by Josie Brown
His head snaps back. When he falls, his head slams one of the now vacant anvils.
I am felled when one of the guards slams his rifle butt into my side. Another guard cracks me over the head with his sidearm.
I stumble to the ground. They grab me under my arms and drag me back to my anvil, slapping my head face down upon it. “¡Oscar, aqui! Los demás pueden esperar. ¡Haga este culero primero!”
I’m to be next.
So be it.
Donna, I pull your face into my mind’s eye. How beautiful you looked on our wedding day, my darling! And how heartfelt was your vow to be my wife until death carried us apart.
Despite the fact that each day, our deadly occupation puts us at risk, I’d always presumed God would grant us a lifetime together.
I guess that was not meant to be.
The brute they call Oscar takes his place behind me. He waits until the heads of the few remaining prisoners are turned to watch my execution, when a man’s voice calls out, “¡Deténgase! Es que el Americano?”
The guards quit laughing. They turn to the driver, who nods vigorously.
“¡Ay, Dios!” The man roars from the window. The barrage of Spanish that follows is much too fast for me to comprehend, but from what I can gather, my life has been spared.
But why? And for how long?
I’m left on the anvil to watch the executions of the others. The dead eyes in their heads seem to implore me—for what?
Afterward, the guards use my face as a punching bag. By the time I pass out, the blood from my broken nose is running into my mouth and I’m gagging.
Still, I’m alive.
An angel hovers over me.
I have felt her presence for some time now, soothing my wounds. One of my eyes refuses to open. The other sees her through a dark scrim of blood: a woman—a girl, really, as she can’t be more than twenty. She wears a simple white shift. There is a tiny cross on the silver chain around her neck. A widow’s peak of dark hair can be seen through the white scarf on her head.
As long as I can see her gentle smile, I know there is still a God.
When the haze of pain lifts, I can finally see my surroundings: a dungeon with a few single beds. A cabinet sits at the far side of the room. Through its glass doors, one can see vials of all sizes. There is an operating table against a wall. Sheets beneath it are caked black with blood.
I try to rise onto my elbows, but I’m still too weak. Finally, I whisper, “Is this a hospital? Are you a nurse?”
To silence me, she puts a finger to her lips. Her furtive glances down the hall assure her that no one is within listening distance. Her excuse to lean in is to place a pillow behind my head. In stilted English, she murmurs, “I am la religiosa.” Noting my blank look, she thinks for a moment, then adds, “A nun. El Maestro allows us to administer to those prisoners he sees fit.”
The memory of the executions comes back to me. “Why me?”
She shrugs. “It is said that he saves you for something special. I do not know why.”
“He is a drug lord, is he not?”
Even as she nods, she drops her head in shame. “Sí. But sometimes, to do the work of God, one must commune with the Devil.”
“What is your name?”
“Sor Juana Inés.”
“Please, Sister—Sor, allow me to give you a note so that you may mail it for me.”
Her face turns white at the thought.
“Or if you have access to the Internet—”
“No, I cannot!” The fear in her dark eyes pierces my soul.
But it is she who shivers as she walks to the cabinet. She pulls out a prescription pad and a pencil.
I write down a fake name assigned to a post office box in Los Angeles. It is always monitored by an Acme operative.
The message to be sent is a mere sentence, coded. It simply reads:
Vacationing in Canada. Intoxicating! Staying with the bandleader. Will be home 01/30 --Rapaiso
Donna, like me, you know the codebook backward and forward. A detention situation is no vacation. The opposite of Canada is Mexico. The clue as to who is holding me captive is the term bandleader. An additional clue is the exclamation following “intoxicating” which should tip off our cryptographers that illegal substances are his business. The date is my birthday, so that Acme has a clue as to who sent this communiqué; and finally, Rapaiso is an anagram for my location.
She folds the note and sticks in under her wimple.
She spends the next twenty minutes tidying up. When she leaves, she nods goodbye.
