The Turk stirred. One man disarmed him and pulled him off the road while another went and moved the motorcycle, The man behind Rodgers grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the side of the road as well. They were dragged behind a high, narrow hillock.
The man pressed the gun back against Rodgers's neck and said something to him in Arabic. He was not a Turk.
"I don't understand," Rodgers said. He showed no fear in his voice. By their actions, these men appeared to be guerrilla terrorists. The breed did not respect cowardice and refused to negotiate with cowards.
"American?" asked the man behind him.
Rodgers turned to look at him. "Yes."
The man called over someone named Hasan, who had been checking the motorcycle. Hasan had a narrow face, very high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and curly, shoulder-length black hair. Hasan was given a command in Arabic. Acknowleding it, Hasan pulled Rodgers to his feet. With the gun still at the general's neck, he began patting him down. Hasan found the general's wallet in his front pants pocket. He took Rodgers's passport from one shirt pocket and his cellular phone from another.
Rodgers's documents identified him as Carlton Knight, a member of the environmental resources department of the American Museum of Natural History in New York. It was a coin toss as to whether these men would buy that. Seden's uniform clearly identified him as a colonel in the Turkish Security Forces. Rodgers was going to have to come up with a good reason why he was out here with a TSF officer.
Personal safety, Rodgers decided. After all, hadn't these men just attacked him?
All other things being equal, Rodgers wasn't sure whether it was good to be identified as an American. Some Middle Eastern groups wanted the sympathy of the American public, and murder didn't get them that. Others wanted the support of Arab extremists, and murdering Americans won them that. If these were the same people who blew up the dam, there was no telling what they might do.
There was only one thing of which Rodgers was certain. The motorcycle was obviously the first vehicle these men had seen---and because of the flooding, it was probably the only one that would be along. They were going to have to make this situation work for them.
Hasan ignited a cigarette lighter and read the passport. "Kuh-ni-git," he said phonetically. He regarded Rodgers. "Why are you out?"
"I came to Turkey to check on the status of the Euphrates," Rodgers said. "When the dam came down, I was rushed to the area. They want my opinion on the short- and long-term ecological damage."
"You came with him?" Hasan asked.
"Yes," Rodgers said. "The Turks were worried about my safety."
Hasan translated for the man behind him, an angry-eyed soul named Mahmoud. The other man was tending to Seden's wound.
Mahmoud said something and Hasan nodded. He looked at Rodgers. "Where is camp for you?" Hasan asked.
"To the west," Rodgers said. "At Gazi Antep." The ROC was to the southeast, and the general did not want to lead them there.
Hasan snickered. "You have not enough gas in this motorcycle for that ride. Where is camp?"
"I told you, it's at Gazi Antep," Rodgers said. "We left our fuel can at a gas station on the way. We were supposed to pick it up on our return." Since Hasan was not a Turk, Rodgers assumed that he wouldn't know whether or not there was a gas station in that direction.
Hasan and Mahmoud spoke. Then Hasan said, "Give me the telephone number of your camp." He snapped the phone open under the lighter. He looked at Rodgers and waited.
Though Rodgers remained outwardly calm, his heart and mind began to race. His main objective was to protect the ROC. If he refused to give them the number, they would surely suspect he wasn't who he said he was. On the other hand, they knew who Colonel Seden was and hadn't killed him. So they would probably hold him as well, at least until they got out of the country.
"I'm sorry," Rodgers said. "I don't know the number. This phone is for them to call me."
Hasan stepped closer. He held the lighter close to Rodgers's chest, the flame burning low under his chin. Slowly, he began to raise the lighter.
"Are you speaking the truth?" Hasan asked.
Rodgers forced himself to relax as the heat spread across the soft flesh of his neck. Everyone who worked behind the lines in Vietnam was taught the rudiments of surviving torture. Beatings, burning with lighted cigarettes, electric current applied to sensitive areas, standing chin-deep in water for days on end, and having your arms pulled behind you as you're hoisted to the top of a pole. All of those were practiced by the North Vietnamese, and sampled by Special Forces operatives who went over there. The key was not to be tense. Tension only tightened the flesh, stretching the skin cells and exacerbating the pain. Tension also focused the mind on the pain. Victims were told to try to count to themselves, divide the suffering into manageable segments of three or five seconds. They had to think of making it to the next plateau rather than to the end.
Rodgers counted as the heat intensified.
"The truth," Hasan urged.
"It is... the truth!" Rodgers said.
Mahmoud spoke harshly to Hasan. The young man switched off the flame and sneered at the American. Hasan handed Mahmoud the telephone and then walked over to Colonel Seden.
The third terrorist was standing behind the Turkish officer. He held a pistol pointing down at the top of colonel's head. Seden was sitting up, his back propped against the terrorist's legs. The colonel's head had been crudely bandaged with a sleeve from his jacket. The other sleeve had been used to make a tourniquet for his bloody right arm. He was barely conscious.
Hasan knelt beside Seden. He lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, then held the lighted tip to Seden's chin. The dazed Turk shrieked. Hasan quickly cupped his hand on the colonel's mouth.
