When she stepped into the room she saw a figure curled beneath a white sheet in one of the two beds. The figure didn’t move at the sound of the door opening and Delaram’s entrance. The guard shut the door with a bang loud enough to wake a corpse, but still the woman on the bed refused to move. For a moment Delaram wondered if the thin woman was dead, expired from grief. Sitting on the second bed in the room, Delaram waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She saw the woman’s chest rise and fall. Not dead; just too scared to move.
Delaram removed her slip-on sneakers and reclined on the bed. Her mind twisted and turned, unable to form a single line of thought. Emotion boiled just beneath the surface and she fought it, stuffing it into some narrow corner of her being.
A soft murmur bubbled from the other bed. Despite what must be heroic efforts, the other woman began to weep softly. Delaram wanted to comfort her, to utter words that would give the tortured soul a glimmer of hope, but she had no hope to give, no words of encouragement to offer. After an eon of moments, Delaram said, “Mother and father.”
Ten seconds passed before the other woman said, “Husband and son.”
The remaining hours of darkness passed in silence.
Moonlight surrendered to sunrise; pale ivory light yielded to salmon glow of the dawn. Delaram looked at her watch—6:45.
The door to the room swung open and a tall man with a ragged beard stepped in. He carried a small machine gun. “Get up.” He spoke Arabic.
Delaram swung her feet over the bed and slipped her sneakers on. She hadn’t bothered to undress. She stood.
The woman in the other bed didn’t budge, the sheet covered her head.
“I said, get up.”
When the woman refused to move, the man growled, stepped to the bed and pointed the weapon at the woman’s head, gently laying the barrel over her temple. “Do not make me angry, woman.”
Delaram crossed the room and laid a hand on the machine gun. She didn’t have the courage to touch the man.
“She’s frightened. Let me.”
The man jerked the gun away, the front sight scrapping Delaram’s hand. She let slip a cry of pain, then shook her hand. The man smiled at her. He had enjoyed inflicting the pain.
Using her other hand, Delaram slowly pulled back the sheet that covered her roommate. “You must get up. It does no good to anger—”
Delaram dropped the sheet and took a step back.
“Oh no.”
The woman stared at the wall with unblinking, unmoving, unseeing eyes. An empty, light brown bottle with a white label lay near the captive’s mouth.
“What did you do to her?” the man asked.
Delaram stared at him for a moment, uncertain she had heard right. “I did nothing to her.”
“What is in the bottle?”
“How should I know?”
“Look at it.”
The man didn’t want to touch the body. He took a step back. Delaram moved closer, leaned over the dead woman, and picked up the small plastic bottle. “Sleeping pills. The bottle is empty.” Looking closer, Delaram saw spittle and a small amount of vomit.
“And you know nothing about this?”
Delaram faced the man. “No, she was already in bed when I was brought here. She was alive then.”
“How can you know?”
“She spoke to me. Just a few words. I also heard her crying.”
“Why was she crying?”
Delaram tilted her to the side. Idiot. “Why do you think she was crying?”
He looked at her. “Fool. She could have died a martyr instead of a coward.”
Delaram considered slapping the man. She was destined for death, what difference would it make. Then she thought of her parents.
“Shouldn’t you tell someone?”
The man looked at the door. “Come with me.”
THE MANSION’S RECREATION ROOM had been converted to a dining hall. Where once a billiard table stood, there were now folding tables set end-to-end. White sheets served as tablecloths. Thirteen women sat at the table, heads down, eyes fixed on the empty plates before them. Delaram made the fourteenth. An empty chair across from her seemed to mock her presence.
Delaram said nothing. She had spent the last week struggling to shut down every emotion. Tears would rise, but she would blink them away and, with sheer determination, squash every other emotion. Emotions did nothing to help her or solve the situation. She doubted anything could.
Slipping into her chair, she joined the others in staring at her empty plate. A moment later she cut her eyes to the end of the table. The guard who had retrieved her from the coffee shop the night before sat there. The man with the scruffy beard approached him and whispered in his ear. As he listened, he closed his eyes and tightened his jaw.
“That was your assignment?”
Scruffy beard nodded. “From midnight on.”
“Take care of it.”
“But—”
“Take care of it. Take two men with you.”
The man with the machine gun spun and marched from the room. Delaram wondered what they would do with the body.
Two women emerged from the kitchen with bowls of fruit and breads, setting the items on the table. They exited and returned a moment later with more bowls of fruit, pitchers of juice, and carafes of coffee.
The tall man at the head of the table, the one she had overheard the driver call Abasi, rapped his knuckles on the table. “Allah has provided this feast. You will eat to honor him.”
Abasi turned and left the room.
Delaram took a roll and an orange and began to eat. She could taste nothing.
EZZAT EL-SAYYED SAT AT a wide, golden oak table, eating while drinking strong coffee. He ate alone, just as he preferred. Over the years he had trained himself to appreciate each moment of life, especially if it involved something that stroked the senses. When El-Sayyed ate, he blocked all other business from his mind. When Abasi entered, El-Sayyed was thinking of a woman.