A half-hour later, I am jostled from my cot by two guards. They drag me out to the prisoners’ courtyard. It is filled with men who, like me, are dressed simply in stained gray prison garb.
And like me, the men are captivated by what they see in the middle of the yard: Sister Juana Inés, kneeling in prayer, her rosary in her hand. Her eyes are closed. Her lips move in prayer.
Oscar holds a gun to her head. When he looks up at the rooftop, I follow his gaze.
Two other nuns and a priest are on the roof with El Maestro, pleading with him to let her go, telling him that the young novice made an innocent mistake, and it will never happen again.
He silences them with the threat to have them join her, and laughs riotously when the women collapse at his feet in prayer. The priest looks down at Sister Juana Inés and makes the sign of the cross.
Now that it is daylight, I can have a good look at the narco known as El Maestro. He is tall. His bespoke suit of white linen can’t hide his hefty build. His eyes are deep-set, thanks to the ridge of bone and flesh that seems to protrude from his forehead, truly a cruel trick of genetics. His teeth are much too white within his too wide mouth.
He grins down at me, and in perfect English, declares loud enough for all to hear, “Hey, Gringo! Did you not think that El Maestro has eyes and ears everywhere? The death of la religiosa is now a permanent stain upon your soul.”
In unison, the prisoners turn to glare at me.
What a fool I was! But, of course, the whole place is under video surveillance.
He throws my note to the wind. It flutters to the ground.
El Maestro snaps his fingers.
Oscar puts the muzzle of his gun to her forehead.
Sor Juana Inés’s blood draws a psychedelic pattern in the dry earth. A piece of her skull lands at my feet.
Oscar laughs at the look of horror on my face.
My response is to charge him.
Before he can lift his gun for another shot, I knock him to the ground, landing hard on his chest.
His head hits the hard earth with a thud. His gun goes flying from his hand.
When my thumb stabs his eye, his howl echoes off the prison yard walls.
The man on the roof shouts, “Ponlo en el infierno!”
What…hellhole?
It takes five guards to pull me off of Oscar. I am carried by the guards toward an iron grate in the ground. One of the men pulls it to one side, while two others throw down a rope ladder. A prisoner lumbers up, gasping for air.
The guards toss me into the hole, pulling up the ladder behind them.
I land in the last guy’s pile of shit.
Oscar whimpers as he gets onto his feet. Having channeled his pain into anger, he tosses Sor Juana Inés’s rosary in after me.
Chapter 7
“He” Time
Believe it or not, Wife, your concern over his periodic disappearances shouldn’t be cause for alarm. Sometimes, he just needs a little “he” time. Just the facts, ma’am:
Fact #1: A little mystery between husbands and wives is important, if only because it keeps the sexual tension alive.
(However, if it turns out that the reason he’s gone has something to do with his urge to satisfy his sexual tensions with others, feel free to introduce him to a different kind of tension—say, fear. Tip: Try holding a semi-automatic between his legs.)
Fact #2: Counter his mysterious disappear
ances with a few of your own! That’s not to say you should book a week-long trip to the Grand Wailea in Maui…
Oh, heck, sure you should! He’ll find out where you are soon enough: when he gets the bill.
Fact #3: Remember, he had a life before he met you: with a job, friends, and family. You should trust that the time he spends away from you continues to cement these relationships.
However, if it turns out that he has a secret life, no doubt you’ll make sure that “cement” plays a role in his life in a whole different way. (Tip: after planting him, cover him with an “energetically modified” cement brand. These are strong, economically priced, and have the added advantage of being better for the environment!)
We haven’t seen Eric since Varick, Gunter, or I came onto his private plane at Oakland Airport. From the time we reached cruising altitude, he’s been in the plane’s private bedroom with the door closed.
Yes, I’m biting my nails to know who has him on the phone, and what is being said.
I hear the murmur of his voice, but I can’t make out Eric’s words because Gunter has the television tuned to a porn flick. When Eric finally emerges, he greets me with a big smile on his face. “Konstantin was a bit disappointed that you left the party so early.”
