by Patrick Dent
They took a table on the periphery, careful not to invade anyone's personal space. They were fifteen meters from the closest occupied table. The other patrons seemed to take no notice of them.
“Well, what do we do now?” Drake asked.
“We wait,” Gip answered.
After fifteen uncomfortable minutes, a man appeared. He was not the bartender, and Drake had no idea where he came from.
“Do you speak English?” Gip asked.
“Of course. What are you gentlemen drinking today?”
Drake had to conceal his surprise at the waiter's sophistication. If Arabic speaking people dropped into a redneck bar in the States, would they be greeted in their native tongue?
“Bourbon,” Gip said.
When the man returned, he placed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses on the table. No ice. Drake had to restrain himself not to treat him as an American, who would without delay have helped them find Falon for a generous tip. After receiving a more than generous tip in American dollars, the man left without a word.
“Man, why didn't you pump him for information?” Gip asked.
“Yea, that works. Two strangers show up and inquire about the local crime kingpin. Why didn't I think of that?” Drake smacked his own forehead with the palm of his hand.
* * *
After two days of nursing glasses of bourbon, Drake and Gip were getting bored. Against every instinct Drake had, he kept his mouth shut. They simply walked in and ordered their bottle and nursed it as long as possible, making small talk about sports and old girlfriends. At ten fifteen p.m. on the second day, the break they were looking for occurred.
A man they had not seen before entered. Unlike Drake and Gip, his eyes seemed to adjust from the piercing light of Safi to the dismal lighting of Shaqra in seconds. He didn't hesitate in the doorway like most did. He had the rough look of the desert. His skin was weather beaten and taught. He was lean beyond American standards. His black eyes scanned the bar slowly. Drake saw the muscles in the man's jaw flexing as he assessed his environment. The stranger's eyes scanned the room and came to rest on a scruffy looking group of men on the opposite side of the bar from Drake and Gip. One of the men at the table called out, “Falon! Over here.”
Drake instantly knew they would save Lupe. On some level, Drake had convinced himself that saving Lupe would in some way balance the cosmic scorecard. He didn't distinguish between the two women – the one he loved, and the one he had never met. Falon personified Drake's childhood friends who had so thoroughly betrayed him. Bad guys were bad guys. They all must pay. His moral confusion was behind him. He felt nothing but icy rage.
The two of them sat for several more hours, nervous but patient, knowing their moment to shine was at hand. Falon was in an animated story about God knows what for what seemed like eternity. Finally, Falon stood to leave. Drake's heart quickened, knowing the mundane task of waiting had come to an end. His actions over the next hour would decide the success or failure of the mission. He could not fail. He owed Tammy that much. He owed the dove that much. Game time.
* * *
Safi, Morocco
Falon put a teapot on the burner and filled his steeping spoon with his favorite Moroccan mint tea. As he sat, he exhaled, surveying his Spartan apartment out of habit. In his line of work, there was no such thing as excessive caution. Nothing seemed to be out of place.
He kicked his sandals off and extracted his .45 automatic from its holster in the small of his back. The damned thing itched incessantly, and he was glad to be rid of it. He held it before his face and looked at the weapon. The smell of gun oil and the weight of the weapon were pleasantly familiar to him. He gently placed it on the coffee table directly in front of him.
Allowing himself to relax, Falon focused on each muscle group in his body, beginning at the soles of his feet and working his way upward. Clarity of thought was slow in coming, but eventually arrived. His mind was a vessel completely devoid of content - no stress, no worries, no thought. His eyes, though open, were unfocused and unmoving. He maintained this meditative state for ten minutes, then stood to stretch.
He reviewed the day's events. Someone had taken Fejo's boat, killing all hands on board. So, they were serious. Just two men to take eight? How was such a thing possible? Even if they surprised the crew, surely someone had been left to retaliate. And what was this business with the Harbor Patrol? Falon knew the HP granted him certain liberties, such as turning a blind eye to his comings and goings for a generous donation. But who would assist in murder and hijacking? Piracy was a capital offense in Morocco.
Whoever these men were, they were exceptionally powerful. They had either the boldness to kill the HP officers, or the money to bribe them. And it would take some serious cash to interest government officials in a beheading offense. This whole thing smacked of American agents. Was this related to the American Tartus had killed a few months ago? Of course, there was no evidence that the man had been American, much less an agent. Still, who else would have the effrontery to expect immediate entrance into Tartus' enterprises? Every question begged more questions.
He finally decided that trying to solve this mystery by sitting alone asking himself questions was like battling the mythical Hydra. For every head he chopped off, two more appeared. Falon heard the telltale chirp his clock made upon each hour. Six o'clock. He unrolled his mat toward the east and knelt. He gently placed his palms and his forehead on the mat and closed his eyes in prayer.
If Falon had opened his eyes just then, he might have seen the eye peering back at him from beneath his door. As it was, he was fortunate in one sense – he was at peace with his maker.
Falon was shaken out of his trance by the concussion of his door being kicked in. He jumped to his feet with catlike speed just in time to receive Drake's powerhouse blow to his jaw.
