Soft Targets

dismember their captives. Hakim is a bedouin in his heart.'

'What can I do?' It was an agonized whisper.

'Die. Slowly, appeasing him, in a week; or quickly, avoiding pain, if you anger him enough.' Their eyes met in a long moment of communion. Charlie retched again briefly, and the moment passed.

The Charlie George Show passed as well as Charlie sat near Hakim, the garrotte wire in place. There was no reference to the kidnapping until the end of the show. Charlie normally traded jokes with his audience for a few mo­ments but, instead of the sequence Charlie had taped, his rotund second-banana comic ap­peared. Standing before a familiar logo, a fiercely satirical sketch for which Dahl D'Este had paid with his life, the chubby comic mimicked a gossip columnist with barbed one-liners. Finally, he said, there was no rumor in the truth—his tongue pointedly explored his cheek—that Charlie and a friend were in a plummet conference with stagestruck terrorists. They wanted a big hand, but Charlie's boy only gave them the finger.

Hakim watched the credits roll, snapped off the set, and treated Charlie George to a malevo­lent smile. 'You win,' he said, 'and you lose.'

'You got coverage,' Charlie husked, 'and anyhow, you^'re going to do whatever you want to. NBN got your message, and you got theirs.^'

'I have other messages,' Hakim said, and spat in Charlie's face.

Charlie saw cold rage in the zealot eyes and accepted, at last, that the network would not save him from consequences of events he had shaped. He spoke to Hakim, but looked at Guer­rero. 'Have it your way, you pile of pigshit. We did a skit on that: used your profile on a sow's merkin, it's the only coverage you rate—'

The garrotte cut off the sudden tirade. Without Hakim's tape over the wire, Charlie would never have drawn another breath, as Hakim used the leash to throw Charlie to the floor. Hakim held the wire taut, kicking expertly at elbows and knees until his victim lay silent and gray on the red-smeared floor. Hakim squatted to loosen the wire and nodded with satisfaction as the uncon­scious man's breathing resumed in ragged spasms, the larynx bruised but not crushed. Guerrero kept his face blank as he helped drag their burden into the torture room, then laid his ballpoint pen on a shelf while Hakim trussed Charlie to the table. In the corner, surrounded by the odors of close captivity, Everett breathed un­evenly as he slept.

'Keep them alive for awhile,' Guerrero urged. To his dismay, he heard Hakim grumble assent.

'The comedian must not cheat me of his awareness,' the Fat'ah leader explained, 'when I take more souvenirs.' He paused, studying the inert hostage, then jerked his gaze to Guerrero. 'What was he really saying, Guerrero? Damn you, or kill me?'

'Does it matter what the tree says to the axe?'

'If only your questions were all so cogent,' Hakim laughed. 'That was worthy of El Aurans himself—he who understood pain so well. No, it does not matter. Feed Kenton when he wakes. Let him eliminate his waste elsewhere. Tomor­row the comedian will be replenished, and wrung empty again.' Hakim turned in im­mediately. He did not hear the engine of Guer­rero's van cough to life an hour later, its exhaust further muffled by a cardboard box.

THURSDAY, 22 JANUARY, 1981:

The man they knew as Kenton woke crying a name. It sounded like 'Jeana', thought Guerrero, forcing himself alert after only four hours of sleep, He handed a cup of cold soup to the bloody wreck of a man and returned to the kitchen, grumbling like a servant. He had taken an enormous risk in contacting his superiors but, he reflected, he was amply repaid in informa­tion.

Charlie was half-dragged to their morning meal; one arm useless, the other barely functional. He moaned softly as Guerrero and Hakim attacked their cereal. Then Hakim, using his own traditionally unclean left hand in private amusement, gravely took Charlie's spoon and began to feed him. Charlie knew better than to refuse, saying only, 'You are one strange man.'

'You must continue to function—and it is easy to be polite to an inferior. Another thing,' watching Charlie's difficulty in swallowing, “your schoolboy taunts will not compel me to kill you. Fat'ah is not compelled. Fat'ah com­ pels. And Fat'ah punishes.”

