“Take him to a hospital and he’ll be better in two days.”
“You will heal him here, now.”
“I will not harm your father,” said Jonathan. “He needs proper medical care.”
“Then I will have to kill you and your friend.” Haq barked a command, and one of the guards grabbed Hamid and put a knife to his throat, drawing blood.
“Stop!” shouted Jonathan, jumping to his feet. “All right. I’ll do it. Let Hamid go.”
Haq waved away the guard and Hamid slumped to the ground, gingerly exploring the wound on his neck.
“But the best I can do is open him up and drain the pus,” Jonathan continued. “That will relieve the pain, but it won’t solve the underlying problem. Even if I find a perforation, I doubt I can close it. I don’t have the tools.”
Haq held Jonathan’s eyes. “You will cure my father or you will not walk out of this cave.”
Jonathan gazed down at the old man lying on the bed of colorful blankets. As he did, he observed a large black centipede scurrying beneath the pillows. He looked around the room for a table or some firm surface he could lay the man down on. There was nothing.
“I’m going to need water,” said Jonathan. “Lots of it, boiled and sterile. Hamid, put a bandage on your throat, then get me two syringes of lidocaine. I’ll need gauze, scalpel, forceps—that should do it.”
He turned to Haq. “Your father won’t feel anything, but you and your men”—he pointed at the guards standing nearby—“you’re not going to like it. I suggest you wait outside.”
“They’re used to blood,” said Haq.
“I’m not talking about blood.”
“We will stay,” said Sultan Haq.
Jonathan injected three cc’s of lidocaine into the area around the infection. He waited several minutes, then made a five-centimeter incision and with his fingers separated the fascia. “Mosquito.”
Hamid inserted the mosquito, a small rake-shaped clamp, to hold the incision open. Jonathan injected another cc of lidocaine directly into the fascia. Already he could feel the pressure from the abscess throbbing against the muscle.
“You guys might want to back off,” he said, eyeing the guards, who stood with the barrels of their AK-47s aimed at his back.
The guards looked at Haq. Haq shook his head sternly.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Jonathan cut through the last layer of fascia. A jet of pus erupted, shooting vertically out of the abdomen and striking one of the men squarely in the face. The man cried out, frantically wiping away the warm liquid.
“Be still,” commanded Haq.
Jonathan widened the incision and glimpsed a large mass of yellow pus. Officially the pus was termed a “fibrous, proteinaceous exudate.” As a resident in general surgery, he’d preferred to call it what it actually was: “gross nastiness.”
Inserting his fingers, he pulled out a wad of pus and wiped it on the gauze. It was then that the odor wafted from the wound, and the first guard bent double and retched. A second guard turned his head, his eyes watering.
Nothing on earth smelled as awful as a long-festering anaerobic infection. The smell was worse than a Lagos latrine on a 100-degree day. Worse than a three-day dead rat plumped with maggots. Worse than anything Jonathan had ever experienced.
“Like that, eh? There’s more. Don’t worry.” Reaching back into the abdominal cavity, he retrieved a second, larger wad, this one the size of a Coke can. The guards covered their mouths and rushed out of the room. Even Haq jumped to his feet and charged the door. Only Hamid remained rock-steady, unflinching.
“What do you think got to them?” asked Jonathan.
“No idea,” said Hamid. “Guess the sight of blood makes them squeamish.”
“Guess so,” said Jonathan. “Now, let’s clean this out.”
For the next few minutes he pumped syringe after syringe of sterile boiled water into the cavity. Leaving behind even a trace of bacteria would result in a second infection. Abdul Haq might be Public Enemy No. 1, but for the moment he was a patient in grave danger, and Jonathan did his best to save him.
Satisfied that the infection had been cleaned, he tacked the muscle together. To allow any residual pus to escape, he fashioned a Penrose drain from a short length of rubber tourniquet and inserted it like a candle wick into the cavity. Ten stitches closed the incision.
Jonathan looked at the doorway, where Haq remained, his face a curious shade of yellow. “We’re done.”
“Will he live?” asked Haq.