“I apologize for interrupting your meal,” Abasi said.
It must be important. Abasi would never disturb him unless it was something that demanded his immediate attention.
“What is it, Abasi?”
“One of the women has died.”
“Died?” El-Sayyed set his cup down. “How?”
“Sleeping pills. One of the men found her this morning while retrieving the women for breakfast.”
“Suicide.” El-Sayyed shook his head, then chuckled. “Allah loves irony.”
“May his name be praised.”
El-Sayyed pulled the linen napkin from his lap and dabbed at his mouth. “An inconvenience; nothing more. It is why we have more sacrifices than we need.”
“Just one of the many brilliant jewels in your plan—still we must deal with the matter. I will take care of things so you will not have to be bothered. I felt you should know.”
“Use your usual discretion, Abasi. I trust your choices.” He set the napkin down. “Do the others know?”
“Just her roommate.”
“How is she behaving after seeing such a shocking thing?”
Abasi said, “She seems in control and distant.”
“Good. Is she eating and drinking?”
“I saw her take some food.”
“Good, the medications will keep her calm.” He rose. “Is the video conference ready?”
“We have tested the connections. Everything is functioning as it should.”
“Good. Thank you, Abasi, you may go.”
CHAPTER 12
FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP wasn’t much, but since every second of it was spent in a bed instead of on the hard, bug-infested ground of some third-world country, it felt good. On several previous missions Moyer had to go days on just catnaps.
A peach-faced Private First Class knocked on Moyer’s door and on the doors of the other team members then waited for them in the long plain hall of the barracks building. To Moyer the man looked no older than sixteen, bu
t then all new recruits look like teenagers to him.
“If the Sergeant Major will follow me, Cookie has prepared lunch for you and your team.”
“I hope he’s a good cook,” Rich said.
“They say the Navy has the best cooks in the service, but they haven’t met Cookie. We have to run an extra three miles a week to undo the effects of Cookie’s artistry.”
“Artistry?” J. J. said. “You make the guy sound like Michelangelo.”
The private smiled. “Up until now you only think you’ve had lasagna. And just for the record, I never said Cookie was a he.”
The mess hall was a short march from the barracks. Moyer used the time to glance at his men to see if they appeared well rested. Each seemed relaxed and in good humor. Everyone except Zinsser. The new team member trailed the others as they walked to the mess hall. His eyes were red and his eyelids looked puffy as if he’d been awake for days.
Moyer looked him in the eye. “You feeling okay, Zinsser?”
“No worries, Boss. I’m good to go.”
“You look like death warmed over.”
Zinsser grinned. “Sorry, Boss. I’m used to sleeping ’til noon.” The grin looked forced. “Seriously, Boss, I’m fine. Just a little jet-lagged.”
“You’d tell me if there was a problem, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely, Boss. I’m just not a morning person. Remember it’s still the wee hours at home. You got to be a little drug out yourself.”
Zinsser had him there. Moyer’s eyes felt dry and twice their normal size.
“Okay, man. Just remember that we pride ourselves on honesty around here. Trust is a big deal with us.”
“It is with me too, Boss. As I said, I’m good to go.”
Moyer turned to the private. “You weren’t pulling my leg about lasagna, were you?”
“I never kid about lasagna, Sergeant Master.”
He returned his focus to Zinsser. “Maybe that will help wake you up.”
“Heavy, cheese-laden food is sure to get the blood going.”
Moyer caught the sarcasm.
DELARAM AND THE OTHERS were forced to sit at the table a half hour longer than necessary. No one dared complain, but being confined to the chairs made some of the others restless. Of the group, only she knew why they waited. Moving a corpse was no easy matter.
When she first caught sight of the young woman’s corpse, she felt a moment of envy. The woman had lost all hope; Delaram still nurtured a flickering optimism. She had no idea if it would last the day.
Abasi stepped into the room. “Please follow me.”
Please?
Delaram pushed back from the table, as did the other women. They kept their eyes down as if the floor were littered with shards of glass. She felt tempted to do the same, but just because she was in an uncontrollable situation she didn’t have to sacrifice her self-assurance. Her captors may prefer downcast eyes in women, but she wasn’t inclined to oblige.
From the rec-room-makeshift-dining room, they walked to a set of stairs that led, she guessed, to the basement. They walked single-file, like POWS. Delaram was the third to pass through a set of white double doors. The room was dim, lit by small overhead lights. Before she could take in her surroundings she was struck with a familiar odor. Not odor—aroma. Butter. Butter and popcorn. The unexpected smell confused her.
A moment later her eyes adjusted. Several rows of padded chairs stretched before her. On the far wall hung a silver screen. The side walls were draped in thick, pleated curtains.
A movie theater. A home movie theater.
She guessed the room held twenty thickly padded seats. A small alcove to the side was the only thing on the wall not covered with sound-absorbing fabric. A thin yellow light emitted from the front panel of a popcorn machine. A poster of Humphrey Bogart hung from one of the alcove’s walls.
“Everyone forward, please,” Abasi said. “Sit. Leave no open chairs between you.”
