The Director laid his pencil flat. “You never were a big fan of our Gallic ally were you, Wilson?”
“Not since DeGaulle pulled out of NATO in the ‘60s, sir. The French have been fussy for decades. Nifty drapes and scrumptious crepes aren’t reason enough to drop English as the international language for la belle Francais which is what they want. Hell, they’d all be speaking German now if it weren’t for us. I figure it’s selective memory, because they seem to have forgotten who saved their collective ass, and that’s no merde.”
“Wilson, if you have strong feelings about this, you shouldn’t be afraid to open up. If you continue to keep your opinions bottled up inside, it can’t be healthy.”
Wilson chuckled at the exaggerated expression of worry on John’s face, knowing serious discussion was only briefly shelved. The pencil was moving again, swirling larger across the page, a graphite tornado of thought.
“I get the picture,” John said. “Maloof should have known of a prisoner held back when others were released. He didn’t, but he found out. I think we can safely say that Riad Maloof relayed his discovery to Daniel when he met with Feras Katamian a few days later. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“So, a question was asked at the first meet and three days later an answer was provided. The answer didn’t please and it didn’t disappoint. It angered. Why? What did he learn that would cause that reaction?” Wilson filled the silence that followed.
“If Stiles remains a captive after a prisoner exchange, one must ask, why? Why would they keep him? And if Daniel learned his brother was alive, he wouldn’t be angry.”
The Director returned the inquiring look. His chin rested on interlocked fingers. “Hold on. We’ve discounted the captor. Maybe a soldier’s capture by an influential Iraqi is a big deal and releasing his captive is like throwing a trophy fish back in the water. Maybe Brandon was a trophy, but we have assumed that he remains a captive. We must consider the possibility that he’s dead and knowing that would make Daniel angry.”
“They could have returned the body. But they kept it. They could have recorded a capture but they didn’t. We know they have him, dead or alive, but they haven’t admitted either possibility for over three years. Now, following a single private inquiry, Maloof and his agent have revealed a closely held secret. I don’t get it.”
“This is a crazy-maker for sure.”
“Too bad we missed the conversation at Café Le Monde. Hopefully our friends at Mossad will get lucky and shed some light. They have Daniel under twenty-four-hour surveillance, and I’m expecting an update soon.”
John nodded. Pencil in hand, he doodled.
“I leave you with your thoughts, boss.” Wilson eased the door shut behind him.
9
Fetch the Prisoner
Brandon had no idea of when he’d last eaten. He was beyond hunger. Water had soothed the burning emptiness until hunger had been replaced by fatigue, confusion and lethargy. Time lost all meaning. Without light, day is night and vice versa. The reference points are missing and it begins to play on the mind. Time passed and Brandon became forgetful. He knew he’d slept but couldn’t say when or how long. It had been with the intention of gathering strength for an escape attempt, but he hadn’t reckoned on having no food. His strength quickly slipped away. He had tried ramming his shoulder into the door at its hinge points and at its lock without success. The lowered ceiling kept him on his knees and he could build no momentum as he attacked the door. The effort sapped his strength and inflamed his already injured ribs.
The ache he felt now as he sat on the dirt floor might be his ribs or it might be hunger. It wasn’t clear. Nothing was clear. He probed the darkness for the water jug, and sipped. The stench in these close quarters no longer bothered him but vermin did. Vermin shared his quarters. Brandon had felt things run across his body and had thrashed at his tormentors like a blind man, but he’d never been bitten by them. The bites came from the flies that droned constantly until they landed on their prey. Wherever skin was exposed, they feasted. Itch and scratching followed and welts rose in miserable protest.
How many days? How long had it been? Brandon no longer thrashed or swatted his unseen enemies. He didn’t take drink. He was in a waking dream when they came for him. The lock was noisily removed and the door creaked on its hinges. Gravel crunched under foot as light spilled into the cell. Cursing and loud protesting penetrated the fog of his mind and seemed so real. But was it?
“Stinking infidel! A pig sty is sweet smelling compared to this.”
“Come out here,” a second voice demanded.
