by W. J. Lundy
“More coffee, Monsieur?”
Fayed turned to see the waiter holding a stainless-steel tray. He shook his head and waved the man away dismissively. He was alone at the sidewalk café. The winter weather was mild, but still enough to chase most of the patrons inside. His complexion was dark, but he kept himself clean shaven. If you were to question an average passerby, they would claim he was Spanish or Italian. None would suspect his Middle Eastern upbringing. He dressed in the most current fashions and blended in well among the people. He gave the full appearance of integrating into the culture, and for that he was rewarded by his superiors.
Born into a rich family, he’d been given every opportunity… traveled the world, received the best education. But the West had taken most of that from him. His family’s homes and business were destroyed by war. His parents were forced away as the fighting grew worse. Their position spared them from refugee status, yet still they were forced to relocate to Europe. His family’s wealth was gone, and now Fayed was forced to stand on his own. There was no longer a business to pass down to him, and he refused to be average. He cut ties with his family, unwilling to submit to a commoner’s life.
Fayed removed a twenty euro note from his pocket and dropped it to the table. He paused to push up the collar of his heavy, wool coat then sat and searched the street to ensure he wasn’t being watched. He was still a policeman, and he always felt the risk of what he was doing; he had to take precautions. Fayed was not a religious zealot—he considered himself an opportunist, first and foremost. He held loyalties to no one. When he watched the regular people on the street, he felt no emotion for them. Any feelings he had were for his own wellbeing.
First-world educated in the finest European and American houses of academia, how could anyone expect him to settle for the mere salary of an Interpol inspector? Sure, with the War on Terror and the disaster they called the Arab Spring, everyone suddenly needed his unique skill set and family connections, but no one was willing to put up the salary to go with it. He was recruited right out of school, moved to the Middle East desk, and given access to even the most classified records. At first, he was a willing and motivated soldier, doing everything he could to make a difference. Gaining promotions and pay, he made a modest life for himself, but that naivety soon wore off.
As the war progressed and he learned there was no serious goal to stabilize Iraq or Afghanistan, and with turmoil spreading into Yemen and all over the region, he adjusted his own viewpoints as the public lost its stomach for the endless war. Fayed had no aspirations of becoming a middle-aged civil servant with a dwindling bank account. He didn’t want a wife and three kids, living in a modest flat. He knew there was more for him, and it was there for him to take. As he moved to different regions in the Middle East, he began to collect contacts, and he watched the news with greater interest, finding where his skills could be best utilized.
As the Americans abandoned Iraq, it didn’t take long for Fayed to recognize the vacuum and the opportunity. Having already made contacts, and with his freedom of movement, he found new ways to capitalize on his access. He became a weapon to anyone willing to pay him; a double agent more useful than any cell the Jihadists could muster. Although he was an atheist at heart, he was well read and knew the Quran, as well as the Bible. He could manipulate a terrorist cell leader as easily as a New York banker.
No moral obligations to hold him down, he justified his new life as a business transaction. Fayed wasn’t interested in religious wars or the motivations of the industrial war machine. To Fayed, he was just buying back what was rightfully his. At first, he performed simple favors—deleting names from files, rewriting a report to make criminal activity seem legitimate, maybe approving the delivery of a package from Belgium to Baghdad, or changing the summary line of an investigation from suspicious to ordinary.
He learned there was money to be made in all corners, and Fayed found a way to get a percent of every transaction that moved across his desk. Even with the growth of the Arab Spring and spreading violence, he found ways to make order of the chaos.
Fayed had become a very rich man. But his new business partner was making things difficult for him, taking him to places he wasn’t comfortable. Fayed wanted nothing more than to finish this job and end his association with the man.
Kidnappings for ransom were commonplace in the region, but this new job was complicated. Unlike the other women, the American girl—although intriguing to the cause—could easily have troubling consequences. The rest of their hostages, anonymous girls without a voice, could be quickly sold into the system. But this American girl held value, and value couldn’t be ignored. The initial plan was to use her as a propaganda piece and trade her to groups that exploited such things. However, there was always an opportunity to pull quick funds from ransom, and the Church had deep pockets if they could be convinced to pay. Fayed knew he could use the commission to bankroll his lifestyle and would easily gain favor with criminal elements if he pulled off such an exploit.
To his disdain, every attempt at profiting from the girl had failed. The Americans were staying quiet and refused to pay the ransom. And her Church representatives were the worst. Rejecting offers to communicate directly with the cause, they consistently deferred them to the State Department, the many layers of contact only confusing matters. Then the American government began blocking efforts to publicize the capture or confirm the identity of the girl. Not even a sympathetic mention in media circles to spark interest and urgency. Without confirmation, she was nobody and held no propaganda value.
Fayed’s foreign handlers were losing patience, and now his legitimate employers were putting pressure on him to secure the girl’s release. Such is the inner conflict of the double agent, Fayed thought, allowing a short laugh to exit his sly grin. But as he had learned early on, with risk came profit. Still, there was a limit to his employer’s goodwill. They counted on him to solve these things, and the director was putting pressure on him for answers. He would have to move quickly and force Abdul’s hand before things became out of control. He was in a good position and could afford a loss here, but a win would obviously be the preferred outcome.
