by Sarah Black
John studied the brushed stainless steel of the elevator doors. Mortimer was quiet. When they got outside, he pulled John toward the dull green Jeep with the two big Marines standing next to it. The boys were in civvies, but you could not hide a US Marine just by putting him in civilian clothes. They looked big and tough, and John introduced himself to both of them, shook hands. John and Mortimer climbed into the back seat. “Thanks for coming out, Greg.”
“No, thank you for handling this. We need a peaceful resolution and as quickly as possible. This situation has the potential to develop into one of those horrible yearlong stalemates that only ends with people dying. The word is Ben Mberek has a price, but I’ve never had to test that theory. He’s Security Service, and there is, I hear, some degree of conflict between them and the Ministry of Justice since the revolution. Everyone is fighting for the little bit of an edge that will let them come out on top. The Ambassador is royally pissed.”
“At Ali Bahktar or at the boys?”
“At everyone, seems to me. He doesn’t like to get in the papers,” Greg said. “What’s your plan?”
“See Ben Mberek and slide him a thick handful of baksheesh to let me see the boys. Suggest to him that I have some degree of power, that I’m a person he wants to owe him a favor. Once I know if the boys are hurt or in danger, I’ll decide what’s next. Seems unlikely we’ll be able to do more than that but you can never tell. It’s worth a gamble. If there appears to be any conflict between him and the Ministry of Justice, I’ll play on it. I may have the chance to pick them up and walk them out of there before anybody realizes what we’re doing. If he wants to stick his thumb in the Ministry’s eye, that might be a good way to do it and make a little pocket change to boot. Tell me about Ali Bahktar.”
“Salafist. Hard-line Jihadist. Has a couple of thugs who run with him. They stand around in camo cargo pants and look menacing, hassle women in Western clothes, carry crap weapons. No real training by any terrorist organization that we’ve discovered, but they’re ripe for it. These little groups of men looking for trouble are becoming more overt, more dangerous. Bahktar likes to hear himself talk and likes to get the crowds stirred up. Doesn’t have any education or original rhetoric. Doesn’t like Americans. The real Imams are keeping their distance, but that world is very touchy right now. I am not sure how the Ministry feels about him. He’s not moving up, more moving to the side. Pegged as trouble, I would guess. Looking to make his mark.”
“I met him when he was a teenager, thirteen or fourteen. He tried to cut my throat over a plate of Turkish delight.”
“In a Bedouin tent? My word.”
“His grandfather was a warlord. I can’t imagine there was a place for him in the new Tunisia.”
“That grandfather is dead, his father’s father. I confirmed the other information you sent me. This man is his maternal grandfather, but I don’t know if he has any influence over his grandson. I could not confirm any regular contact between them.”
“Even if he doesn’t in private, Ali will need to be seen to respect his grandfather in public. It’s just a thread to pull on if things get complicated.”
They pulled up outside 9 Avril Prison. The high guard tower sent slices of yellow light into the street, lighting the red-and-white Tunisian flag on the flagpole in the courtyard. The high stone walls were topped with razor wire, and two policemen in olive-green-and-black uniforms were leaning against the guard shack, smoking. Mortimer rolled down the window. “We have come from the American embassy.” He held his identification out the window, but didn’t relinquish it when the guard tried to take it out of his hand. The two Marines in the front seat plastered their IDs against the front windshield. “Open the gate. Ben Mberek is expecting us.”
One of the policemen stepped into the darkness and spoke on his radio, then went into the guard shack and lifted the gate. John and Greg stayed slumped down in the back seat, but they had been still long enough for photographs. A tall man in an olive green uniform and black boots stood on the top step of the prison and watched them, his arms crossed over his chest. He was older, in his sixties, maybe, with a grizzled gray beard and a hard face, a black mole on his cheek.
One of the Marines came around, opened the back door for John. He walked just behind him up the steps. The other stayed with the vehicle, the driver’s side door open, scanning the courtyard. Greg came around his other side.
John walked up the steps, his hand extended, and spoke in Arabic. “Good evening! You are very gracious to allow me to come and see you so late! I’m afraid I am still on Washington, DC, time. My name is John Mitchel.”