Brandon stirred but didn’t obey. His mind was still processing the order, translating. He understood but remembered not to understand.
“Pull him out!”
“I am not touching him. You do it.”
“I am senior man. I do not have to.”
“Seniority means nothing in this situation. It was you the Colonel spoke to, so it is you he expects to carry out the order.”
Brandon tried to focus but his vision was blurred. Two men standing just feet away were faceless, but their words were clear enough and the exchange continued and accelerated like a tennis volley, back and forth, back and forth.
“Have you ever heard of a chain of command?” One questioned the other.
“I have heard of leadership by example. Is that what you mean?” the other quipped.
“Okay, this is leadership by example, Omar. It is called giving an order. Pull that stinking camel out of his stall.”
Without missing a beat, the man called Omar responded, “Yes, sir, of course, sir, but I need your expert guidance. If you show me how and lead by example, I will watch my teacher, the great Massoud.”
Brandon settled the argument by slowly crawling out of his enclosure. Both men recoiled from the thing in front of them.
“Get the hose!” Massoud ordered, and without complaint Omar sprinted away. He returned quickly, dragging a hose by its nozzle.
Brandon fell on his side and curled to protect himself when the hard stream of water struck him. “Turn the nozzle,” Massoud demanded. “Not so hard.”
The pencil point spray, which gouged like a sharp stick, widened and softened. Brandon turned his face into the spray and recovered to his knees. The water was cold and refreshing. It was therapeutic. Sitting back on his haunches, Brandon ran his fingers through his matted hair, and ran them across his face and beard. “Damn,” Brandon swore with a touch of wonder. “How long?” Brandon’s voice croaked. “How long have I been in there?”
There was no answer, and Brandon was tempted to ask his question in Arabic. Wisely, he resisted. The shower rained on, and Brandon mimed for soap and got it. He began to struggle with the buttons of his shirt. His captors voiced their encouragement. “Yes, yes.”
Brandon knew they wanted him to strip but he was in no hurry. “You must have orders to clean me up for an audience with the boss. Right?” He luxuriated in the steady flow of water, catching some in his mouth. He gargled loudly, and spat at Omar’s feet.
“Son of a wretched whore,” Omar swore. Massoud laughed. Brandon smiled.
Their faces were now in focus. Omar was short, stocky and had a bushy mustache. Massoud was tall, bearded and blind in one eye. A keloid scar ran from his forehead across the eye and down his cheek disappearing in his heavy beard. It was Omar who gestured for Brandon to remove his pants. It was comical but Brandon retained a deadpan expression and pretended not to understand. Frustrated, Omar demonstrated by untying the cord that held his own baggy trousers in place. He lowered them, revealing pubic hair. Brandon feigned shock and shook his head. Crisscrossing his hands, he pointed to himself and traced the curvaceous outline of a voluptuous woman in the air, and smiled. Massoud roared with laughter and seeing Omar’s discomfort, piled it on.
“Do you not see, Omar? He thinks
you are asking for sex. He thinks you are homosexual. Is he right?” Omar stopped Massoud’s laughter by viciously kicking his kneeling prisoner. Brandon was too feeble and too slow to divert the kick that hit squarely in his solar plexus. His wind expelled in a rush and Brandon collapsed on his face and rolled to his back unable to breathe. While writhing on the ground gulping for air, he heard Omar venomously remark, “Now, what do you think this filthy bastard thinks of me?” Omar expected vindication but Massoud turned events against him. “Queer is it not? He thinks you punished him for rejecting your advances. It is a pity, Omar, you cannot get lucky even with this filthy, encrusted swine.”
Omar was livid and full of contempt for the miserable bastard still squirming at his feet. Massoud’s laughter didn’t help.
The air crackled with static before a call came through. “Massoud. Come in. Over.”
Massoud unclipped a Motorola handheld radio from his belt and held it antenna skyward in the palm of his raised hand. A discussion ensued with ultimate blame for delay falling squarely at Brandon’s feet. Massoud said, “Yes, Colonel, we shall redouble our efforts.” Taking the hose he ordered, “Get gloves from the shed, Omar. We must move faster.”