“Monsieur?” the waiter said, catching his laugh. “Is everything okay?”
Fayed brushed the man off with a wave of his hand then stood and walked to the sidewalk. He shook his head again, contemplating the problem. He enjoyed these political chess matches just as much as the money. Their first move was always to threaten the captive’s life. In response, the opposing government would make a public protest. Sometimes the family would be on the evening news with a teary-eyed mother holding a photo. This had no reaction from Fayed; it was all business to him. Of course, they could kill her if they must, but there was no profit from a dead woman, and that would also cause them to lose favor with the people—those who supported their efforts in secret. Killing her, especially a girl like this, a girl of faith, would not make them any friends.
Yes, he would have to increase his efforts, find a way. Maybe through the Church itself. There was always more to be done. The opposing government would pay—they always paid—and after the money was deposited, they would leave her with a third party. Fayed bit his lip in frustration. But why did they keep her a secret? Not a single protest from the girl’s family. What sort of family abandons their daughter? Why? What was he missing? He would have to push his assistants to dig deeper. There was more to the girl that he had to find out.
Perhaps her capture was an embarrassment. Fayed thought hard, remembering. He had watched the most recent press conference. The President standing behind the podium, praising his gains in the region, proclaiming that the enemy was contained, the threats stabilized. Yes, that must be it. She was an embarrassment to the establishment. If they wanted her capture kept a secret, then he would do the opposite. Taking a deep breath of the cool Parisian air, he exhaled with a smile. If there was money to be made from this girl, he would find it.
He would leak ne
ws of the girl’s capture. He would create a public scandal. That would force their hand, and they would have to pay. And if not, he would lose no sleep over her death or her loss to the slavers. After all, he would have done everything he could to help her. But in the meantime, there was no profit in death, and Fayed would have to explore every avenue before releasing her fate to the Jihadists. After all, it was nothing personal; she was just another pawn in his chess game.
4
Her hands and feet were numb from the tightness of the bindings, her wrists a pale white and fingers a swollen purple. It had been hours since the guard pulled her back from the wall and loosened them, and she knew it would be hours before they were again relaxed. It was a game that her captors played. The more she cooperated, the better they treated her. Although the comforts were minimal, it started with relaxing the wire knotted around her wrists and ankles then moved on to a heavy wool blanket then some water and a bit of stale bread.
Sarah had made it to the bread twice since her captivity but had quickly fallen back to square one, having everything taken from her and replaced with beatings. The first time was when she was confronted with the scar-faced man they called Abdul. Her refusal to answer questions about her family infuriated the man to a point that she was beaten until she’d lost consciousness. The second time was when she was reintroduced to the other women from the convent. When she saw they were being treated as poorly as she was, Sarah protested. Again, she was beaten and reduced back to being strapped to a bolt on the floor, isolated in a cell, nearly naked with her wrists wired so tight she couldn’t feel her fingers.
But the worst part, even worse than the actual beatings, was the anticipation. She could hear the men working over women in adjacent cells. Though they screamed in a language Sarah didn’t know, she clearly understood the pain in their cries of agony. She lay stonelike, huddled on the concrete floor waiting for them to come for her, trembling every time she heard the boots plod past her cell door, thinking her turn would be next. The cell was nothing more than a dark and musty eight-by-eight-foot square concrete tomb. The heavy stench of human waste hung in the air, and the only sounds were the whimpering of women in the neighboring cells.
Her door slammed open, and Sarah crowded back against the wall as two men entered. One stepped toward her swiftly and dropped a hood over her head then yanked her backward. She felt her shackles loosen before she was lifted under the arms and dragged down a corridor. Another door opened, and she was carried into a longer narrow room. Again, she was dropped to the floor and re-shackled. When the hood was removed, she caught a glimpse of the men leaving, and a flash of light revealed that she was back in the communal cell.
The steel door at the end of the room slammed shut with a rusty squeak. There were no windows in the cell. Cracks in the floorboards overhead allowed in the only sunlight, the small slivers being the only way to determine the time of day. There were steel anchors set directly in the concrete, evenly spaced around the perimeter of the room. Women were bound the same as she, confined to a small space with little room to move and no bed to lie on. Some with a blanket but most without. All of them constricted and uncomfortably bound, lying in their own waste.
She squinted in the low light, her head swimming from dehydration and lack of food. She tried to focus, counting the women in the room, attempting to make mental notes of each one’s condition. She moved clockwise, concentrating. She got to twenty-one.
Sometimes a voice would cry out, someone she knew, faint recognition in the words. It was impossible to communicate. Raising their voices above a whisper would bring the beatings. Oftentimes, a woman would sob in her sleep and another nearby would try to comfort her. Occasionally, the door would clunk open and a man would make the rounds with rewards for behavior. Restraints would be loosened, the women offered meager belongings or scraps of food. Many times, the doors were opened and women were removed. The jailer would proudly announce that their bail had been paid and they would be returned to their families. Sarah didn’t know what to believe. She only knew the women didn’t return.