“That’s up to you. He needs to recover in a clean environment. If the infection comes back, I wouldn’t count on him making it through a second time. He’s tough, but not that tough.”
Abdul Haq probed the stitches gingerly. “I am all right?” he asked in Pashto.
“Yes,” said Jonathan. “You’re going to be fine.”
Suddenly the old man was beaming. Free of the crippling pain that had plagued him for weeks, he grabbed Jonathan’s hand and held it to his chest. “God sent you. Blessings upon your house. You are a great man.”
Sultan Haq touched Jonathan’s shoulder. “I thank you for saving my father’s life.”
“You’re welcome,” said Jonathan. “But if you really want to thank me, let those soldiers go.”
“They’re my enemies,” said Haq. “They have killed many of my men. They know where we live.”
“So do we.” Hamid kneeled beside Abdul Haq to apply a sterile bandage to his abdomen.
“Did I speak to you?” thundered Haq, looking down at the slight assistant.
“Well?” asked Jonathan.
“You are welcome to stay,” said Haq with forced kindness. “You say you came to my country to help its people. You may help us.”
“Is that an invitation or an order?” Hamid stood, and Jonathan thought he appeared taller, no longer so timid.
Drawn by the sound of the raised voices, one of the guards poked his head back into the room.
“Hold it, Hamid,” said Jonathan. “Finish putting on the bandage. Okay?”
“Your work is done, Jonathan,” continued Hamid. “Now it’s my turn.”
Jonathan looked hard at Hamid. It was the first time the assistant had ever called him by his Christian name. He could feel the tension ratcheting up, everyone looking at everyone else too expectantly.
A second guard returned to the room, holding his machine gun at the ready.
“I will decide when the healer’s work is done,” said Haq, incensed by the challenge to his authority.
“You don’t understand,” said Hamid. “The healer works for me.”
“You? A Hazara?” Haq spat the words with disbelief.
“No. Me, the United States government.”
In a blur, Hamid dropped to a knee and ripped a scalpel across Abdul Haq’s throat. A fountain of blood sprayed into the air. The old man arched his back, his hands reaching for the gaping wound. His mouth formed a perfect O, but no sound came out. His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell back on the bed.
Abdul Haq was dead.
8
The first kick hit Emma in the side, and she heard a rib crack. The next glanced off her shoulder, and then he was on her, driving a knee into her stomach and grasping her clothing with his powerful callused hands, striking her chest with curled knuckles, just as they’d taught her at Yasenevo so many years ago.
“Who do you work for? The CIA? The Pentagon? You will tell me, do you hear? A confession is what I’m after. When I talk to General Ivanov, I will give him the truth!”
The prince was screaming, his handsome features made unrecognizable with rage. Between slaps to the face and yanks of her hair, Emma decided that he had no idea how to conduct an interrogation. Fear made a person talk. Violence made them shut up. And then she realized that this was no interrogation. The prince already knew the answers to his questions. This was sport.
They had driven for an hour into the desert, Emma in the front seat al
ongside Prince Rashid, her wrists cuffed in front of her. At one point he stopped the car and climbed out to bleed air from the tires. From there the journey proceeded off-road, sand dunes alternating with expanses of sun-hardened earth. They stopped, and she saw that there were two cars accompanying them. A dozen of the prince’s police poured from the vehicles, forming a semicircle on the hard-pack. Balfour was not among them. She recognized only one face: the hooded eyes and intense stare of the prince’s client.
“Who?” railed the prince. “Tell me and I will stop. You will die quickly.”
Emma didn’t respond, and her silence goaded him more than any lie.
“If you will not talk, then you will at least eat.” The prince scooped up a handful of sand and stuffed it into her mouth.
She thrashed violently, spitting it out. A new pair of hands held her as the prince forced her mouth open and filled it with fistfuls of sand. She spat them out, gagging, but he continued, undeterred.
“Some fine Arabian sand for my would-be executioner. I hope you enjoy the taste.”
Emma could not breathe. She could not swallow. She struggled and spat.
