“So, it’s a religion of hate.”
Hakeem was on his feet again. “You’re not listening! It’s not a religion of hate! It’s a religion that takes care of its own. It’s a religion whose followers are commanded to expand its borders. Think about it, Riley. How is it any different than Christianity? What were the Crusades? How many people over the centuries were forced to convert to your supposedly crucified Jesus at the end of a sword?”
“C’mon, Sal, you’re smart enough to know that just because someone slaps a cross on their uniform doesn’t mean they’re on God’s team. The difference between you guys and us is that we condemn those who do evil in the name of our God.” Riley shifted in his chair to try to get the blood flowing into his legs again. Some words that Pastor Tim had told him a few months ago flooded into his mind, and he said, “We’re not trying to force people into some sharia thing. We’re not the ones holding the swords anymore. We’re trying to do what we should have been doing all along—sacrificing ourselves to show people a better way. That’s what Jesus did.”
Hakeem laughed mockingly as he paced around the room. “‘That’s what Jesus did’—oh, please. There you go again with your ‘sacrificial Jesus’ talk. Did you know that Surah 4 of the Koran makes it perfectly clear that Jesus was not the person crucified on the cross? He was simply a prophet like Moses or Abraham. But you Christians have taken this holy man and turned Him into a god. That is the ultimate blasphemy!”
Riley’s temper got the best of him again. “Buddy, your whole life is a blasphemy right now! And just because you point to some Surah, am I supposed to believe it’s true? I can point to Philippians 2 and John 19 and 20 that make it clear that Jesus is God and that He died and that He rose again! But what good would it do? No doubt you’ll write off those Scriptures just as quickly as I’ll write off yours!”
Hakeem circled around, yanked Riley’s head back by the hair, and got right in his face. “Yes, I’ll write off your Scriptures! I write off anything that is blasphemous! And saying there is more than one god is a blasphemy worthy of death! THERE IS NO GOD BUT ALLAH!”
“Take your hands off me,” Riley said slowly, his eyes burning into Hakeem’s. The standoff was broken when Hakeem gave Riley’s forehead a final push and then walked back to the window.
Riley struggled to control his anger with little success. With each word he spoke, his volume increased. “I’m not getting into some ‘Who is God?’ argument with you, Sal, because it won’t get us anywhere! If I say Jesus, the Father, and the Holy Spirit make up one God, you’re still going to hear three gods. So, where do we go from there? And as for your version of Allah—you can keep him! My God lays down His life; your Allah blows up stadiums!”
The fervor of Riley’s words echoed off the cement walls. Dust floated around the room’s single lightbulb, which hung above their heads.
Hakeem leaned in close to Riley again. “Okay, just for the sake of argument, let’s assume that what you say is true. Then you serve a god who lets people kick Him when He’s down. Is that really the kind of god you want? As for me, I would rather go it on my own than serve such a wounded puppy of a god. Allah is strong! You know what strength is?” Hakeem placed his fist in front of Riley’s face. “This! This is strength!”
Riley waited for Hakeem to remove his hand before he answered. “Unfortunately, like everything else, you’ve got your definition of strength all backward. It takes a lot more strength to turn the other cheek than it does to strike back. It takes a lot more courage to try to save your enemy than it does to kill him. And it takes a lot more character to forgive than it does to seek revenge.”
Hakeem sat down and slid his reversed chair forward until it was inches away from Riley’s. He leaned his head forward. “And what about me, Riley? Do you forgive me? And before you answer, let me tell you a little secret: I’m not done yet. I’ve got one more big party to crash. So, what do you say, pal? Is all forgiven?”
The smell of Hakeem’s coffee-laden breath added to the repulsiveness of the choice that stood before Riley. He lowered his head. Lord, every fiber of my being wants to crush this man’s nose with my forehead. But I remember You forgiving the people who crucified You even while You were still hanging on the cross. Help me to do the right thing.