When Falon awoke, the first thing he noticed was the array of wires cutting into the bridge of his nose. The next thing he noticed was his nudity. His jaw screamed in pain and he felt it swelling already. It felt broken. When he tried to open his mouth, he realized it was taped shut. Oh Shit, he thought, this isn't good. He took inventory of his parts and concluded they were all still attached, albeit uncomfortably restrained. He recognized the floor of his apartment, but he didn't remember it being this dusty. As he strained to see his periphery, his situation became clearer.
He was tied to his own bed frame – nude, spread eagle, facing the floor. The bondage and the broken jaw did not inspire optimism. What Falon saw next caused his bowels to void involuntarily. His teapot was sitting on his hotplate beneath his stomach. The spout pointed toward his crotch. He saw the burner was turned off for now.
“How'd you know he was going to do that?” He heard two men having a conversation in English. “Pray like that? I mean, it's not like the guy's a model citizen.”
“Know your enemy, Gip.” This was a different voice. The deeper voice belongs to Gip, Falon thought. “Religion is different for these people than it is for Americans. Everybody prays five times a day, facing Mecca. Even scum like this.”
“I think he's awake,” Gip said.
“Yea, I bet he's ready for a little pow-wow,” the other man answered.” The speaker, who Falon nicknamed 'Boots', chambered a round and placed his pistol against Falon's temple.
Falon's mind rushed through every conceivable way he might survive this experience and came up with naught. A firm believer in Allah, he was not afraid to die. He was willing and able to accept certain death. Within a few seconds, Falon was at peace with his imminent mortality.
What he could not come to terms with was the possibility that these men may let him live. There was no glory in being tortured, broken, disgraced and left alive to occupy a mutilated body for the rest of his life. The spout of the teapot was just a few inches from his exposed manhood.
Boots appeared before his eyes. Although he strained, he could not see anything above his captor's knees. Not knowing the face o
f his enemy was painfully disconcerting. If he could just get a glimpse of the man's eyes, he would be able to see his fate in them.
“Falon, we need to talk,” said Boots. Just as Boots spoke, a black hand reached from the side and ripped the tape from his mouth. So Gip is black, Falon thought. Falon saw two options: he could remain quiet and let the men do what they would, or he could taunt them, provoking them into killing him.
The quiet and relaxed demeanor of the man in boots suggested the coldness of a professional – a man who had spent years perfecting his technique. This man would not lose his temper. Silence was said to be the best response to give a professional interrogator. That would be Falon's approach to this predicament, which, Allah willing, would be his last.
“Not feeling chatty, huh? But of course, where are my manners? It's impolite to rush the conversation before we enjoy a treat. Would you care for some tea?” Boots kept his voice level. This man was trained and sadistic – definitely elite military. When Falon did not answer, Boots added, “It's no trouble. I was preparing to make some anyway. Perhaps you'll change your mind. Meanwhile, you just relax and don't worry about making conversation.”
Gip returned the tape across Falon's mouth. Falon saw Gip reach down and activate the burner below the teapot. Sweat stung his eyes as he closed them tightly to pray for a swift death and the strength to remain silent. The seconds stretched into minutes. Neither Boots nor Gip said a word.
The heat from the burner itself was already causing Falon's stomach to redden as it rose in a column. Although it hurt, he knew this was nothing compared to what lay ahead. As the teapot began to announce its impending boil, Black Man ripped the tape off again.
“Pardon me for asking,” Boots said, “But, would you like to have a talk and forget about the tea? I seem to have lost my thirst.” Gip stood out of sight, never speaking as he carried out Boots' instructions. These men were definitely professionals, and Falon had met enough professionals in his life to know they always got what they wanted.
Sweat now gushed down Falon's face, rhythmically dripping off his nose into the forming puddle below. His midsection was beginning to blister. But, worst of all, he heard the intermittent whistle of the teapot. Within seconds he would be experiencing pain like he had never known. With each noise, the teapot spat a preview of coming attractions into Falon's groin. He closed his eyes and tried to disappear.
“You know, upon further consideration, I believe I would like some hot tea. We'll have to continue this conversation later,” Boots said. His mockingly cheerful tone unnerved Falon. Gip replaced the tape.
The pain came. It was unlike anything Falon could have imagined. Falon convulsed so violently from the agony that Gip kept the .45 locked, loaded and pointed at Falon's head at all times. Duct tape is strong, but so is torture.
“Okay, turn the burner off,” Boots said.
Gip reached below the bed frame and switched off the heating element. The steam gradually lost its force and the awful whistling faded into silence.
Falon's writhing continued for several minutes, but eventually he lay still. He was covered in sweat. In addition to his burn wounds, his ankles and wrists were beginning to bleed from his exertion against his bonds. His face was lacerated from jerking his head back and forth against the wire mesh of the bed frame. What appeared to be the tip of Falon's nose was lying beneath him. He was exhausted and on the brink of shock.
Boots walked to the head of the bed frame. He would not let Falon see his face. This technique provided a psychological advantage to the interrogator. Let the victim wonder who his captors were. Let him imagine a face for the monster that controlled his fate. Although his breathing was still erratic, he was beginning to calm.
