by Gary Haynes
He didn’t know if the car held Tom; he had no way of knowing. Even if it did, he couldn’t risk shooting at it. Besides it could have run-flat tyres and a bullet-resistant windshield. But he still had the wits to pull out Tom’s cellphone and just managed to take a photo of the registration before the car sped away. He checked the speed dial and sent it to Crane, with a short message stating what had happened.
Half an hour later and with no sign of Tom he knew he’d screwed up. He didn’t know whether their cover story had been compromised, or if the bug Tom had planted had been detected. After a momentary and uncharacteristic sense of panic, he sensed his desire for violence spiking.
Just under three-hundred miles away and two hours later, Ibrahim heard someone knock on the cabin door.
“I’m busy,” he said.
“Radio,” a voice said.
Ibrahim recognized the voice as the captain’s, but there was no joy in it. He stood up and walked out, seeing the surprise on the man’s face at his long hair and beard. But the captain didn’t comment upon it. Ibrahim followed him to the wheelhouse, where the captain handed him the small handset attached by a coiled cable to the black receiver. Ibrahim gestured with his head towards the wooden sliding door and the captain lurched out.
The Turk on the other end spoke Arabic. He said that an American had been taken in Ankara after sniffing around. He said that the American hadn’t admitted anything as yet, but he would, of that there was no doubt. Ibrahim chastised him for saying that over an unsecure line and flung the handset down.
The baba would’ve only lifted the American if he’d deemed that he was a threat, and the baba had a reputation for being an astute man. Taking into account the Mossad operative and now this, anything was possible, Ibrahim thought.
He knew that they would reach Marseilles by daybreak. He wondered if the American was CIA. And just the possibility of that meant he’d have to use the 3D printer before he reached the French coast.
Chapter 52
Tom had been taken to a basement that smelt of wet hay and manure. The damp seemed to lie like a blanket over him, making him shiver intermittently. Blinking open his eyes, he saw that his immediate vicinity was still empty, save for a stained floor mattress and a hurricane lamp giving off a yellow glow. His body was sore and felt bloated from his head to his toes.
He was naked and had been worked over to the point that he’d blacked out. He’d been ordered to strip in the SUV. He’d refused, but a whack in the groin and a cocked handgun couldn’t be argued with. His clothes had been burned in some remote spot, he suspected.
Lying with his cheek against the bare concrete floor, he could guess what would happen during the next session. They’d drive nails into his hands and feet, ripping tissue and shattering bones. They’d use drills and blowtorches and acid, just as Lester had said. They’d break him.
He felt a swelling under his left eye, a gash dripping blood above it. His kidneys ached as if he’d drunk a bottle of Jack the day before. He figured he had red welts around his neck where he’d been half strangled, and bloody lesions on his back where they’d whipped him with split bamboo.
But it was just the torturer’s’ starter course; a sadistic aperitif. He knew torture got progressively worse in order to make the mind shift – to build anxiety and fear even when it wasn’t happening, so that somehow the time in between became as bad as the physical act itself.
Move, Tom, he thought. Drag your sorry ass up and move.
They had shackled him, of course, hand and foot, with chains and heavy padlocks rather than plasticuffs. He was gagged with black masking tape. But his hands were in front of him and the chains weren’t attached to the wall by a metal loop, or to an immovable object like a support beam, so at least he had options.
No, scratch that, he thought. I’ve got one option.
He brought his knees up and turned over onto his front. Gritting his teeth, he pushed off the floor with his hands as if he was doing a starter push up. In the kneeling position now, he lifted out his arms in front of him to steady himself and, wobbling a little at first, raised himself off the floor. Immediately he felt lightheaded, his muscles drained of energy. He was fettered, for sure, but he wasn’t in a straightjacket.
The door to the basement was, Tom estimated, about three inches thick. He’d only been able to glimpse it when he’d been dragged down the flight of flagstone steps hours before. But even then he’d known that that amount of steel was just about blast proof, let alone hammer proof, and he had neither the means nor the expertise to pick the lock. He would wait behind it. There was nothing else to be done. His plan was simple. And simple was best.