And then the powerful hands released her. Emma rolled away. She knew that at least one rib was broken. Something else was wrong. Something worse. A pain deep inside.
“Look at her,” said Prince Rashid, arms spread wide, turning to face his men. “Do you know what she is? She is a cow. A fat, lazy cow. And do you know what cows need? They need to move.”
“No,” she said. “It’s enough.”
A white-hot pain seared Emma’s back and a barbed current traveled up her spine, causing her body to shudder.
Prince Rashid withdrew the cattle prod. “There,” he said, looking at the man with hooded eyes. “That made her jump. Shall we try again?”
The prod touched her buttocks, and the odor of burned flesh filled the air.
“Move, American whore! Your friends in Washington can’t help you now. They sent you on a fool’s errand to kill me. Your errand is finished. You failed. It’s not so easy to kill a prince.”
Rashid struck her repeatedly with the prod. On her belly, her thighs, her breasts. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. The electricity coursing through her body had locked her vocal cords.
“Who’s your controller? It is a housekeeping matter, actually. I need to know where to send your body.” He stood laughing, and all his men joined him. All except the man with the hooded eyes. He stood apart, saying nothing, his unblinking black eyes never leaving her.
“Has this cow had enough exercise?” Prince Rashid turned a circle, imploring his men to answer. No one said a word. “I don’t think so either,” he said finally. “She still looks rather lazy to me. I think she needs a tour of our lovely desert. Strip her.”
Emma could offer only perfunctory resistance. When she was naked, someone yanked her hands above her head and passed a chain around her cuffs. She squinted, watching one of the policemen attach the other end of the chain to the rear bumper of the prince’s Mercedes.
“No,” she said, hearing a desperate voice cry out inside her. “Please. I’m—” She rose to one knee, but the car was already accelerating. The chain grew taut and yanked her to the ground.
The prince drove slowly across the desert floor. He dragged her over rocks and thistles and sage and sand gritty enough to peel paint. When the pain was too much, she lost consciousness. Against her will, the waking world found her. She didn’t know how many times she passed out or how long they drove, only that at some point she was no longer moving and someone had removed the handcuffs.
A hand slapped her cheek and she opened her eyes. Stars glistened like tears in the sky above.
The prince glared down at her. “If your friends know so much about me, surely they’ll figure out where I took you. The question is, my darling, will they find you before the sun dries you out?”
Emma watched Rashid climb into his car and drive away. The sound of the motor faded. In a minute the desert was silent.
She was alone.
And then pain began in earnest.
Emma put her hands to her stomach and cried.
9
For an instant, shocked silence ruled the cave chamber.
“What the hell did you do?” gasped Jonathan. “You killed him! Jesus Christ!”
Hamid paid no attention to his words. The scalpel was no longer in his hand. In its place was his cell phone. Oddly, he was pointing it at the nearest guard. There was a bang and a flurry of blood and the guard dropped to the floor. The phone was a concealed handgun. Before Jonathan could react, Hamid fired at the second guard, another head shot delivered with devastating accuracy. The guard fell backward, colliding with Sultan Haq, who was scrambling for his rifle.
“Who are you?” asked Jonathan.
“Watch it!” Hamid shoved Jonathan to the ground, turning as he did so to fire at Sultan Haq. There was a welter of gunshots, one on top of the other, the explosions painfully loud in the confined space. Bullets ricocheted off rock. Someone cried out. Jonathan covered his head. As quickly as it had begun, the gunshots died. The air quieted and he looked up. Haq was gone, as were the two remaining guards.
“Get a rifle.” Hamid picked up one of the slain guards’ AK-47s, checking the magazine and making sure that a round was chambered. “We’ve got to move before they can regroup.”
Jonathan rushed across the room and pried the machine gun from the dead warrior’s fingers. He had too many questions to ask, so he didn’t ask any.
“You know how to fire it?” Hamid asked.
“I’ve plinked at some cans.”