“So, my friend. I hope you have enjoyed your tea,” Boots quipped. “I wonder if you'd like to have a chat. If I enjoy our conversation, I can promise you a swift ending to this messy ordeal. However, if you scream or refuse to answer any of my questions, the tape goes back on, and it will be some time before you get another chance. Nod if you understand.”
Falon nodded weakly. Gip violently jerked the tape from Falon's mouth. Although he gasped for air and hissed at the pain, Falon did not scream.
“Let me explain the situation,” Boots said, his voice shifting from convivial to metallic. “We have enough first aid supplies to keep you alive for at least a week. And, although there is plenty more fun we can have with the teapot, there are many other techniques I'd like to explore, just for practice. One must always hone one's skills, wouldn't you agree?”
After a few seconds, Falon responded, “Yes.”
Boots continued, “If you don't tell me exactly what I want to know - if I don't believe every word - I promise you'll die like no other man ever has. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Falon replied in excellent English. He was in complete submission. The pain reset his brain, just like restarting a computer. When his mind came back online, it was stripped to the barest of instincts. Rational thought was impossible.
“Where are the girls?” Boots asked.
“What girls?” Falon said.
“Replace the tape, and turn the burner back on. This time, point it at his face. If he can't talk after that, he'll just have to write the answers on a pad,” Boots said.
Falon's world had become amazingly simple. He knew only one thing – he must die. He acted accordingly.
“No! Please, I didn't understand. You mean Tartus' girls? I know where he has them! He lives in an old citadel east of town. It's called Kechla. The girls are in the catacombs below. They will be moved out over the next week or so. Is this what you want to know?” Falon knew uttering Tartus' name meant his death, but by then he was more afraid of living than dying - much more.
Mentally and physically broken, he began to resent Tartus, the man who had been his benefactor for almost twenty years. If it weren't for Tartus, he would not be undergoing such horrible torture. He had tortured and killed many in his career, but he was sure he had never inflicted such pain on another.
“Good,” Boots said. “Now, I want to know exactly where every road to Kechla is, what it's defenses are and how many men Tartus has. Start talking if you want to meet your maker in one piece.”
Falon talked, but not without occasional persuasion. His last conscious thought was sincere regret that he had let his kitchen knives become so dull.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Safi, Morocco
Drake and Gip paused in awe just inside the entrance to the Safi Museum of National History. The ceilings were practically a hundred feet high. From outside, they had assumed this was a five-story building, but it had just one expansive floor. The walls were granite, with every square inch covered with ornate carvings, sculpted directly into the walls. Most of the themes seemed to be religious or historical in nature. Centuries, even millennia of culture were depicted in painstaking detail in an architectural and artistic endeavor beyond the imagination of the western mind. The Sistine Chapel was a kindergarten finger painting in comparison. Near the rear wall, a curator sat quietly safeguarding a trove of historical documents Gip had hoped would help them.
“Okay, here we are. Now do you want to explain what we can learn in a place where all the books are in Arabic?” Drake asked.
“We don't have to read, we're looking for a picture. Look, Tartus lives in a historical monument. We ought to be able to find pictures or even a floor plan for this Kechla citadel. I mean, this is a stone structure we're talking about. I'm sure Tartus had done some remodeling, but I doubt he has moved any walls,” Gip spoke in a hurried whisper.
“Gip, we might just live through this in spite of ourselves,” Drake joked.
“I wouldn't make any long-term plans just yet.”
The curator did not speak English. They were, however, able to communicate their interest by repeating the word 'Kechla'. After ten minutes, he returned with six dusty, leather bound books. They divided them and began to scan for
pictures. After just over an hour, Drake found it – an artist's version of Kechla and the surrounding landscape. There were even detailed drawings of the interior. After studying them for a few minutes, he turned the book toward Gip and said, “Look, about fifty meters south of the main entrance, there is a plateau. It looks to be much wider than the building and faces the entrance. Now, look to the east. There's a hill. If you took position on the south ridge and laid down sniper fire, I could catch the reinforcements in a crossfire from the east.” Drake was building enthusiasm. He'd already eliminated the probability of failure, an ability that distinguished between good soldiers and great warriors.
“Okay, that will take care of the outside guards, but you can bet your ass some will remain in the citadel to protect Tartus and the girls. How do we get in?”
“Look here,” Drake said, tapping the picture, “See the aqueduct? According to this drawing, it runs right beneath the catacombs.”
“How do we know it hasn't been sealed off?”
“We'll need more than a little luck. We'll also need sniper rifles with baffles to reduce sound and muzzle flash, plenty of ammo, small arms, grenades, claymores and a way to get the girls to the US Embassy in Rabat. That's approximately three hundred miles north of Kechla. How long will it take you to round this up?”
“If the two of us are planning to take a fortress guarded by twenty-five-plus heavily armed men, we're gonna need one helluva plan. Sounds like you've given it some thought.”
“We've always known it was just the two of us. You and I are a Hail Mary pass being thrown by General Dalton. But, I'll tell you this, there were many points in the American Revolution where the course of the war changed due to Hail Mary passes thrown by the rebels. America specializes in long shots. I'm telling you, with these supplies, you and I can take this place. How long to round them up?”