Before his last lapse into unconsciousness he had methodically counted every second between the guard’s visits. To the best of his ability and over a period of two hours, he’d estimated that the guard came to check on him at regular thirty minute intervals. Now, however, he didn’t know if the guard had just been, was about to arrive, or whether it was midterm. But what he did know was that his only way out was via the guard.
About twenty minutes later, Tom was beginning to feel nauseous from standing upright. But then he heard the unmistakable sound of boots on the steps, the guard’s boots. He favoured a Heckler & Koch HK45 handgun, Tom had noticed previously. He had it positioned high on the hip in a plastic holster, which meant the Turk might even be an ex-operative. That, together with the fact that unlike the other men of the Turkish mafia Tom had met, the guy didn’t seem to get off on all the violence. He seemed calm and professional, which also meant that he was far more dangerous than the rest.
Tom heard the key in the lock and drew in a deep, silent breath. As the door was swung open to perhaps a foot and a half he waited for a split second for the guard to follow through before shoulder barging it just behind the handle. The door snapped shut, pinning the guard to the adjoining wall. The guard, seemingly temporarily stunned, made a sound like a distressed seal. By the time Tom swivelled around the door to confront him, the man was bending forwards a little, his right hand going for the plastic holster.
Tom drew his shackled hands back over his left shoulder and struck the guard on the temple with the chains around his wrists. He twisted his body to add momentum as best he could, but in retrospect it wasn’t necessary. The guard sparked out. The speed of his hands coupled with the weight of the chain had caused the other side of the guard’s head to bounce off the wall with a disconcerting crack before he’d collapsed to the floor, as if his leg muscles had turned to gelatine. Although, in truth, Tom didn’t know whether it was the temple blow or the collision with the jagged stone wall that had caused the blackout.
Not that it mattered much, he thought, as he knelt down beside the guard and did his best, given his constraints, to rifle through the man’s pockets. Finding the keys in the left pocket of the guy’s pants and opening the padlock that’d fastened the chain on his legs, he had a notion that things had gone too easily. Maybe the Turkish mafia were used to people becoming compliant simply due the nature of the environment they were held in, or maybe it was the mafia’s reputation for brutality. Maybe it was a combination of both, he thought.
After Tom had unlocked the second padlock by holding the end of the key between his teeth and had let the chain around his wrists slide to the floor and curl up like a snake, he was torn between thinking the mafia were sloppy and thinking they’d just never dealt with a guy like him before. But when in doubt be vigilant, he told himself, although his brain had already gone into DS paranoia mode. He ripped the tape from his mouth and took in five deep, audible breaths.
Freed of his shackles, he clothed himself in the guard’s charcoal-grey suit and laced up the leather shoes. Next he pulled out the guard’s HK handgun and checked the clip.
He didn’t know what lay beyond the door, but whatever or whoever it was, if it stood in his way, he’d resolved to kill it.
Chapter 53
At the top of the stairs Tom had passed through a
n unlocked wooden door. The sparsely-lit corridor appeared to be empty and he moved as quietly as he could over the concrete floor. He held up the hurricane lamp that had been his only source of light in the basement, but after twenty paces or more he froze.
Two Dobermans were sitting like minor Egyptian gods a few yards in front of him. But these were no statues. They began snarling, revealing rows of lethal white teeth. If they both came for him at once, he knew he might only be able to shoot one of them before the other started to rip at his flesh. Grimacing, he felt his whole body tense. He dropped the lamp and raised the Glock.
As if reading his mind, they bolted towards him, eating up the concrete like racehorses at full gallop. Without thinking, his mind went into fighter mode, just as they both leapt for the kill. He threw himself backwards, raised the handgun and shot the first dog in the chest. Despite hitting the concrete and jarring his head, he kicked upwards with his right leg and caught the second dog between its hind legs, with the full force of his instep. A searing pain in the small of his back made him grimace and moan between gritted teeth. It felt as if he’d been jabbed there with a jagged stick.