The older man shook his hand gravely, studying him with narrowed eyes. “I am Moncef Ben Mberek. I have heard of a General John Mitchel.”
“Oh, I am retired from the United States Army now.”
Greg came up to his side, shook hands. “Dr. Mitchel is a noted classics scholar. He has been to Tunisia before.”
“Yes, I have,” John said. “I came with my teacher, Dr. Omar al-Salim, to study in Carthage at the Bardo. Things have changed in Tunisia since I was here last.”
“Come in, General.” He turned, escorted them through the heavy prison doors. The wooden doors were heavy and dark, deeply carved, with thick iron rings set deep in the wood. “One of my men is making tea.”
“Excellent. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Your Arabic is very good.”
“I’m afraid it is quite rusty. I have not been back to your beautiful country for some years. And I never learned to speak French as well as I would like.”
The entered the office, thick Iranian rugs on the floor, the air heavy with the smell of dust and sweet mint tea.
“Thank you,” John said, accepting a cup and bringing it to his nose. “I remember I was offered mint tea once before, in the tent of a Bedu out near the Algerian border. His name was Bahktar.”
Ben Mberek leaned over, spit into the brass basin on the floor. His teeth were edged in brown from the tobacco in his lip. “I have heard of that old Bedu. A smuggler, a thief.”
“And his grandson?” John studied the man’s face. He looked like he’d bitten down on something sour. “You might have met him, Ali Bahktar? He has a face like a flower shoved up a donkey’s ass.”
Ben Mberek stared for a moment, then his face cracked and his laugh boomed off the walls. “Oh, yes, I do know the young Ali Bahktar. He is a useless functionary of the Ministry of Justice, a title without a job, and he enjoys causing trouble for those of us with important work and many responsibilities. He brings young Americans here with no papers, tells me to keep them for him, like I am his servant? I am a soldier, like you. Americans do not belong in this prison. They just bring me trouble and attention I would like to avoid.”
“Soldiers have a critical role during times of crisis and change. Sometimes they have to make decisions for the good of their country, their people. Make alliances that will prove fruitful in the long run.” John drank his tea, enjoying the sweet taste of a successful gamble in his throat. “But we old soldiers can talk and share our memories until we bore the young men into sleep! I am looking forward to seeing my young nephews. Thank you for allowing them to sleep here until I arrived! Please tell me what these excitable boys did in Carthage.”
Ben Mberek’s face was more cautious now. “I have not been given all the information about the reason for your nephews to be here. I understand there was an incident at one of the archeological sites. Some blasphemy?”
John stood. “Never! I reject that notion! I have raised my sons to be respectful. That’s why they came to Carthage, to pay their respects to their noble ancestors. Do you not see the likeness of their Tunisian ancestors in my sons?”
Ben Mberek had his hand over his chin. John thought he was covering a smile. “I do not think I noticed such a likeness, but perhaps we could go see the young sons together and I will see the likeness of my own children.”
“Very good!” John said. “I so
appreciate your gracious hospitality.” He slid the thick envelope with the money across Ben Mberek’s desk, turned slightly away when the man pulled it across his desk and stuffed it into his shirt. Ben Mberek couldn’t hide the hunger in his eyes at the sight of so much American money. The young Marine had stood by the door during the conversation, and the look he gave John when they trooped out the door made him wonder if the boy spoke Arabic.
The walls and floor were made of heavy limestone block, dark and dank with the smell of hopelessness and despair, mold and blood and urine. The rock felt slick and sticky underfoot. They travelled down several passages until they came to a small closet, the door solid wood with a slit in the bottom, sized for a tray of food. The guard pulled it open and stepped back.