Slowly, Riley lifted his gaze to meet Hakeem’s. “Sal, I forgive you; I truly do. You are a sick, brainwashed man who doesn’t have the moral understanding to know that what he’s doing is so very wrong. But know this: just because I forgive you doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do everything I can to stop you before you hurt anyone else—even if that means putting a bullet in you.”
At the last phrase, something registered in Hakeem’s eyes—maybe fear, maybe uncertainty. But just that quickly it was gone.
Hakeem burst into laughter as he stood. “Exactly what I would have expected you to say.” He walked over to the window again and looked out. The cry of a gull echoed in the silent room. “Riley, your friends have taken our leader and my mentor, al-’Aqran. You are going to be told to make a video to your people suggesting a prisoner swap. Say what you are asked to say. Then, when the video is complete, you are going to be asked by the men holding you for information about your friends’ whereabouts and about how many and how well equipped they are. Tell them what they want to know.”
Hakeem stepped in front of Riley and looked down at him. “Before tomorrow is over, I will have left Italy to go play my endgame. When I’m gone, I can no longer protect you. I know you. I know your stubbornness. But I advise you to do what they ask of you. Because of my status as a hero, I still hold some sway over them. I can ask them to spare your life, and they will grant me that wish. However, anything short of killing you will be fair game.” Hakeem squatted down in front of Riley. “Please, Pach, spare yourself the pain. They’re going to break you eventually anyway.”
Riley’s mouth rose into a weak smile. “Tell your boys that I’ll make their video. But as far as telling them anything about my team . . . well, like you said, I guess I’m just a stubborn man.”
Hakeem shook his head, then popped up. “So be it.” He spun and walked toward the door. When his hand touched the handle, he turned around. “Good-bye, Riley. It has truly been an honor knowing you.”
With that, he pulled the door open and exited into the hall. Before the door had a chance to close, a hand stopped it. As it pushed back open, four men wearing black nylon masks came in. One man was carrying a video camera on a tripod. Another man had several sheets of paper, presumably a script for Riley. The third man held a small generator with two protruding cables that ended in copper clips. The fourth man brought in an old, scratched aluminum Louisville Slugger.
The man with the script picked up the chair Hakeem had been sitting in and brought it near where the camera was being set up. He sat down and began shuffling through the papers. When he got them into the proper order, he looked up and said in a heavily accented voice, “Well, Mr. Covington, shall we begin?”
Chapter 29
Tuesday, January 20
Bari, Italy
Scott watched as Jim Hicks cleared wood shavings out of the hole he was boring in the kitchen table with his knife. Hicks was on a secure satellite phone conversation with Secretary of Homeland Security Moss, and with every minute that passed, the hole got deeper.
“Yes, but . . . Yes, I know, sir. . . . Well, when you send teams internationally to steal people and blow things up, chances are pretty good that you will have international incidents. . . . No, sir, I am not mocking you, but . . . You’ve got to be kidding! There’s no way we can shut down the operation now! Covington is still out there, and we’ve got to find him. That’s not something we can do stateside. . . . No, I am not telling you what to—wait, you know what? Yes, I am telling you what to do, and I’m telling you what I am going to do. We are absolutely not leaving here without Riley Covington. So get that out of your mind! Also, I expect you to do everything in your power to retrieve Billy Murphy�
��s body from the Italian authorities. Do you understand? . . . Well, sir, you can do whatever you want to me when I get back stateside. For now, I expect you to do exactly what I’ve asked. I believe our conversation is over!”
Hicks pressed the End button on the phone with one hand and brought the knife down into the table with the other. “Pompous, stuffed-shirt, windbag, fancy tie–wearing, good-for-nothing . . .”
“So, how’d it go?” Scott asked with a smile.
“The idiot wants to shut us down! Can you believe it? He sends us out, but the moment things get a little bit messy, he wants to cut and run. When I get back, I’ve got a good mind to—”
“Hold that happy thought,” Scott said as he reached to answer his satellite phone. “Ross here. . . . Yes, Mr. Porter. . . . No, sir, we haven’t found him yet. . . . Yes, sir, I overheard Jim’s side of the conversation. . . . I couldn’t agree with you more, sir. . . . Yes, sir, I’ll tell him. Thank you, sir.”
