Soft Targets

Guerrero set about clearing the bowls away, taking care with the water glass, as Hakim brought his HP unit and media monitors in. 'I saw lights of a village from the porch,' Guerrero reported. 'With only two of us left, you might brief me to that extent.'

'I might—when you need to know. Informa­tion is at a premium now, is it not? We have not even a telephone here. But no matter,' he said, setting his small portable TV sets up. 'We can do what we must.'

Guerrero paused, framed another guarded question, then thought better of it and went after tools for the door lock. From his van, he saw that the windows of the torture room were boarded. Returning with the tools, he installed the simple lock, pausing to watch the monitors with Hakim. There was no mention of a shootout between Claim and police—naturally—but there was also absolute silence on the daring daylight abduction of Charlie George and the consultant. Guerrero saw Hakim's subliminal headshakes and was emboldened; the Iraqi might have doubted Guerrero's story if the kidnapping, but no capture of Fat'ah elements, had received major coverage. As it was, Hakim focused only on television as his primary source of dis-, mis-, and non-information.

When the last newscast was done, Hakim read and made notes on alternative courses of action, now and then consulting the HP unit which lay among his media equipment. The HP told Hakim what he already knew: Fat'ah was nearing bank­ruptcy now.

At last Hakim put away his tools of strategy, ascertained that Charlie George was breathing heavily, and sought his own bedroll. Then, for the first time, he missed Leah Talith until he thrust the image of her youthful body from him. ^'We shall see, tomorrow,' he said to the sentry, Guerrero. Then he fell into a sleep of confidence.

The next morning, there was still no news of theabduction on television. Hakim made a quick trip into town for newspapers and chocolate, vaguely aware that his supremacy over the hostages permitted him to relinquish some control over his simpler desires.

The Panamanian checked the lashings of his captives as soon as Hakim was gone, loosening the wire that looped from behind Everett's knees to his neck. He withdrew the Browning automa­tic from his waistband, held it up, then replaced it. 'A unique weapon,' he said. 'A bit heavy, but it carries seven rounds for each of you. See that you do not move closer together. I shall be back immediately.'

They heard the bolt grind into its socket, heard the floor creak and the door slam. Charlie, taped supine to the table, moved his head to see his friend staring back at him. Neither spoke until they heard the engine of Guerrero's van start, a peculiar whine piercing its throb.

'He's leaving,' Charlie wheezed.

'No he's not. Probably bugging us from outside.'

Charlie considered the possibility. The engine note was unchanging, a fast idle. 'Sorry I got you into this,' he said, choosing his words carefully. 'It's not as if you were responsible for it.'

'I'm beginning to think you're right,' was the reply. 'But they're gonna snuff me anyhow.'

'Maybe not. You have a better chance than I do, sure as your name is Simon Kenton.^'

A nod to Charlie. 'Maybe if I stir around a bit I can get circulation going.' With heels and rump, he began inching toward Charlie.

Charlie knew the words had covered another intent, but: 'You can't chew wire, Simon. And there's dust on the floor.' Fear in the voice. It was a thinly disguised plea. 'I'm sorry, Simon.'

After a long hesitation: 'It was just an idea.'

'Not one of your better ones.' Charlie flexed his left hand, twisting the wrist within the tape. 'How's your hand,' he continued, straining to see if his motion was visible from the corner.

'Hurts like a bastard,' Everett replied. 'Not as healthy as yours.'

Charlie continued to strain against the tape, perspiration aiding him as he gradually worked his wrist free of the adhesive which still bound him, like a manacle, to the table. A few moments later, Charlie heard the engine die outside. 'I don't think we can play out this hand, Simon.'

'They'll deal us another one.'

But it was several minutes before Guerrero returned, sliding the bolt loose and waiting a full minute before he flung the door open. He eased to a vantage point that let him view the recum­bent Charlie, risked a quick look toward the corner, then walked in, the Browning drawn.