“Great, they told me you’d done this before.” Hamid snatched the weapon from his grasp, released the banana clip, rapped it against his thigh, then shoved it back into the stock, finally flipping the rifle onto its side and chambering a round. He was no longer the shy, whining doctor in training. This was another Hamid altogether. He was bold, decisive, and thoroughly professional.
“You’ve got a full mag,” he said, slamming the rifle against Jonathan’s chest. “Fire low and in short bursts. Now come on. We’ve got to get our guys before Haq takes care of them.”
Jonathan stared at the elder Haq’s corpse, then at the rifle in Hamid’s arms. The scope of the operation came to him in its entirety. Hamid worked for Division, and Division had used Jonathan as cover to put their operative in place to kill Abdul Haq.
A volley of automatic-weapons fire rattled through the cave. Hamid poked his head into the dim passage. “Stay on my tail. When I move, you move. Ready?”
Jonathan nodded. He was shaking badly.
Hamid slid the barrel of the machine gun around the corner. With crisp, practiced movements, he leaned into the cave and fired at the ceiling. The lightbulbs shattered. Darkness was immediate. There was a breath of wind where Hamid had been standing and a voice called from down the passage, “Come on!”
“Shit.” Jonathan ducked into the tunnel. Gunfire lit the cave. Bullets struck the wall above his head and a shard of rock stung his cheek. Bent double, he ran as fast as he could, his shoulder scudding the wall. Staccato flashes of machine-gun fire illuminated their progress like frames from a stuttering projector. He saw Hamid a few steps ahead, raising his weapon. A rifle responded, the noise deafening, and for a second Jonathan glimpsed the tall, turbaned figure of Sultan Haq, the Kentucky hunting rifle pressed to his shoulder. Jonathan threw himself to the ground as rock burst from the wall above his head.
“In here,” shouted a voice to his left.
Jonathan commando-crawled the last few meters into the opening and rolled onto his back.
Hamid popped a glow-bright bracelet. “You okay?”
Jonathan tried to speak, but his throat was too tight and he had no idea where his voice had gone. He moved his jaw and finally formed a word. “Yeah.”
The captured American soldiers stood in a semicircle facing him. The lifeless body of a Taliban fighter lay at
their feet, his head twisted at a grotesque angle. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I’m glad to see you,” said one of the soldiers, who had a captain’s twin bars sewn to his collar. There was a Ranger tab on one shoulder and jump wings on his chest. “When we heard the commotion and saw old Muhammad here freak out, we figured it was our only chance. I take it you came for Abdul Haq. You get him?”
“Dispatched with prejudice,” said Hamid. “You boys are gravy. Consider this your lucky day.”
“A-fuckin’-men,” said the captain.
“How you guys holding out?”
“We’re good to go.”
“Outstanding.” Hamid handed a roll of medical gauze to each man.
Jonathan got to his feet, confused. “Is someone hurt?”
Hamid peeled away the bandage to reveal an olive-green metallic canister. “Sorry, doc. Had to use your equipment to smuggle in what we needed.” He turned to the soldiers: “Four grenades is all we have. Two antipersonnel. Two Willy Petes. You guys got any extra clips?”
“Just the one,” said the captain. “You?”
“One spare, and the doc’s AK has a full mag.”
“You mind?” One of the soldiers, a sergeant, reached for Jonathan’s rifle.
“Be my guest.” Jonathan handed over the Kalashnikov.
“I take it you got a plan to get out of here,” said the captain.
“There’s a SEAL extraction team waiting in Kunduz,” said Hamid. “I got off a signal that I was going in, but I didn’t get confirmation that they were inbound. With all these mountains, it’s doubtful they got a good read on my GPS. Otherwise, they’d have been here by now.”
Jonathan felt his stomach sink. “What does that mean?”
“It means there’s a fifty-fifty chance no one’s going to be waiting for us when we get out of here.”
“How many Tabbies are out there?” asked the captain, “Tabby” meaning Taliban.
“I counted fifteen armed,” said Hamid. “You can add on a couple of camp followers. And then there are the thirty-caliber machine guns on the jeeps. That’s what worries me. Any of you got a good arm?”
Rules of Betrayal Page 6