He scrambled up and saw that the dog he’d shot was lying on the ground, with its tongue out. The second dog had yelped as he’d kicked it. The impact had sent it careering behind him. Just as he turned, he saw it leap almost half-heartedly at him again. He put up his left forearm, felt the teeth sink into his flesh, although it didn’t have the strength to reach the bone. Ignoring the pain, he yanked it up onto its hind legs and put the barrel of the HK to its left eye and shot it.
He steadied himself, knowing that the muzzle blasts, accentuated by the confined space in the corridor, would have alerted whoever else occupied this place and he only had eight .45 ACP cartridges left in the semi-automatic pistol. Full metal jacket, for sure, but only eight.
He saw a slither of moonlight beneath a wooden door about three yards up. He ran for it. The door had a rusted circular handle and, testing it, he breathed out deeply with relief as he felt it twist upwards and heard the bolt retract.
He emerged from what he could now see was an old farm building, with off-white walls and a red tiled roof. He shivered in the cold night air, the sky cloudless, and looked about like a nervous animal. The yard in front of him was paved with large slabs of stones, a crumbling brick wall ahead. There was some ancient farm machinery strewn about, a two-wheeled cart, a drag harrow like a huge gaping mouth of filed blackened teeth, and a furrow plough. An ancient pickup truck, minus its wheels, was rotting away by a tangle of barbed wire. There was a wood shack in the far corner, nailed together with what appeared to be odd pieces of wood and thin metal sheets.
Another dog started barking and Tom swivelled his head to the far left. In front of a rusted metal gate was a mastiff. It looked like a small bull, with an ugly, drooping face. As it snarled, straining on a thick chain, white froth oozed from the sides of its huge mouth. It rose up on its hind legs, evidently ravenous for blood.
The door was barged open behind Tom, propelling him forwards, the handgun escaping from his fingers as he hit the slabs, the dog becoming almost apoplectic. The huge guard, Rapper, who’d been at the tenement, stepped out, his face screwed-up with rage. Before Tom had a chance to retrieve the weapon, Rapper moved into the intervening space. He had a wrench in his hand. It was red, about two feet long.
Tom knew he should sprint for the wall. His brain was screaming at him. He was fast. It made sense. But then he thought, no, he could get shot in the back. Besides, the guy had it coming to him. He really had it coming to him.
“You just keep pumping those weights. Suits me fine,” Tom said.
Rapper moved towards him then and Tom met him halfway. He swung the wrench, missing Tom’s forehead by about an inch as Tom weaved backwards. The momentum meant that Rapper was off balance, his weight acting against him for a second, and Tom sidestepped and smashed down the heel of the shoe into the outside of Rapper’s knee, He groaned and twisted at the waist.
Tom moved deftly, grabbing the hand that held the wrench as Rapper lifted it over his head. He jerked him forwards and simultaneously drove his right knee into the Turk’s groin and hit him under the chin with his palm before he doubled over. As Rapper’s head snapped back, he jerked harder, bringing him into his chest.
As the dog barked like a machine gun, Tom said, “Just keep pumping.”
Still holding Rapper’s wrench hand, Tom pushed him out about a foot with his free hand, snapped it back and ploughed his elbow into the man’s temple. There was a sharp, sickening crack like a pickaxe hitting a wall, followed by a wheezy breath and a pitiful moan. Rapper sank to his knees, and Tom finished him off with a palm strike to the nose, glops of blood exploding over his mouth.
Stepping back, Tom let him keel over.
A second later a shot ran out, and a round hit the flagstone a couple of inches from Tom’s left foot, creating a puff of gritty dust, a hole the size of a dime. Without turning around, Tom knew there was only one way out. He ran at the wall and pulled himself up onto it, gritting his teeth. His forearms were like weaved steel, and he scaled it with relative ease, despite the state he was in, an adrenalin dump coursing through his veins to aid him. Above the din of the frantic dog, still testing the chain’s strength, he guessed, Tom heard another discharge, which pinged past his shoulder a split second before he dropped down onto the other side.