It was dark inside, less than forty square feet, John would guess. The room held a mattress on the filthy stone floor, a couple of buckets in the corner. One of the boys was lying down on the mattress, asleep or unconscious, and the other held his hand over his eyes against the glare of the light from the hallway, his body curved to protect his unconscious friend. John turned to look at Moncef Ben Mberek, then he walked into the stinking cell. He had seen pictures of the boys in the folders from Painter. Green was the kid unconscious on the mattress, and Forsyth was trying to get to his feet. John reached down, pulled the boy up. He leaned over, touched Green’s battered face. Both boys had either fought back at the time they were captured or had been beaten since coming to the prison. Green had a fever, and one eye was swollen shut. His mouth was cracked and dry. “We’re leaving. My sons need a doctor immediately!” He turned around, furious, and the young Marine moved forward, picked Green up from the mattress. John put his arm around Forsyth’s waist, moved him out of the tiny room. The guards looked alarmed, arguing among themselves, but no one seemed ready to do anything with Ben Mberek standing there.
“We kept them away from the scum in the rest of the prison, General,” Ben Mberek said. “It’s not safe here for young Americans. Ali Bahktar has been questioning them. What he is asking with his fists I don’t know. But if these boys die, I am sure I will be the one to take the blame.”
John turned to study him, had to keep himself from snarling. “Your position has been difficult. I thank you for keeping them safe until I could arrive to bring them home.”
“Loyalty is fluid when there is so much corruption, so much poverty. Take your sons and leave quickly, General Mitchel.” Ben Mberek growled an order at one of his guards, and they were allowed to move back down the passageway until they reached the front doors of the prison. One of the guards started yelling, his weapon in his hand, but Ben Mberek shouted him into silence.
The second Marine they had left at the car moved forward, took Forsyth from John. Greg Mortimer spoke to Ben Mberek, slipped him one of his business cards. Three minutes, John thought. Let’s get into the car and get through those gates. When the guards lifted the gates, though, another car was coming into the prison courtyard, and the driver pulled the car around to block the road out.
Chapter 12
MORTIMER came down the steps. John turned to him. “Get the boys in the vehicle. Get everyone buckled up. That baby is a tank, right?” Mortimer nodded.
John stood as tall as he could, his arms crossed over his chest. He felt the power of a good suit and the fury of that stinking pit of a prison cell, American boys lying on a bloody mattress in the dark. A near-perfect getaway fucked up at the last minute by a little shit of a Bedu. Someone had made a phone call, one of the guards at the gate, maybe. Ali Bahktar stepped out of the back of the car.
John recognized him, even with the thin dark beard and the western shirt and pants. He had those same eyes, cold and wet as a bird of prey, and his face was thin with the burn of fanaticism. Another man stepped out of the front seat, stood next to him, a machine pistol in his hand pointed at the ground.
“You seem to have left your car across the road, my young friend. Would you like me to give you a driving lesson?”
“You are here in Tunisia without your pilot, General Mitchel.”
“He’s not far behind, Ali. You know he always watches my back, especially when I am going to be around you. But don’t worry. I have many friends in Tunisia.”
“Not as many as you think. Things are changing here. We are not all on our knees, worshiping American money.” Bahktar studied John, running his thumb over the knuckles of one hand. “I have seen a picture of you and your pilot, General Mitchel. On one of your American gay magazines. Would you like to know what we do to men who practice this unnatural act in Tunisia? Have you seen our prisons, General?”
“I am so pleased you received your copy of Out magazine, young Ali,” John interrupted him. “I was afraid your subscription might have been confiscated at the border! Are you able to share your gay magazine with your many young friends? Would you like me to autograph your copy?”
“It wasn’t my copy!” He was enraged, his face flushing purple in the lights of the guard tower.
John bent over and spoke to the Marine who was behind the wheel through the open back door. “Drive straight through the gates, and don’t stop. Hit him if you need to.” He looked back at Ali. “This tank will break your shit car into pieces and I will leave you bleeding in the street if you don’t get the fuck out of my way right now.”
“You haven’t won, General. You haven’t done anything! These Americans will not be allowed to leave this country without their passports, and I will bring them before the courts of this….”
John turned away, climbed into the back seat of the car. Ben Mberek’s men waved at Ali to move his car. The Marine behind the wheel gunned the engine, and they waited for the driver to pull out of the way, then turned onto the street fronting the guard shack, missing Ali’s car by inches.