Varick pours a celebratory drink for his lord and master: a forty-year-old single-malt scotch. But instead of joining his favorite lap dog for a toast, he takes the chair beside mine.
Hugo notices this too, and snickers at his colleague’s expense.
Eric’s admonishment gets nothing more than a shrug from me. “I delivered the goods. He’s lucky I didn’t tear his arm out of its socket when he copped a feel.”
“Such a quaint American term.” His eyes zero in on my breasts. “Beauty is a terrible cross to bear.”
“A missing husband is a bigger one. Tell me, Mr. Weber, what is the second of my four assignments?”
“We are on our way there now.” His gaze shifts to the plane’s closest window. We’ve been flying in a southeasterly direction. “We’re headed to your old stomping grounds—Guantánamo Bay. A dear friend of mine is getting released today from prison,” Eric continues. “You are to escort him out.”
I wince at the name of the United States’ notorious military prison, which is the home of captured terrorists. The last time I was there I was roofied by Carl, and left to take the fall for his escape—naked, in the broiling sun on a nearby tropical island.
I’m surprised that I don’t still have the tan marks to prove it.
Noting my frown, he adds, “Not to worry! Nine years in captivity has taken its toll on him. He is a broken man—in other words, nothing at all like the few days to be experienced by your husband.”
“Oh? I have no proof of that. For all I know, you’ve already killed him.”
“Trust, my pet! We must have trust if our little arrangement is going to work.”
“I need some show of good faith. Let me speak to him at least.”
His face goes blank, as if the stakes in this poker game just doubled.
Truth is, he holds the high cards. We both know it.
The silence between us grows with each nautical mile. Finally, he says, “Should you succeed on this next assignment, you’ll have your proof.”
I’m sure he sees the relief in my eyes.
Does he catch the shadow of concern there as well, when a moment later, I realize that I can’t give him what he wants?
So that he can’t, I force my lips into a smile. “Thank you, Eric. Doing so would certainly earn my trust. And I’m sure that the last mission proves I’m worthy of yours. What is your friend’s name?”
“Ramadan Abdullah Shallah. Surely you’ve heard of him.”
“Yes, of course. He was the leader of the al-Qaeda cells in Syria. Supposedly, he was also the treasurer for the whole organization. I guess he knows where a few very important bodies are buried, not to mention a few offshore bank accounts.”
“Very good!” He claps, as if I’ve done some sort of parlor trick. “Although, I must say, that last summation is an urban legend.” In mock shock, he clicks his tongue. “It’s not nice to repeat rumors, Mrs. Craig.”
I shrug. “If anyone knows for sure, I guess it’s you.” Of course, I don’t believe him. The Quorum has long been Al-Qaeda’s chief funding source.
Ryan seconds my supposition when he mutters into my earbud, “Political pressure to release Shallah is coming from the United Arab Emirates. POTUS thinks they want to torture him so that he’ll lead them to the money. We’ve given it our best, so why not let them have a go at him? He’s been embedded with GPS and audio chips, so whatever they hear, we will too.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say out loud. “One thing, Eric. Why do I need to be his escort?”
Eric laughs, as if I’ve said something clever. “Why, my dear, I certainly can’t be seen with him, now can I?” He motions toward the bedroom. “There was nothing appropriate amongst your belongings for such a momentous occasion. While you were enjoying yourself at the Russian Consulate, I took it upon myself to pick up a little something for you. A whole closet full of little somethings, in fact. But for this assignment, I’ve laid out my own favorite on the bed in the smaller sleeping suite—which is at your disposal as well. We land in Cuba in another five hours.”
“Call out if you need someone to zip you up,” Varick taunts me as I walk to the bedroom.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’d like to try it on instead, but knowing Eric, it’s expensive. If so, I may want to hold onto it.
Then again, maybe not. I’m sure that the memories associated with it are ones I’d prefer to forget.