'The monitors,' Guerrero said, indicating his wristwatch.

'You will watch them when we have taken the comedian to his room, and after you see to the consultant.' Hakim had tired of his game with the spoon and, with the implacable Guerrero, conveyed Charlie George to the room he dreaded.

Hakim trussed Charlie to the table again as Guerrero helped his charge to the bathroom some distance away. Then Hakim tugged Charlie's torso to the table's edge. The captive lay face up, hanging half off the table, his head a foot from the spattered floor. He saw Hakim produce the knife, elastic bands, clear plastic tube and gossamer bag, and tried not to guess their uses. Hakim taped him firmly in place as blood gradu­ally pounded louder in the ears of Charlie George.

Hakim brought the knife to Charlie's throat, smiling, and Charlie closed his eyes. Hakim tugged at the torn ear until Charlie opened his eyes again and then, in two quick sweeps, he severed the ear.

The big man in the bathroom stiffened as he heard the scream. With the Browning nuzzling his, jaw, he had no option but self-control. At the moment he found the cool water in the basin far more important than anything else on earth. The raw flesh at his temple had clotted heavily, a black patch intruding into the yellow hair. As he inspected it in the mirror, he saw the Panamanian's reflection. It revealed faint sardonic amusement and something else, fainter still. It might have been pity.

'Look closely, Senor Kenton,' the reflection said, in tones that would not carry far. 'Not at the wound, but at the scalp around it.' Everett did so, always conscious of the gun muzzle at his throat. 'Is it possible that your hair is growing dark instead of gray?' Their eyes locked for an instant. 'Very odd, no?'

Again the cold water over his face, to buy time. 'I dye it,' he said at last. In a few days, if he lived that long, they would know that much anyway.

'I am sure you do.' Guerrero moved aside to let the other man drop his trousers.

'It makes me look younger.' Everett strained against constipation, the necessary outcome of his forced inactivity.

'And those faint scars at your hairline; what do they do? What other little secrets do you have in store for me?'

This ape-raping little wetback was toying with him, Everett decided. Either the guy knew everything, or nothing. 'It^'s very common—in the Industry,' he grunted.

'Of course it is,' Guerrero said in tones that implied denial. He waited until the gore-smeared trousers were in place again, his amusement more pronounced as he backed from the cubicle. With the Browning he waved toward the room where Charlie George lay.

Charlie fought his own screams through clenched teeth, sobbing, straining against his bonds. His face a study in dispassionate interest, Hakim stanched the flow of blood and, holding Charlie by his hair, sprinkled a clotting agent over the grisly mess before he applied a rough bandage. Guerrero again trussed his own cap­tive, this time in a different corner. He did not look toward Hakim but he no longer showed amusement. Guerrero placed his ballpoint pen on the shelf and laid the adhesive tape near it.

It took Charlie George four tries to say, be­tween gasps 'Why?'

'Questions, questions,' Hakim sighed. 'Your ear will go to the Los Angeles Times, and its coverage may provoke your television people. This may even start a modest war between media. And this is because I choose,' he con­tinued, quickly pulling the flimsy polyethylene bag over Charlie's head. At this point Guerrero glanced quickly toward Hakim and then stalked from the room, the spool of wire lying unused on the floor.

Hakim snapped the elastic bands around Charlie's neck and stood back, watching the red stain spread past his bandage inside the bag. Charlie's eyes became huge with horror as his first breath sucked the bag against his nose and mouth. After twenty seconds, as Charlie thrashed hopelessly against his bondage, Hakim thrust the plastic tube under the elastic and into Charlie's mouth before tugging the bag back into place. The tube was short and not entirely flac­cid, and Hakim pulled his chair near to hold the free end of the tube away from loose ends of the bag.

Hakim waited until the breathing steadied. Charlie's eyes were closed. 'Open your eyes,'

Hakim said gently. No response. 'Open them,' he said, placing a fingertip lightly over the tube's end. Charlie's eyes flew open and Hakim's finger moved back.

'Have you heard of the dry submarine, my friend? You are wearing one. The wet submarine is favored in