexed his left hand, twisting the wrist within the tape. "How's your hand," he continued, straining to see if his motion was visible from the corner.

  "Hurts like a bastard," Everett replied. "Not as healthy as yours."

  Charlie continued to strain against the tape, perspiration aiding him as he gradually worked his wrist free of the adhesive which still
bound him, like a manacle, to the table. A few moments later, Charlie heard the engine die outside. "I don't think we can play out this hand, Simon."

  "They'll deal us another one."

  But it was several minutes before Guerrero returned, sliding the bolt loose and waiting a full minute before he flung the door open. He eased to a vantage point that let him view the recum­bent Charlie, risked a quick look toward the corner, then walked in, the Browning drawn.

  From the corner, "You don't take just a whole lot of chances."

  "More than you know," Guerrero laughed, his spirits strangely buoyant. He strode to the corner and replaced the wire around the big man's throat with one hand, the muzzle of the automa­tic against the stubbled jaw. When he had tested the bonds of Charlie George, he added more tape. He chuckled ruefully to see Charlie's wrist raw from its struggle. "I would do the same as you, Carlito," he said, retaping, "but I would expect punishment for it."

  "You don't think I'm being punished enough?"

  "I think this conversation is pointless." From outside came the sound of an approaching vehi­cle. Quickly, Guerrero stepped to the next room, leaving the door open as he moved to a window. "Hakim is prompt," he said.

  "You know what I think," Charlie said softly. "I think that sonofabitch is afraid to talk to us." Charlie was partly right. But Guerrero did not need to talk to them so long as the equipment in his van functioned properly.

  Hakim's morning newspapers carried headlines on a reported kidnapping, although televi­sion sources still refused comment. Hakim released the comedian, his wrists taped, ankles hobbled, and forced him to eat a mighty breakfast—which was also lunch. He smiled fondly as Charlie complied. Charlie had bled a little during the night and morning but, Guer­rero judged, not nearly enough. Hakim seemed content to sit in their orchard site until their food ran out.