The lavabo continued as Omar sprinted away. Leather work- gloves soon appeared and the hose was set aside. Massoud unsheathed a hunting knife and placed it under his arm while he donned his gloves, then used the knife to slice through Brandon’s webbed belt and buttons. Brandon lay on his back as Omar and Massoud, taking only shallow breaths, took the soiled pant legs in their hands and pulled. Brandon’s back skidded on the gravel as his raised legs clung briefly to the soaked trousers. When the wet fabric released its hold on Brandon’s thighs, and the pants came free, the tuggers tumbled backward. As they recovered, Brandon struggled to stand and teetered on the sharp edged gravel. Without urging he stripped away his dirty underwear and scrubbed himself as water again cascaded over his body.
Omar, using a long stick, retrieved Brandon’s discarded clothing and walked it outside, with the care of handling nuclear waste. The piecemeal uniform was dumped in a barrel, and soaked with gasoline from a five-gallon tank. Omar dropped a match over the edge and jumped back as the barrel’s contents ignited with an explosive “whumph”.
Brandon witnessed the blaze as Massoud ushered him outside using water as a prod. When Brandon slowed because his feet begged him to stop, Massoud twisted the nozzle to narrow the stream. When he wanted Brandon to turn he used the same prod, poking the body, forcing it to turn away. His destination was a pile of clothes draped over a split rail fence. Omar scooped them up and tossed them to Brandon.
The trousers were Mutt and Jeff specials. They looked like Capri pants on his six foot four frame, cuffs at mid shin. The waist was wider than a potato sack but drawstrings gathered the fabric like a lasso to fit any girth. A matching beige pullover shirt with three quarter length sleeves, and sandals made from old tires, completed the ensemble. It wasn’t as bad as wearing a hair shirt but it wasn’t Egyptian cotton either. Seeds mingled with the fibers added to the stiffness and discomfort, but it was preferable to the rags he had been wearing, and the sandals were heavenly.
“Move out!” barked Massoud, whose knife replaced the water prod. The threesome arrived at the main house minutes later.
The buildings in the compound were adobe like, one story ranch style, similar to homes in the southwestern U.S. The main house had a large courtyard with extensive trelliswork that provided shade from the sun and the cloudless sky. It was mid March and beginning to warm and for the next couple of months would be pleasant. During July and August, however, the temperature could reach 122 degrees Fahrenheit. Brandon hoped to be long gone by then.
The Colonel sat in a tall, cushioned chair beneath the vine-covered trellis. He sipped a tall iced drink through a straw with exaggerated pleasure before he spoke, and when he did, he gushed with mock admiration. “Goodness, sergeant, what is your secret? I try to lose weight without success, but look at you. How do you do it?” Brandon was mute but his eyes were hard and piercing. “I approve of your decision to grow a beard. I believe it flatters the face. It could use a little attention, of course, but I must say you look less the soldier, and more the native. Do you not agree?”
Brandon remained silent. He stood between Omar and Massoud, ten feet from the Colonel.
“I am concerned, however… may I call you Brandon?” He paused to study the starving body before him. “Food aversion for the sake of weight loss is an unhealthy obsession. As a friend, I am expressing my concern and you reward me with sullen behavior.”
Omar and Massoud understood not a word but they searched the Colonel’s body language for signals and received one. The Sergeant’s silence was to be punished. Omar was happy to oblige. He hammered a fist into Brandon’s left kidney and watched him collapse. Brandon was weak, functioning entirely on willpower, and the punch robbed him of that. He slowly struggled to his hands and knees. His head remained drooped and spittle mixed with blood seeped from his lips. Strong hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet. He stood unsteadily, hunched over with haunted, unfocused eyes.
“I apologize for Omar’s behavior. I hope he did not hurt you. In his defense let me say he means well. Your silence was misinterpreted as being impolite, but I know you meant no disrespect. Now if you will excuse me, Sergeant, I have not eaten. I am famished. What is that American saying? Oh, yes, it is the fat man’s philosophy, ‘You are never going to gain weight if you do not eat,’ as if that were a goal.” The Colonel laughed at his own joke. “I fear I am packing on the pounds, but look at you. Slim as a palm frond. I really do need to learn your secret.”
