by Bentley, Don
Ishmael, still breathing hard from the half-hearted beating he’d administered, made his way toward a narrow corridor on the right side of the room, leaving Einstein and me alone with Mr. Suave. The newcomer waited until the door closed behind Ishmael before turning to Einstein.
“How is it that Hassan and Muhammad are dead while you are still very much alive?”
“I’ll tell you how,” Einstein said, his face twisting with anger. “You didn’t listen to me.”
“Which time did I not listen to you?” Mr. Suave said, eyeing me. “When you were trying to sell us to Mr. Drake, or once you decided to sell Mr. Drake to us? Conversations with you can be confusing.”
Well, son of a bitch. This was definitely not part of the script. Seems like my Pakistani weapons scientist was playing both sides. Who would have thought?
“I brought him here,” Einstein said, “just like you asked.”
“So you did,” Mr. Suave said. “Is this his weapon?”
Einstein nodded and handed my pistol to the newcomer, who took the offered weapon and turned it in his hands. “A Glock 19 with a custom-fit suppressor. Very nice hardware, but I was expecting something a bit more exotic from an American intelligence operative. Pity.”
Along about now, the warning bells that had begun to ring when Mr. Suave first strolled into the room turned into screaming police sirens. Whoever this guy was, I knew that his very presence somehow changed the equation. Edging to my side, I grasped the frayed stitching on my left shirt cuff with my right index finger and thumb. I pinched the elusive bit of fabric between my fingers and began to worry the thread, using my body to shield my hands from my audience.
“Look,” Einstein said, his impatience obvious, “I’ve done what you asked. My part in this is over.”
“On this we agree,” Mr. Suave said with a smile.
I could see what was about to happen next, but Einstein, so experienced in facilitating death from the safety of a sterile laboratory, was woefully unprepared for the way the world actually worked in the back alleys and gutters his clients called home. In one fluid motion, Mr. Suave extended his arm and shot Einstein through the forehead. The scientist’s head snapped backward like he’d been hit with a right cross instead of a hundred-forty-seven-grain subsonic projectile traveling at nine hundred eighty feet per second. A mixture of crimson blood and gray brain matter splattered across the wall with a wet-sounding slap.
Just that quickly, Einstein’s tremendous intellect was reduced to organic sludge. The whole episode was a not-so-gentle reminder that all living things, no matter how great or how small, existed within the confines of Adam’s original curse. At the end of the day, none of us was greater than the dust from which we’d been formed.
“Excellent suppressor,” Mr. Suave said, ignoring my would-be asset’s crumpled form. “But I assume you already know that.”
Mr. Suave didn’t point the pistol at me. He didn’t have to. Unlike Einstein with his tenuous grip on the weapon, the Iraqi held the Glock with obvious familiarity.
“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Mr. Suave said, switching to nearly flawless English as he squatted down to my level. “I know you speak Arabic, but learning a foreign language’s nuances takes a lifetime. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”
Now that he’d moved closer, the Glock was pointing at my head. The pistol was far enough away that I couldn’t grab it, even if my hands were free. But the weapon was close enough to deliver a killing shot long before I could cross the twelve inches separating us.
Dangerous didn’t even begin to describe my new friend.
“Who are you?” I said, attempting to buy time as much as gain information. The first row of stitches came away, and I could feel the handcuff key embedded in the seam. Another five seconds—ten tops—and I’d have it. That wouldn’t exactly put Mr. Suave and me on equal footing, but it would be a hell of a lot better than my current situation.
“Come now, Mr. Drake. All will be revealed in good time, or as these barbarians like to say, inshallah—as God wills it.”
Mr. Suave laughed at my shocked look, clearly enjoying himself. “No, Mr. Drake, I am not a jihadi. I am a businessman, and you, sir, will be exceptionally good for business. I must say that I misjudged you. Your scientist friend staked his life on the probability that you would come for your captured companion. He was right, and yet he’s still quite dead. Isn’t it ironic—don’t you think?”
“Did you just quote an Alanis Morissette song?” I said, partly out of astonishment and partly because my forefinger had just touched the ceramic key’s tip.
Five more seconds.
“Indeed, Mr. Drake. As you might imagine, references to pop culture are lost on the abu ayouras who call this facility home. Working with them, while necessary, has been most trying. Under different circumstances, I would welcome a chance to engage in a more extensive dialogue with you. Unfortunately, our time together is at an end.”
“Why?” I said, wiggling the key’s first centimeter from the ragged cuff. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mr. Suave laughed again. “That is true, but I hear footsteps in the hall, which means you are about to become indisposed. You see, while I accept the deaths of Hassan and Muhammad as part of the cost of doing business, their jihadi brothers aren’t quite so enlightened.”
As if on cue, a scrum of black-clad terrorists spilled into the room, swarming past Mr. Suave without even acknowledging his presence. The fighters fell on me en masse, fists pounding my head, feet stomping my broken ankle, kicks battering my bruised body. The pain was agonizing, and this time, I willingly sank into a foggy oblivion. As the blackness overtook me, a single chilling sound followed me under.
Mr. Suave’s laughter.