After he hit the hard-packed soil, he noticed a dirt track to the left, and a hill dotted with wind turbines to the right. Beyond the track that ran parallel to the wall were fields of tobacco and sugar beets, which might camouflage him, he thought. But before he could decide whether to go in the direction of the track or head for the hill, three men emerged from the end of the wall, brandishing machetes.
Tom knew that trying to overpower them would be useless.
Chapter 54
A dark sedan fishtailed around the corner of the track, a dust cloud half engulfing it. Tom’s mind was reeling now, but as the car got parallel to him the back passenger door swung open. The CIA analyst Jack Donaldson was shouting at him and frantically beckoning him with his hand from the driver’s seat. Tom squinted and craned forwards, just to make sure.
“Get in, Tom. They’re everywhere,” Donaldson said.
Confused, Tom ducked down and dived onto the back passenger seat just as the blade from a flung machete shattered the open door’s window. Donaldson hit the gas. Tom’s heart was pounding and thick beads of sweat ran from his forehead. Faintly above the engine, he heard a cacophony of angry curses.
“Jesus, Donaldson.”
“I have to get you out of here. Can we ring anyone?” Donaldson said.
“Anyone?”
“Anyone else? Anyone who knows and might help.”
“Only Crane. Let’s just get back to the embassy.”
“Anyone else?” Donaldson said.
“No. There’s only you and me.”
“Are you sure, Tom? It’s important. Who else?”
“What are you talking about? Phone Crane, he’ll get us out of here.”
“I will. Who else knows about all this?”
“No one. What difference does it make? What’s up with you?”
Tom saw Donaldson in the rearview mirror. He was staring at him every second or so, a frantic expression on his face.
“Just Crane? No one else you’re linking up with here?” he asked.
“No one,” Tom said, thinking of Lester, but refusing to mention him.
The car lurched as it hit a curve in the track and Tom was flung sideways, smacking his head on the door handle. He felt nauseous and blood flowed over his face.
“What about the black guy?”
Half dazed, Tom checked the rearview, more than a little perturbed that someone like Donaldson knew of Lester’s existence. Donaldson was straining into the mirror, seemingly willing him to respond.
“Quit looking back at me or we’ll never get out of here.”
“The black guy, who is he?”
“The hell’s going on? How the did you know I was here?”
Donaldson smacked the wheel with his palm. “This is your last fucking chance to keep your balls, goddamnit. Now who is he?”
“Screw you,” Tom said.
He tried to reach for Donaldson but his skull felt as if it was cracking open, and a shooting pain tore down his spine.
“Wait. What the hell are you doin’?” Tom said as he sensed that they were going back in the direction of the goons. “What’s happening?”
Donaldson didn’t flinch, but simply completed the tight three-point turn and accelerated back down the track towards the farm.
“Jack, what the hell’s happening?”
The car stopped with a jolt, making Tom’s already battered head jar. He saw the CIA man turn and point something at him that looked like an old-fashioned cellphone. It was then he felt the shocks running through his body, making him rigid and convulse.
“You…sonofabitch,” Tom said as he felt as if his blood was boiling, as if his muscles were bulging out of his skin, his eyes popping.
The car sped off again and after about ten seconds his head flopped back onto the headrest. After the rigidity, he now felt his body become flaccid, as if his bones had turned to gel. The car slowed down to a stop. Vaguely, he saw the front passenger seat open and a broad-shouldered man got in. The man turned around. In the fading yellow haze of the car’s dome light, Tom saw Rapper stare balefully at him, his disfigured face bloody. Then the back door on the other side of him swung open and a grinning thug hit the seat.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” Donaldson said.
Hazily, Tom watched Rapper flick a syringe, and just about registered the short spurt of liquid from the bevel. He felt a sweat-stained gag being roughly tightened around his mouth. A sedative plus chloroform, just to be sure.
Then he blacked out.