As Scott hung up the phone, Hicks reached into his pocket and tossed him a handkerchief.
“What’s this for?” Scott asked.
“It’s to wipe the brown off your nose. I haven’t heard that many ‘sirs’ in one conversation since boot camp.”
Scott laughed. “Yeah, well, Porter kind of brings it out of you.” As he talked, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. Then he reached in and grabbed a bottle of Fabbri 1905 Fantasy in Caffe chocolate syrup. “Anyway, he heard Moss’s side of the conversation, so he slipped out to give us a call. He said he knows that Moss is an equine’s posterior but wanted me to ask you to try to at least be civil to him while you’re ignoring his orders. Then he said to do whatever it took to get Riley back safe.”
“Sounds like Porter’s a pretty decent guy.”
“Yeah, as long as you’re doing your job. If I ran the zoo, he’d be the one filling Moss’s suit.”
Scott sat down at the table and unscrewed the cap from the water bottle. Hicks watched in disgust as Scott chugged about a quarter of it and then filled the empty space with chocolate sauce. He put the cap back on and rapidly shook the bottle. When the contents were as well mixed as thick syrup and sparkling water could get, Scott began the slow process of letting the built-up gas out of the bottle little by little. The first time he had experimented with this concoction, he had forgotten about the whole don’t-open-a-shaken-carbonated-beverage thing—not a mistake he was willing to repeat. Scott saw Hicks’s appalled look and said, “I agree. It ain’t the smooth goodness of Yoo-hoo, but it’s the closest I can get over here.”
The friends sat silently for a few minutes, each thinking about Riley. Then Scott said, “I’m still trying to get over Tara’s phone call about Sal Ricci. It doesn’t seem possible that a PFL player is behind the Platte River bombing.”
“Yeah, but they have him on video bringing in a full ball bag—right down the tunnel and past the security guard. He even waved to them. They have him swapping out the balls. They have him making his escape.”
“I just hope Riley doesn’t find out about Sal until he’s back with us.”
“If he’s still alive.”
“Shut up, Jim! He’s alive! Trust me, he’s alive.”
Khadi approached the two men and eyed Scott’s drink. “Not again, Scott. That stuff is appalling.”
“Come on, doesn’t the Koran say something about the benefits of a rich, chocolaty soda?”
“No,” Khadi replied. “Does the Bible?”
“’Fraid I wouldn’t know. But if it doesn’t, I think it should. First Chocolonians or something.”
Khadi shook her head. “Why can’t brilliant people be normal?”
“Thank you, and I don’t know. So what brings you to this part of our lovely abode?”
“We just had the changing of the guard on our stakeouts. Still nothing but regular activity in and around Port Building 2 and Train Building. We’ve seen nothing in or out of Port 1 for nearly twenty hours.”
Again silence filled the room. Finally Khadi said softly, “You know, having him out there and not knowing how he is—it’s almost more than I can handle.”
Hicks slammed his hand down on the table. “We need something! Al-’Aqran hasn’t given us a thing, no matter how hard I’ve leaned on him. Our surveillance hasn’t given us a thing. Tara’s nutcases back at the ROU haven’t given us a thing. We’ve got to get something soon! Otherwise, I swear we’re just going to split our team in three and try all of the buildings at once. But without better information, that could be suicide.”
Scott’s phone rang again. Khadi and Hicks began talking over new options while Scott answered the phone. “Ross here. . . . You’re serious? Right up to you? But how . . . ? Not good. . . . Well, it makes sense, unfortunately. Okay, call the rover car to take over surveillance of Train Building, but obviously from a different vantage. You get yourself and your little surprise back here ASAP. And make sure no one follows you. Capisce?” He ended the call and put the phone on the table. “Well, I think we may have just gotten our break.”
Hicks and Khadi immediately ended their conversation and gave their full attention to Scott.