I don’t know why Eric has gone hog wild with my clothing budget. I guess he sees me as his own little Barbie Doll. Go figure.
The navy linen suit he purchased for me fits me like a glove. Its midi skirt is pencil thin, with a slit in the back. The matching jacket has white cap sleeves and a white Peter Pan collar. Its large white buttons run up the back.
He’s even purchased white pumps and a matching handbag.
Inside the bag are business cards that identify me as an associate of a major international law firm that specializes in defense litigation, as well as sunglasses, non-prescription glasses, and a passport with the name Helen Miriam Isaacs. A few years have been shaved off my age.
If Eric is trying to earn brownie points, he’ll have to do better than that.
No need to pack my newly acquired Glock, since I won’t be allowed to carry it into Gitmo. That’s okay, it’s not as if I’m going there to kill someone.
Then again, the night is young.
The Guantánamo guest reception area is just as I remember it: clean, but depressingly gray.
In other words, foreboding.
My passport is scrutinized. I might have popped up under my real name if the facility had a facial recognition program. The last time I was here was to testify against my ex-husband Carl Stone, whose own acts of counterespionage and terrorism may have put him in some sort of Gitmo Hall of Fame.
Ramadan Abdullah Shallah’s name would certainly be near the top of the list as well.
Shallah’s release papers are three inches thick. As instructed, I scan them quickly, then print Helen’s initials on every page, or her signature where indicated.
When that ordeal is over, I wait a half-hour. Every moment there makes my skin crawl.
Finally, Shallah is brought out. He wears traditional Middle-Eastern garb. It is worn, but clean. Most men come out of Gitmo looking one of two ways: broken, or resolved to live up to their international reputations. From the cold stare I get, I’m willing to guess the latter.
I hand him one of my business cards.
“They send a woman—a Jewess no less?” He looks heavenward.
“This way, Mr. Shallah,” I point to the door.
He says nothing, but starts out in front of me. He doesn’t open the door for me.
That’s okay.
Gitmo isn’t a finishing school. And Shallah’s orders for the jihadist raids on so many innocent children, women, and men proves that he’s no gentleman.
It’s a five-minute drive from the prison to the tarmac. Our driver, Hugo, seems to be in no rush—a shame, considering that I must spend it sitting next to one of the world’s most despised men.
When we pull onto the tarmac, there is another private jet next to ours.
Eric waits outside the jet. Varick and Gunter stand beside him. It’s hot enough that his jacket is off. He wears a gun in a shoulder holster.
When the car stops, Gunter opens Shallah’s door. He walks over and shakes Eric’s hand. They are old friends indeed.
At that moment, the door to the other plane opens. Two bearded men in white robes and traditional Arab headdress walk down the jet’s air stairs.
When he sees them, Shallah’s face turns red with fury. Angrily, he turns to Eric. “You German monster! You sold me out!”
Ryan commands Arnie, “Can you pull up facial recognition traits on those men?”
“On it,” Arnie answers. In a few seconds he shouts, “Holy shit! The one in front is Abu Ali al-Anbari, the second in command of ISIL in Syria!”
“Eric just handed him over to his enemies,” Ryan murmurs. “This is even better for us! Shallah is going to take us directly to their covert headquarters!”
Not if Shallah can help it. He lunges toward Eric. It turns out that what he’s really after is Varick’s gun. Grabbing it, he swings it around to Al-Anbari.
“Donna, if he kills Al-Anbari, he’s the next to die, and we have nothing!”
“Got it,” I whisper.
Gunter is too slow to react when I strip the gun from his back holster. My shot slams into Shallah’s hand, shattering bone.
He drops Varick’s gun with a howl.
Al-Anbari’s bodyguards hustle him onto the plane.
“Bravo, my little soldier girl!” Eric’s look of admiration makes me want to puke. I could have taken out one of ISIL’s two most notorious leaders. Instead, I let him walk.