The women complied without comment. Delaram sat in the first row, center seat. The movie screen was fifteen feet in front of her.
The room darkened as someone closed the doors to the room. Abasi stood in front of the screen, his hands clasped behind his back. He carried no weapon. For a moment Delaram wondered what would happen if they rushed him. Some of the women would certainly be hurt but there were enough of them to handle one man.
Of couse it wasn’t just one man. Although she couldn’t see them, Delaram knew other men were nearby. The women might incapacitate Abasi, but bullets would fly soon after. Besides, there was little chance the others would follow her lead in such an attack.
Once the last woman sat, the lights in the room went out. A second later a bright light reflected off the screen, stabbing Delaram’s eyes. She blinked several times before the image on the screen became clear. She stared at the digital image of the dead woman in her room. The twelve-foot-tall screen made her look freakish, macabre. The others gasped.
Abasi didn’t bother to turn to view the image. “I regret to tell you that one of your own has chosen to turn her back on the martyr’s glory and end her life.”
Several of the women began to weep. Delaram found the photo more disturbing than the real corpse she had seen ninety minutes before.
Abasi continued. “She not only betrayed the opportunity bestowed upon her, but she also turned her back on her husband and son.” He nodded to the projection area. A live video feed replaced the static digital photo.
It took a moment for Delaram to believe her eyes. A man she judged to be in his late twenties and a boy of five or six years sat on wooden chairs, facing a camera. The area beneath the man’s right eye was swollen and purple. The boy seemed unharmed. Last night the woman had uttered only three words in response to Delaram’s prompt: “husband and son.”
“Fila?”
The man gazed into the camera. Based on his actions, Delaram doubted he had a monitor on this side. “Fila, are you there?” Tears welled in his eyes.
Abasi turned and spoke to the screen as if the image of the dead woman’s husband were really in the room. Delaram assumed Abasi wore a microphone.
“Fila is dead. She took her own life rather than saving yours. You have been freed of such a burdensome woman.”
“Dead?” He lowered his head. “No.” The man began to shake. His son began to cry.
“A wife who chooses death over her husband and son does not deserve to live.”
“I kill you. I kill each one of you.”
Abasi raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it.”
Just as the screen went black two sounds poured from the large speakers in the room—two gunshots.
CHAPTER 13
THE CONFERENCE ROOM LOOKED similar to the one in the Concrete Palace back in the states. Chairs with fold-up half-desks that looked as if someone had stolen them from a local high school filled most of the room. Colonel Tyson and a tall, solid-looking man dressed in the uniform of the Italian Army stood at the front of the room.
“This is Major Ilario De Luca,” Colonel Tyson said as Moyer and his team took their seats. Tyson was pure military, from his cropped gray hair to his sun-etched wrinkles and haunted eyes. Moyer knew better than to ask what the man had seen and done. Soldiers carried their ghosts and scars privately. Some soldiers’ minds turned on them, tormenting brave men and leeching away their strength. No wonder the number of soldiers who committed suicide had grown through the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Moyer understood it all too well. More than once it had taken double doses of sleeping aids to get him through long nights of vicious attacks by his memory. A man learned to live with it. It was part of being a warrior; part of facing enemies that threaten the innocent.
Live with it.
It was the only choice.
Moyer, like every experienced frontline soldier he knew, suffered the occasional flashback. They disturbed his sleep for a few days then disappeared. He was lucky.
“You with us, Moyer?”
“I am, Colonel.”
Tyson ran his eyes over Moyer as if he could tune in his thoughts like a man tuned a radio. “I was saying this is Major Ilano De Luca. He is the liaison for the Italian military. He’ll be accompanying you.”
“Sir?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Moyer. He’s one of the most decorated spec ops men in the Italian military. Granted, you haven’t trained together, but he knows his stuff. I don’t want you or your men busting his chops. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, sir. No chop busting. It’s just that—”
“Save it, soldier. We’re on the soil of an ally and about to do covert work in their cities. This is the deal. No debate. No exceptions. Understood?”
The team response was immediate, if unenthusiastic: “Hooah.”
“Go ahead, Major.”
The Italian stepped to the front of the room and eyed each man. Moyer returned the look and would have bet a month’s pay each of his men did the same.
“Welcome to my country, gentlemen.” He hit the word my like a drummer strikes a base drum. His English came easily and with the kind of perfection that made Moyer guess the man spent a good deal of time in the U.S. or the UK. “As you know, there has been a substantial increase in human-carried bombings in Europe. We have had several in Italy. This is a matter of great concern, but not something we cannot handle ourselves.”
“Then why are we here?”
Moyer heard the humor in Rich’s jab. Apparently De Luca didn’t. Neither did Colonel Tyson, who shot a look at Rich that Moyer was sure would set the big man’s clothing on fire.
“I assure you, it is not my choice, but certain factors have influenced my superiors’ decisions.” De Luca seemed to force the words over a tense jaw. “You were briefed about El-Sayyed. Our president has indirect connections with the man’s family.”
Moyer crossed his arms. “And he needs an out?”
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