FORTY-NINE
Hello? Can you hear me?”
The words came from an unimaginable distance, reaching me across a sea of darkness. I opened my eyes. Blinked. Then fell back into the blackness like a drowning victim sinking into the water’s embrace.
“Wake the fuck up!”
The voice had a harder edge now—the tone of one who gave orders and expected to be obeyed.
A command voice.
I opened my eyes, thinking perhaps that I’d been a victim of a particularly bad hangover. Unfortunately, it took only two full breaths to disabuse me of this notion. I’d experienced a hangover or two in my life, but I’d never hurt this bad. No, what I was feeling now definitely went beyond mere alcohol.
“Who are you?” I said, trying to gather my wits. The room was dim, and through my blood-encrusted eyes, I could discern only shadows. It was as if my surroundings were abstract art, rendered in shades of black and gray.
I closed my eyes. Drew another breath. Tried not to retch.
The stench in the enclosed space was overwhelming—the sour odor of unwashed bodies, the sharp ammonia smell of piss, and the metallic scent of blood. Overtop of everything rode the moldy scent of confinement.
“You first,” the voice demanded. “You’ll have to forgive my shyness, but it’s been a rough couple of days.”
I tried to push myself into a seated position and failed, sliding back on my side. At the moment, I was hard-pressed to find any extremity that was working as advertised. My hands were still handcuffed behind my back, but now a chain ran from my legs to a ring drilled into the cold concrete floor.
Shuffling on my side as far as the chain allowed, I found a pitted cinder block wall with my forearm, and inched my way upright, my body screaming in protest. The somewhat erect position made breathing a bit easier, and I coughed up a mouthful of blood and took a deep breath. The influx of oxygen helped to clear the mental fog, but my surroundings still didn’t make any sense.
“Where are we?” I said, aiming my words at the dark form huddled at the opposite side of the cell.
�
�I was hoping you could tell me. Somewhere in Syria, I think, but I’m not sure. I woke up here two days ago.”
At the word Syria, what I was seeing finally made sense. I was in a cell with another American, which meant . . .
“You Shaw?” I said, and spit out another blood clot along with a tooth or two. The boys who had administered my second beatdown knew a few things about throwing punches.
“Who’s asking?” the voice said, caution infusing its tone.
“My name’s Matt Drake. I’m here to rescue you.”
I don’t know what response I was expecting, but it wasn’t laughter.
Then again, I suppose laughter was preferable to tears.
FIFTY
Pardon my reaction,” Shaw said once his chuckles had subsided, “but when I was picturing my rescue, this wasn’t it.”
“No worries,” I said, clearing the raspy feeling from my throat. “I’m often underestimated.”
I couldn’t quite see the other operator’s face, but I had a feeling he was smiling. And that was good. People often discount the tremendous difference a positive attitude can make during captivity. Right about now, Shaw and I could use all the positivity we could muster.
“Sorry if this seems rude, but what’s the plan?”
“Good question,” I said, squeezing my fingers into fists and then opening them wide in an effort to get my blood flowing.
The good news was that, since the fingers on my right hand still moved, my wrist injury was probably not a complete break. The bad news was that the increased blood flow brought my nerve endings back to life, and they weren’t happy. “Right now, the plan is still evolving.”
“Evolving? That seems like a politically correct way of saying we’re fucked.”
“Not at all,” I said as my probing fingers found the frayed cuff on my left sleeve. The cuff concealing a handcuff key. For a terrifying second, I’d felt nothing but empty fabric, but then I touched a bulge glued to my shirtsleeve with what had to be congealed blood.
The key.
“If we were fucked,” I said, trying to keep the rush of emotion from my voice, “I’d have the decency to tell you. Call it professional courtesy.”
Shaw laughed again, but he wasn’t about to let the topic die. “If this was a football game, how would we be faring?”
With the tip of my fingernail, I began to slowly scrape away the clumps of dried blood. Now that I’d laid eyes on Shaw, I felt a renewed sense of urgency to get my hands free. Alleviating the sense of helplessness that came with being shackled was one of my motivators, but not the primary one. Hidden in the crotch of my underwear was our ticket out of here.
The jihadis are certifiable, but they’re also prudes about some things, such as a man’s undergarments. From debriefing other prisoners, we’d learned that, even if they dress you in one of their orange jumpsuits, the jihadis tend to let you keep your underwear.
Other than a compulsory pat down, they don’t touch your junk.
This was why after landing in the farmer’s field, I’d moved the dime-sized piece of electronic equipment Colonel Fitz had given me when he’d bid good-bye on the flight line from my zippered flight suit pocket to my boxer briefs.
The device was a beacon. It featured a powerful multiband transmitter paired with a coiled omnidirectional antenna. Because it was so small, the beacon had only enough juice for one coms shot, but with the Sentinel orbiting overhead, one shot was all I’d need.
This was a critical component of the plan that Frodo and I had discussed. To accomplish what I’d asked him to do, Frodo would need irrefutable proof that I’d located Shaw and that I was still alive, and the beacon offered both. I would activate the beacon if, and only if, I found Shaw.
That was our deal.