Waiters had assembled a table, covered it with a white cloth, and placed appetizing dishes upon it. The Colonel strolled over to the table and picked up two figs and returned to stand in front of Brandon. He ate one fig and licked the fingers of that hand, then dangled the other in front of Brandon saying, “Smell that, Brandon, is it not heavenly? We grow those in our own orchard.” The fig moved from Brandon’s nose to the Colonel’s mouth where it was chewed deliciously.
“I am an American fighting man, I serve in the forces that guard my country and our way of life…I, unh, that guard my…” Brandon swayed. His eyes rolled back to reveal the whites and he collapsed.
“Grab him!” came the order in Arabic. “Put him in that chair.”
When Brandon awoke to the stinging acridity of smelling salts he discovered himself seated across the table from the Colonel.
“I believe you had a fainting spell, Sergeant. Now, I want you to eat something. That diet of yours be damned. Eat!”
Brandon fully expected to be punished the moment he touched food, but survival dictated he try. Perhaps he could swallow a bite before he was stopped. Like a wounded animal he furtively approached the bowl of figs and grasped a fistful, jamming them into his mouth, some falling to the floor.
“Slow down, Sergeant. Your table manners are atrocious. How long have you been in the field?”
Brandon, with stuffed chipmunk cheeks, chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed. No dining experience in his life could compare to this. The aroma, the sweetness, the texture—sublime. After a helping of yogurt with dates, figs and almonds, he ate a helping of shredded beef before being warned.
“Better go easy. If you’ve been dieting, over-eating is a bad idea. Maybe, as they say, your eyes are bigger than your stomach.”
Brandon gnawed on a chicken bone as the Colonel rambled on.
“Have you forgotten El Sharif, Sergeant? I have not. You killed my friend, Khalil, and by all rights, I could have killed you. Your presence at this table shows the mercy of Allah. I brought you to Baghdad without knowing why. I think I wanted to present you as a gift to Saddam, but, in a reversal of fortune, he gave you to me. As it happened, you proved to be a talisman. I won my father’s admiration, and a two-step promotion. Not bad fo
r a day’s work. But do I hear a word of congratulations from you? No.”
Omar watched the Colonel like an attack dog waiting for the master’s command to do violence. The American’s demeanor was enough to deserve punishment. He glanced at Brandon with malevolent eyes, waiting.
“Did I mention my new position, Sergeant?”
“Yes. You’re a Colonel. I’m sure it was a merit promotion and had nothing to do with daddy.”
The signal… there it was.
Omar stepped forward and smashed his fist into Brandon’s jaw dislocating it, and knocking him off the chair. Masticated chicken spewed. Bright colored circles swam before Brandon’s eyes, and rivers of lava seemed to flow upward to fill his skull and scorch his brain. Strangely, there was only a feeling of numbness in his jaw. The pain had moved on, or so it seemed, until he tried to move it. The pain displaced, suddenly rushed in waves back home to where it belonged.
Brandon felt his face with a tremulous hand. His jaw was locked, and jutted off to the side, cockeyed. His lower right molars aligned with upper left. Brandon did the only thing he could think to do. He hit himself in the jaw with the palm of his left hand and heard a crunch as hinges reconnected. Strangely, as much as it hurt, it felt good to realign.
Massoud had seen men cry for their mothers, and others turn tail and run. He knew courage when he saw it, and as a warrior he respected men for it. Omar was not worthy of this man’s spit. He was daring only against men who couldn’t fight back. The Colonel had mentioned Khalil. The man was a legend. He was a bull. As Massoud lifted Brandon and sat him in the chair, he wondered—was this American the matador who had killed the bull?
“Again, I apologize for Omar’s behavior, Sergeant. He has a terrible temper. Would you care for coffee?”
Brandon nodded.
“Excellent. I import the beans from Sumatra. They are roasted to perfection. See if you do not agree. As I was saying to you before Omar interrupted us, I have a new position in Mukhabarat. Are you familiar?”
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