had examined the bucket thoroughly. He had wracked his brain, searching for a way to take it apart, but it didn’t seem possible. If there had been a handle, he might have been able to snap it off. It probably wouldn’t have done him much good, but obviously, his captors weren’t taking the risk; they’d thought to remove it beforehand. Later, his thoughts had shifted to the springs in the mattress. If he could find a way to dig one out, that might suffice as a weapon, but the covering was too thick to tear, and he had no way to cut the fabric. It seemed they had left him with nothing; they had even thought to remove the drawers in the nightstand. There was the window, of course, but it faced the rear of the house, and there were two guards stationed outside at all times. If he were to break it, they would know immediately, and one way or another, he would pay for the act. He wasn’t afraid to take them on, but the repeated blows to the head had slowed him down, and he was no longer eager to fight. When he’d first regained consciousness, the pain had been intense, almost unbearable, but that was secondary. When it came to recurrent concussion, Craig knew what to look for, and pain was not his main concern. Neurologic sequelae, a condition resulting from injury to the brain, was the real threat, and it could manifest in any number of ways. Some of the major symptoms were cognitive impairment, seizure, focal deficit, and persistent headaches. Temporary paralysis was also a possibility, but so far, Craig had yet to experience anything worrisome.
Still, he was leery of incurring his captors’ wrath; in that respect, his reckless abandon was gone. He was prepared to resist, but next time he would not act impulsively. Attacking the Algerian had been a mistake; he should have held off until he was sure. At the same time, he knew he didn’t have long. If he were going to move, it had to be soon.
His mind kept returning to what he had seen the previous night. It was clear that Mengal and the Algerian were erecting a film set in the barn, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to figure out what it was for. Craig did not think they were preparing to kill Fitzgerald on tape. She was too valuable to them. On the other hand, he was nobody special, and he knew they would not hesitate to take his life. In that respect, he wasn’t alone; once Qureshi had removed Fitzgerald’s chest tube, his life would likely be forfeit as well. He could feel the seconds ticking away, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to think through his fear, which was steadily rising. He kept drifting back to what the Algerian had said the night before, when Craig had first seen the cameras.
Getting to his feet, Craig moved to the window. He stared out, not really seeing the lush, fertile landscape, the broad acacia that dominated the back garden, the fields beyond, and the gentle rise of the Kashmiri foothills. It had been overcast all day, and a light rain was still falling, but Craig could feel the night coming on. It would be dark in an hour or so, maybe less.
Involuntarily, his breathing quickened, and his hands balled into fists by his sides. The thought had struck him suddenly, out of nowhere, but he knew it was right. He didn’t know how, but he knew they would come.
And when they did, he would be ready.
As the truck rolled over a deep, unnatural pitch in the road, the vehicle shuddered violently, and Naomi Kharmai shuddered in turn. She wrapped her arms tightly around her calves, closed her eyes, and lowered her head to her knees. She had no idea how long she had been in the dark, dank bed of the cargo truck, but she didn’t think she could handle it for much longer. It had been tolerable when they were on the main roads, if only just, but she could tell that Machado had left the A4 behind, as the ride had become progressively bumpier. It was only adding to her nausea and her headache, which was bad enough to bring real tears to her eyes. The headache had started several hours earlier as a dull throb at the base of her neck, and it hadn’t stopped there. Now, it felt as if a pair of strong fingers was digging into either side of her spine, pinching the tender nerves that resided there.
The nausea was even worse. She’d vomited several times, and she’d tried a half dozen more, but she hadn’t been able to bring anything up. She could feel the sweat all over her body; her arms were slick and coated with grime from the floor, and the perspiration was running over her face and stinging her eyes. Her clothes were completely drenched, and she was still sweating, despite the fact that her mouth was completely dry. She had tried drinking water to quench her unremitting thirst, but it simply refused to stay down. She was starving, but food was out of the question. Her entire body felt as if it had been carefully and methodically worked over; there were no bruises, but the pain could not have been worse if she’d actually suffered a physical beating. It had been thirty- three hours since she had taken her last pills, and she’d been awake for fourteen of them. As a result, the withdrawal symptoms had been hitting her hard and fast. It had been ten times worse than she had expected, and for the past several hours, she had been cursing herself for getting rid of them. What a stupid, spur-of-the-moment move that had been. It wouldn’t solve anything, and it certainly wouldn’t assuage the source of her inner turmoil. In fact, the pills had been the only thing she could really depend on. At that moment, she would have given anything, absolutely anything, for just one more, if only to settle her nerves. But they were gone, and that was that.
The truck hit another pothole. Her body came off the metal floor for a split second, and then she landed hard, her tailbone stinging with the impact. She groaned and slumped to the side, her chest and stomach tightening in a now familiar routine. She started to dryheave, and though she could hear the choking, strangled noises she was making, they seemed very distant, far beyond the steady groan of the truck’s diesel engine. It went on for several minutes, and then the nausea began to subside once more.
She waited for her stomach to stop convulsing, and when it did, or at least came as close as it was going to, she eased herself back into a sitting position and rested her head against the metal wall that divided the cab from the cargo area.
both from Harper and televised news reports—that nothing major had happened in Pakistan, which meant she still had time to change the deputy director’s mind. He had sounded odd when she had talked to him earlier, as though he was holding something back, but she’d decided it was nothing, and she’d let it go. Naomi had been somewhat surprised when Harper had asked Machado to help get her out of the country. She was even more surprised when the Spaniard had readily agreed. He had made a few calls, once again using her phone, and the truck—a Mitsubishi Fuso with a canvas tarp strapped over the gated cargo area—had arrived in record time. Then he’d said something that caught her completely off guard—that he would be taking her across the border personally. It seemed like a huge risk, and she’d told him as much, but he’d waved away her concerns. Still, there was something about his manner that was bothering her, something she couldn’t quite shake. She’d had hours to think about it, though, and she had finally hit upon the change in his demeanor. For one thing, he refused to look her in the eye, even when he was speaking to her, and he seemed nervous.