Now I just needed to get my hands free of the cuffs so I could reach into my drawers and give my saving grace a hard squeeze.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t bring Shaw into the plan. At least not yet. If my years as a case officer had taught me anything, it was that the stupid jihadis had long since been sent to paradise. Maybe, just maybe, our captors had wired our cell for sound. Telling Shaw what I was doing was not a risk I could take.
Instead, I talked about football.
“Remember Super Bowl Fifty-one?” I said.
“Brady’s fifth win?”
“That’s it.”
I could feel the key with my fingertip, but it wouldn’t come loose from my sleeve.
“Sure,” Shaw said, “but just so that I have the proper perspective, are we the Falcons or the Patriots?”
“The Patriots. Definitely. They won, right?”
Wedging my fingernail between the fabric and the piece of ceramic, I picked at the final glob of blood, and like manna from heaven, the key fell into my cupped palm.
Thank you, sweet Jesus. If I lived through this, I might just get a handcuff key surgically implanted.
“Yep, but the game was a little too close for my liking. I’d prefer something more along the lines of the Bears versus the Pats back in ’eighty-six. That was a blowout. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather our rescue didn’t turn into a nail-biter.”
“I hear you,” I said, closing my eyes as I worked the key into the handcuff lock. Doing this with my hands behind my back was a bitch, especially when the fingers on one hand weren’t cooperating. “But my coach always said you had to play the game you were in, not the game you wished you could play. Or something like that. When he said it, it sounded much wiser. Besides, without Ditka, the Bears have been shit for the last thirty years. Or maybe it was the Bulls? I get my Chicago teams mixed up.”
“Did you actually play football?”
The key slipped into the lock, and I began to wiggle it ever so slowly. The locking mechanism seemed to be gummed up with something—blood, if the rest of me was any indication.
“Not so much played as sat the bench. I peaked early. Like, in eighth grade. Still, my junior high coach was a regular Yoda. Full of life lessons, he was.”
“Is everything you say bullshit?”
I gave the key a hard twist and felt the bodily fluids that had congealed inside the keyhole give way.
“Not everything. But I do have a propensity for bullshit. At least that’s what my wife says.”
“You’re married?”
“Mostly.”
“That’s usually a binary question.”
“It’s complicated.”
“What about the rescue? Is that complicated?”
“Afraid so.”
The metal teeth in the handcuff clicked as the lock began to open.
“Are you bullshitting me about the rescue?” Shaw said.
“Of course not. Lying to a captured man is just bad form.”
I’d intended to punctuate my smart-ass remark by lifting my hands up to show the set of handcuffs dangling impotently from my wrist. But before I could get to my theatrical finish, the door to our cell slammed open. Light flooded the cell, and I squinted against the onslaught, keeping my nearly freed hands behind my back.
Shaw and I weren’t in a position to fight—not yet, anyway. If I had to endure another beating, so be it. The handcuffs were nearly unlocked, and the tiny ceramic key was resting in my palm.
Things couldn’t have been better.
I stared at the dark figure standing in the doorway, willing him to get it over with. Take your shots now, motherfucker. Next time I won’t be wearing handcuffs. Then we’ll see what’s what.
Then again, hopefully the next time the door opened, one of Colonel Fitz’s Unit boys would be standing in the doorway. But even if Fitz was running a bit behind schedule, Shaw and I would be unshackled and able to fight. We were unarmed, but with a little luck, that might not matter.
My concealed beacon aside, I knew never to underestimate th
e ferocity a condemned man could muster, especially in close quarters. We’d learned that lesson the hard way during the Qala-i-Jangi prison uprising after the initial invasion of Afghanistan.
Unarmed Taliban prisoners had overrun their Northern Alliance guards and taken control of the prison. After six days of fighting, Afghan, British, and American forces put down the revolt, but by then, CIA paramilitary officer Mike Spann had already paid the ultimate price.
Now, almost two decades later, maybe Shaw and I could teach that same lesson to our jihadi captors.
I stared at the dark figure, waiting.
And that was my mistake. If I’d known what was about to happen next, I would have sprung at the individual, chained ankles or not. But I didn’t know. So instead, I curled my legs into my chest, confident I could ride out a bit more punishment. At this stage of the game, beatings tended to be impersonal. A little something to remind the captive who was boss. Nothing more.
But as the jihadi stepped into our cell, his face was illuminated. In that moment, everything changed. The person in the doorway wasn’t the jihadi guard who’d welcomed me into the compound, or even Mr. Suave.
Those faces I hadn’t recognized.
This one I did.
Black hair graying at the temples, broad shoulders, a swollen nose, and a scar that stretched from his mouth to his ear.
A scar that I’d given him.
Sayid. He didn’t look happy.
I twisted the key, hearing the familiar metal-on-metal rasping as the ratcheting locking mechanism released, but it was too late. The Syrian crossed the distance between us in a single giant step. Without breaking his stride, he drop-kicked me in the chin like he was punting a football.
My head snapped back, vertebrae compressing with a series of sickening pops. Pain exploded along the length of my jaw, and the handcuff key flew from my fingers.