Hasan said something in Turkish. Seden shook his head violently. Hasan put the lighted cigarette to Seden's left earlobe. The Turk screamed again. He tried to push Hasan's hand away. The man standing beside him used his free hand to pin the Turk. Hasan withdrew the cigarette.
Suddenly, Mahmoud called Hasan back. The young man jogged over. There was hurried, quiet conversation.
Rodgers tried to turn and see what was going on, but Mallmoud pushed his face back around with the barrel of the gun. Vigorously alert because of the searing pain in his neck, Rodgers listened attentively. He heard a beep on the cellular phone. Hasan had pressed a button. Why?
And then with sickening swiftness the answer came to him. Mahmoud had. summoned Hasan, the group's linguist, to read the English words on the phone. Above one of the buttons was the word "Redial." The camp was the last place Rodgers had called. Mahmoud was calling it back.
Hasan was standing just a foot away. Rodgers could hear the phone ringing, and he was numb as he waited to see who picked up and what they said. Of all the stupid, goddamn slipups---
"Hello?"
It was Mary Rose. Hasan seemed surprised to hear a woman's voice, but he said nothing. Rodgers silently prayed for Mary Rose to hang up. He was tempted to shout for her to clear the ROC out, but didn't think they could do it in time. Not if these three killed him and Seden and went after it.
"Hello?" she repeated.
Don't say anything else, Rodgers thought. Please God, Mary Rose, don't say a word---
"General Rodgers, I can't hear you," she said. ".I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can I'm going to hang up."
She did. So did Hasan. With a look of triumph, he closed the phone and stuffed it back into Rodgers's shirt pocket. He spoke with the other two men for a minute. Then he glared at Rodgers.
"General Rodgers," he said. "You are not an environmentalist, I think. The American military is working with Turkish Security to find who? Us, perhaps?" Hasan moved his face closer until he was practically nose-to-nose with Rodgers. "So---you have found us. And this person who answered the phone. She is not in Gazi Antep."
"She is," said Rodgers. "At the police department there."
"There are mountainous regio
ns between us and Gazi Antep," Hasan said disdainfully. "Your telephone would not have gotten through them. The only flat lands are to the southeast."
"This has a satellite uplink," Rodgers lied. "It goes over mountains."
The man behind Colonel Seden said something in Arabic. Hasan nodded.
"He says you're a liar," Hasan hissed. "This 'uplink' requires a plate... a dish. We do not have time for this. We need to get to the Bekka Valley."
The Arab turned angrily back to Colonel Seden. The officer was more alert than before and breathing heavily from his ordeal. Hasan knelt beside him again and flicked on the lighter. Rodgers could see the Turk's expression in the light of the flame. It was defiant, God bless him.
Hasan asked Seden something in Turkish. The colonel didn't answer. Hasan jammed a handkerchief in his mouth, grabbed a handful of the officer's hair to hold his head steady, then put the flame under Seden's nose. The colonel kicked roughly at the ground, his cries muffled by the handkerchief. This time, Hasan didn't remove the flame. Seden's screams rose higher and he writhed violently to try and get away.
Hasan shut the flame. He removed the handkerchief from Seden's mouth. He spoke closely into Seden's ear. The colonel was panting, his legs and arms trembling. Rodgers could tell from his condition that Hasan was about to "get inside" him. That was the point in torture when the pain and not the mind was in control of the body. The will had been broken and the conscious mind was only concerned with preventing further pain.
Hasan put the handkerchief back in the colonel's mouth. He moved the lighter toward Seden's left eyebrow. Seden shut his eye, but Rodgers knew that wouldn't help.
The flame burned the hair of his eyebrow and crept up along his forehead. Seden was about to break. Rodgers didn't want him to have to live with that guilt---if either of them survived.
"Stop!" Rodgers said. "I'll work with you."
Hasan removed the flame. He let go of Seden's hair. The Turk folded forward at the waist.
"What do you want?" Rodgers asked. It was time to change tactics. He would stop stonewalling and try to compromise and disinform.
"At first, General, we wanted you to come as our hostages," Hasan said. "But now we want something else."
Rodgers didn't have to ask what. "I will help you hide or leave the country," Rodgers said. "But I won't take you to my camp."
"We know this land. We can find it without you," Hasan said confidently. "But we will not need to. Your people must have vehicles where they are. You are going to tell them to come and get you."
"I don't think so," Rodgers replied.
Hasan walked toward the general. "If Mahmoud and I approach your camp in the dark with the colonel's motorcycle, wearing what is left of your clothes, do you think we will be stopped?"
"My people will challenge you, yes."
"But not before we get very close with our weapons. And they will hesitate before firing," Hasan said. "We will not hesitate. We cannot."
Rodgers extrapolated quickly. Firebrand Private Pupshaw might not hesitate to open fire at the bike, but Private DeVonne might. And if Phil Katzen, Lowell Coffey, or Mary Rose Mohalley were taking the watch tonight, they might not even be armed. Rodgers couldn't justify the almost certain loss of life, especially if these men ended up taking the ROC anyway.