“Hurry,” John said, looking out the back window. “We need to get back to the hotel as quickly as we can. Once we’re inside, we’ll have some protection. Nobody in this government wants trouble at one of the few remaining functioning tourist spots in Tunisia. But if they take us before we get there, with no witnesses, we’ll probably all disappear.” He grinned suddenly at the Marine next to him. “Not that I think they could take us.”
“Not a chance in a million, General.”
“Agreed,” Mortimer said. He turned to the Marine in the back seat. “You guys mind sticking with the general for tonight and maybe a couple of days, keep these guys safe until we can get them out of the country?”
“Yes, sir,” they said.
Forsyth looked over at him. “Sir, who are you?” He had curly dark hair, exhausted eyes rimmed in purple.
“I’m General John Mitchel,” he said.
Forsyth closed his eyes and smiled. “Wow, really? Thank you for getting us out. Is the Horse-Lord here, too? I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
John smiled back. “He’s coming.” He reached over Forsyth, put his hand on Green’s face. He was restless, pushed John’s hand away, then lifted his head and opened his eyes.
“What’s happening?”
Forsyth put a hand on his chest. “Chill, bro. We’re good.”
He nodded, his eyes closing again. Forsyth looked at John. “You think you can find us a doctor?”
“Yes. Do you know what happened? Where is he hurt?”
Forsyth shook his head. “He came back from interrogation this way. I don’t know how long ago. I could get a little water in his mouth, but I couldn’t get him to swallow. They kept the lights off so I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t do anything….” He blinked hard, scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “I’m Daniel Forsyth. I work for General Painter, did you know?”
“Yes, I know, Daniel. I’ve come to bring you home.”
Their Marine driver took them down the main highway between Tunis and Carthage, his foot pressed down to the floorboards. Mortimer quietly reached out, grabbed the safety strap to hang on. There were four of them crammed into the backseat. John kept an eye on Bahktar�
�s car, trailing them down the highway out of town.
The Marine holding Green on his lap looked over at John. He had red hair and blue eyes, a chin like a rock. Those Viking genes turned up in the strangest places, John thought. “You speak Arabic.”
The Marine hesitated, looking at Mortimer in the front seat. Mortimer nodded, and the young Viking turned to John. “I’m Robert Wylie.” John reached out, and they shook hands with Green and Forsyth between them. “My partner up there is Jackson. He won’t say if Jackson is first or last and it’s too complicated to remember two names, so we’re Wylie and Jackson.”
“This is what we need to do: We get to the hotel, and we drive straight up to the front doors as loudly as possible. You take Green, let Jackson take Forsyth. Straight through the lobby to the elevators, up to the fourth floor. I’ll be right behind you, but don’t stop and don’t speak to anyone. My suite is 402. My aide is Sam Brightman. Get them in the room, lock the doors and stand by with your weapons ready to kill anyone who tries to take them back or break into the room. Leave the vehicle where it is, and Mr. Mortimer can move it when it’s safe. I repeat, take these men straight up and do not leave their sides for any reason, up to and including gunfire.”
“Holy shit! Is Brightman here?” It was Forsyth. “I thought he was in the doghouse.”
“He is. And General Painter’s daughter, Jen.”
“Fuckin’ A!” Forsyth grinned. “Don’t give Sam three beers and then ask him about Jennifer. Jesus, he’s got it bad.” He put his head back and closed his eyes. John could see the blood dried in his nostrils, in the corner of his mouth. The streetlights through the speeding car’s back window kept giving John choppy slices of the damage to the boy’s face, the purple bruising over his collarbones and down his chest.
Jackson tore up to the front doors with as much noise and drama as John could have hoped, laying on the horn, and the hotel night staff ran to the glass to stare out at them. Wylie and Jackson did their parts, hauling the men through the doors, straight back through the white marble and glass lobby, past the fountain and the horrified staff. John stepped out of the car, walked up to the manager standing in the doorway. He was a short man, distress and alarm on his face. “Mr. Aziz, you might want to call the police. We’re about to be attacked.”