Her eyes opened. She wasn’t sure if she’d been asleep or just in deep thought. The light through the floorboards had faded. There were heavy steps outside the door, and the metal locking mechanism squeaked against the turning of a key. The door swung in and a bright spotlight shone on their faces. The light stopped on her, and a man shouted instructions. Another rushed forward and placed a bag over her head, tying it tightly around her neck. She was unbolted from the floor and forced to her feet. Sarah was unable to stand, her muscles stiff from the hours against the concrete floor. The man grabbed her under the arm and lugged her forward. She moved her legs, trying to find a footing, trying to support herself.
She was brought into a hallway, bright light glowing through the sack over her head. She felt herself being dragged upstairs and through doorways, eventually being dropped onto the floor in another room. A door slammed shut and the lock mechanism turned. After a brief moment, she heard lighter footsteps. She felt gentle hands on her body, and the rope around her neck was loosened and the bag removed. The light was bright, forcing her eyes closed. Soothing voices warmed her.
Sarah squinted in the bright sunlight, looking into the faces of women wearing head scarves and black dresses that went to the floor. They were kneeling over her, speaking softly in words she didn’t understand. There were two other captive women in the room, the attendants also removing their torn clothing and covering them with soft towels. Looking to her left, Sarah could see Carol, a blonde Canadian aid worker she had shared meals with at the convent, and Abella, a dark-haired French woman, who had arrived at the convent just days before the attack. Sarah tried to speak to the attending women standing over them, but they didn’t respond. The French girl spoke to them in Arabic, and they turned toward her and replied in a hushed tone, silencing her.
Abella whispered to Sarah, but she didn’t understand, not knowing French or Arabic. The woman forced a smile then mimicked the washing of her body with her hands moving up and down her arm. Sarah nodded and sat still, allowing the women to work. Sarah could see that Carol was sitting dazed beside her. With her hands now free, Sarah reached out to the girl, who flinched and pulled away. Then Carol turned and looked at her with sad blue eyes. “Where are we?” she whispered. “What’s going to happen to us?”
“I don’t know.” Sarah took Carol’s hand, which trembled in her grip.
One of the attending women silenced their whispers and stepped closer with a warm bucket of water. She moved aside Sarah’s torn gown. Sarah reached out to stop the woman before spotting the bruising and scars going up and down the woman’s arm. Recognizing the attendant’s pained expression, Sarah drew back and allowed the woman to proceed in bathing her. The woman handed Sarah another cloth and allowed her to wash her own face and neck as she was tightly rewrapped in clean linens. When they finished with Sarah, they moved on to Carol, who was more timid and resistant. Sarah stepped in and helped in soothing her friend.
When the bathing was finished, the attendants handed the women long black gowns and showed them how to dress. The attendants then gathered all of their supplies and exited the room, leaving the captives alone in silence. Carol turned back to Sarah and again asked where they were.
“I said I don’t know. I don’t remember anything,” Sarah said.
Abella whispered to them, but Sarah still didn’t understand her French words. A sound of steps outside brought the women together. They slid against the back wall as the door handle rattled and then opened. Two armed, bearded men entered and stepped to the left and right of the door. The man with the scarred forehead then walked into the opening and looked down at them. He took another step forward and knelt, causing the women to flinch away. In his right hand was a notebook and stubbed pencil. He tossed it to the floor in front of the women.
He scowled and eyed them with contempt. “I am giving you one last opportunity to communicate with your families. To beg f
or your release. You will each prepare a one-page letter,” he said before repeating the message to Abella in Arabic.
“What do you mean, beg for our release?” Sarah asked.
Abdul smiled at her with brown stained teeth and said, “I will give your families the first opportunity to purchase you before you go on the open market. I suggest you to be very compelling in your message; you would be surprised at what the monsters on the open market are willing to pay. You especially, a woman of a God, they would pay plenty to make an example of you.”
“Why are you doing this?” Sarah asked him.
He grinned and pointed to the paper. “Write your letter.” Before any more questions could be asked, the man rose to his feet and left the room with his guards following close behind.
5
Logan was busy, as usual, and security as lax as expected. Tommy moved through the arrivals area, taking his time in front of the security cameras, looking directly into them, allowing himself to be seen. He spotted the tail as he walked to a service kiosk and reserved a flight for Turkey by way of Paris. Proceeding to a counter, he checked only a single bag. As soon as he walked away, he watched the tail move to a corner and make a phone call. He knew they would be tracking his credit cards and checking the flight manifest. Tommy sped up his pace and entered the terminal, moving calmly through the TSA gates.
He walked along the outside of the terminal, dropping into a men’s room where he reversed his jacket and put on a dark ball cap. Exiting, he fell into a crowd and moved with them until he entered a bar near the center of the international terminal. It was as crowded as the ticket counter had been, and he waited patiently near a hostess stand until a high-top table for two opened up away from the entrance. He followed the hostess to the table and moved around it, pulling out a chair to face the crowd. He took a seat and ordered a lager when the waitress arrived. He set his boarding pass and tickets on the center of the table and let his jacket hang over the back of the chair.