From the corner, 'You don't take just a whole lot of chances.'

'More than you know,' Guerrero laughed, his spirits strangely buoyant. He strode to the corner and replaced the wire around the big man's throat with one hand, the muzzle of the automa­tic against the stubbled jaw. When he had tested the bonds of Charlie George, he added more tape. He chuckled ruefully to see Charlie's wrist raw from its struggle. 'I would do the same as you, Carlito,' he said, retaping, 'but I would expect punishment for it.'

'You don't think I'm being punished enough?'

'I think this conversation is pointless.' From outside came the sound of an approaching vehi­cle. Quickly, Guerrero stepped to the next room, leaving the door open as he moved to a window. 'Hakim is prompt,' he said.

'You know what I think,' Charlie said softly. 'I think that sonofabitch is afraid to talk to us.' Charlie was partly right. But Guerrero did not need to talk to them so long as the equipment in his van functioned properly.

Hakim's morning newspapers carried headlines on a reported kidnapping, although televi­sion sources still refused comment. Hakim released the comedian, his wrists taped, ankles hobbled, and forced him to eat a mighty breakfast—which was also lunch. He smiled fondly as Charlie complied. Charlie had bled a little during the night and morning but, Guer­rero judged, not nearly enough. Hakim seemed content to sit in their orchard site until their food ran out.

Only once did Charlie attempt to reason with his captor. 'Look, you^'ve made your point with that poor devil in there,' he jerked his head toward Everett in the torture room. 'We don't even know where the hell we are. Maybe if you took him blindfolded and released him somewhere. It'd be a sign of good faith to—'

Instantly Hakim was on his feet, eyes glaring in a bright vacancy. He drew his knife from a pocket, rushed into the other room. Charlie heard a cry subside into a long groan before the Iraqi returned, flinging something onto Charlie's plate. 'Shall I force you to eat that?'

It was a small piece of scalp, pinkish gray on the underside, the blond hair flecked with blood. Charlie George closed his eyes and swallowed convulsively. He shook his head.

'Good faith? That is the sign of my faith,' Hakim said, his breathing very deep. 'At your next suggestion you will dine on your friend Kenton.' He then described the meal in detail.

Charlie saw that he was in the hands of a rabid animal and kept shaking his head long after Hakim moved away.

It was some time before Hakim thought to have Guerrero tend the new wound, and by that time the captive was faint from loss of blood. It was not a killing wound, Guerrero decided; but like all scalp wounds it had bled excessively. As usual, he said nothing.

The early evening news was innocent of Fat'ah, but Hakim was ebullient, hinting at his motive for optimism. 'Your new show time is at eight tonight,' he reminded Charlie. 'If your people place any value on you, we shall have what we demand.'

'The show was taped in pieces weeks ago, you know,' Charlie replied, constant pain from his broken nose diluting his voice. 'Before they moved us to Wednesdays, even. They don't have to worry about dead air.'

'I shouldn't talk so casually about pieces or death if I were you,' Hakim rejoined. 'I shall bet you one ear that we get coverage.'

Charlie made no reply, but tried to read a paperback which Guerrero had discarded. Shortly after his own show began, the captive showed signs of distress. Hakim handed the leash wire to Guerrero who waited in the bathroom while Charlie lost his supper. The audio was up, the door nearly closed. Guerrero took a calculated risk.

'You will not leave here alive, Carlito. If you hope, throw that up, too.'

Charlie knelt, face in his hands as the ear began to bleed afresh, rocking fore and aft. Muffled by his hands: 'Why d'you think I'm so puk­ing scared? NBN won't cave in; we agreed on that tactic. I wish I could retract it now but I can't. And if I could, they still wouldn't.' He looked up through streaming silent tears, his hands bloodily beseeching. 'And if they would?'

'You would still die,' Guerrero said, wonder­ing if it were true. 'It is an ancient custom among the bedouin to