"What guarantee have I that you won't kill the colonel and me after I place the call?" Rodgers asked.
"We could have killed you already," Hasan replied. "We could have telephoned your camp, said we found you bleeding and unconscious. They would have come for you. No, General. The fewer deaths, the better."
"The more hostages the better, you mean."
"God is compassionate and merciful," Hasan said. "If you cooperate, then we will follow His example."
"Your flood killed innocent people as well as believers," Rodgers said. "Where was your mercy then?"
"The believers have gone to the High Pavilions of the Lord," Hasan replied. "The others were content to dwell in our stolen homeland. They are victims of their own greed."
"Not their greed," Rodgers said. "The greed of generations long dead."
"Nonetheless," said Hasan, "if they continue to live there, they will continue to die."
Mahmoud spoke impatiently to Hasan, who nodded.
"Mahmoud is correct," Hasan said to Rodgers. "We have talked enough. It is time to telephone." He opened the phone and handed it to Rodgers. "Press only the redial button. And don't try and warn them. It will only lead to bloodshed."
Rodgers looked at the phone. The thought of giving ground offended him utterly. His heart told him to crush the damn thing and be done with these three. He asked himself, What will your people think if you surrender for them? If you don't give them the chance to fight or withdraw on their own? But this wasn't a question of them not having a choice. By resisting he sentenced those people to death. By surrendering for now, he might be able to negotiate the release of some of the team or disable the ROC's key technologies. At least that was something.
Rodgers hesitated as he swallowed the bile of self-reproach.
"Quickly!" said Hasan.
Rodgers looked at the phone. He reached down slowly and touched redial. He raised the telephone to his ear, and Hasan leaned close to listen.
As he did, Rodgers knew that everything he'd just told himself was nonsense. No one was going to hand him a telephone and order him to lead his countrymen into an ambush.
FIFTEEN
Monday, 6:58 p.m.,
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Lowell Coffey II was dozing in the driver's seat of the ROC when the phone rang. He awoke with a jolt, fumbled with the phone for a moment before finding the right button to push, then answered.
"This is the mobile archaeological research center," he said.
"Benedict, it's Carlton Kuhnigit."
Lowell wasn't fully awake. But he was awake enough to recognize Mike Rodgers's voice and to know that his own name wasn't Benedict. In fact, the only Benedict he knew of was Benedict Arnold the traitor, who'd plotted to surrender West Point to the British during the American Revolution. Since Mike Rodgers had zero sense of humor, there had to be a reason he'd referred to him as Benedict. There also had to be a reason that Rodgers had intentionally mispronounced the name of his Carlton Knight pseudonym.
All of this the attorney considered in the instant it took him to reply with a jaunty, "Hi there, Mr. Kuhnigit." At the same time Coffey pressed the record button on the top of the phone cradle. Then he opened the driver's side window and snapped his fingers. Phil Katzen and Mary Rose were eating a chicken they'd bought in the market that morning and had cooked over a campfire. Coffey pointed to them and indicated that they should come in quickly but quietly. They put their paper plates down and hurried over. "How are things going?" Coffey asked.
"Not so well," Rodgers said. "Benny, the colonel and I had this damn accident out here."
"Are you okay?"
"More or less," Rodgers said. "But I want you to tell Captain John Hawkins to pack up and get out here as soon as possible."
Katzen and Mary Rose rushed in.
"I'll tell Captain John Hawkins to do that," Coffey replied. The attorney looked at Mary Rose. He pointed to the computer and wriggled his fingers as though he were typing.
Mary Rose gave him a thumbs-up "got-it" and sat down at the keyboard. She typed in the name.
"Where are you?" Coffey asked. Not that he needed Rodgers to tell him. Coffey would let Mary Rose and the ROC do that. But he wanted to give Rodgers the opportunity to talk, to pass along any other information.
"Have you got map Three P-as-in-perps handy?" Rodgers asked.
"Right here," Coffey said. "Just let me open it up." His mind was speeding. Someone who understood English was obviously listening in, but not someone who spoke colloquial English or knew American history. Otherwise, that person would have known that perps meant perpetrators. The person also would have known who Benedict Arnold was.
So what'
s he saying? Coffey asked himself. Was Benedict Arnold Colonel Seden? Or did Mike mean that he was being forced to betray the ROC? In any case, there was treason afoot and three people were holding him.
"Ready with the map," Coffey lied.
"Okay," Rodgers said. "We're off the road about a quarter mile after the dirt road begins. There's a hill on the east side of the first rise. See it?"
"Sure do," Coffey replied.
"I'll be waiting for you there."
"You need any medical supplies?" Coffey asked.
"Just a couple of bandages. Also a shot of whiskey for the colonel. I think you better hurry, okay?"
Coffey knew that Rodgers didn't drink. He was guessing that someone had been shot. "I understand, Carlton. We'll be there ASAP." Coffey hesitated. "Are you sure you'll be all right until we get there?"
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War Page 10