“It seems that a young man walked up to our surveillance van near Train Building. He said something like, ‘You touch me, we kill him. This is your football man.’ Then he handed Kim Li and Steve Kasay a vinyl gym bag. Inside the bag is a videotape. I’m betting we’ve got the makings of some sort of trade for Mr. Scorpion.”
“But how did they know our guys were there?” Jim asked.
“I think our contact probably told them,” Scott replied.
“Our contact?” Khadi said. “But he’s been nothing but loyal. What makes you think that he’s the one who gave our position away?”
“Because his head was in the bag with the tape.”
* * *
Steve Kasay came into the house through the back door, carrying the videotape. Kim Li followed close behind. Thankfully, they had left the gym bag, along with the rest of its contents, out back. The senders of the video had extended them the courtesy of placing the tape in a plastic bag, which Kasay now deposited into an evidence bag for safekeeping. He handed the tape to a waiting Scott, then went to the sink and began thoroughly scrubbing every wrinkle and crease of his hands.
Khadi, Hicks, Skeeter, and Li gathered around the monitor, while Scott slipped the tape into a high-tech VCR. This machine would convert the analog signal to a digital stream while the tape was playing. When the first pass of the tape was completed, the digital copy would be uploaded and sent to Tara’s team in St. Louis for analysis.
Scott pressed Play.
Immediately everyone gasped except Skeeter, who unconsciously broke the glass he was holding in his hand.
The video showed Riley sitting in a dimly lit room, naked except for his boxers. He was tied to his chair, and blood could be seen staining the area where the cords were wrapped around his ankles. He had some obvious bruises to his upper body, and the left side of his face was badly swollen. A thin red line had been sliced across his chest and another down his right side. Two men stood with him, one on each side, their faces covered by black nylon masks. Both wore military fatigues. The man to Riley’s left carried a long knife. The man on his right held a piece of paper—a script, Scott thought—in Riley’s line of sight.
Riley took a deep breath before he began speaking and winced visibly with the effort.
“My name is Riley Covington. I am an American. I am being held captive by the righteous servants of Allah known as the Cause. In an act of international terrorism, I and my team of American military commandos illegally kidnapped the leader of this peaceful organization. I was captured while performing this hostile act in which many members of the Cause, as well as innocent bystanders, were killed. I deserve to die for this act, but because Allah is merciful, the Cause too will be merciful. They are proposing a prisoner exchange—me for their leader, the guilty for the innocent. Sometime between now and tomo
rrow night, the righteous leader of the Cause is to be delivered to his home. When that is done, word will be given as to my whereabouts. If he is not delivered before eight o’clock tomorrow night, I will receive the just punishment for my crimes.”
At this, the man on Riley’s left pulled Riley’s head back and held the knife to his throat. Then the screen cut to snow.
In the abrupt silence from the monitor, a new sound was distinguishable—laughter. It was coming from al-’Aqran’s dark corner. It had started out small but had grown louder as the video had continued. Now the prisoner was almost in hysterics.
Hicks looked back at him and said, “Skeeter.”
Skeeter walked to al-’Aqran, brought his fist hard against the man’s temple, and then covered the newly unconscious man with the tarp.
Scott looked at Khadi and saw she had turned pale. “Khadi, you okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine. Just go on,” she replied, staring down at the floor.
“Those were some pretty harsh words Riley read,” Hicks said. “They must be working him over pretty good.”
“No doubt, because Riley has to know the way those words could come back in the future to bite him and the government. I’m betting this isn’t the only copy of that tape,” Kasay said.
Scott was shaking his head. “No, that doesn’t sound like Riley. It would take more than some cutting and beating to get him to say those things.”
“They aren’t just cutting and beating. Did you see the swelling around his nipples? They’re using a generator on him too,” Hicks pointed out.
“Still—and back me up on this, Skeet and Kim—we’ve seen Riley in some pretty messed-up situations in Afghanistan. He’s used to getting hurt and playing hurt.”
Monday Night Jihad Page 27