Carrera thought on that and suspected it meant Fernandez was going to oversee something that a man ought not oversee, not if he wanted to keep his soul. He didn't want to see it, either. Nonetheless, he said, 'I think that, this time, I should join you there.'
SS Hildegard Mises, 9/1/462 AC
Mohammad Ouled Nail spat at Warrant Officer Mahamda as the latter set about giving the customary tour and demonstration. Mahamda looked questioningly at the short, wiry, dark man standing nearby.
'I think the tour will be unnecessary,' Fernandez said. 'Let's go right to interrogation.'
Nail lifted his nose and clamped his mouth shut, almost theatrically. I won't say a word to you pigs.
Fernandez just smiled as two stout guards picked up the bomber of Castilla and Balboa and carried him, struggling, to a dental chair. They expertly strapped him in to the point he was almost completely unable to move.
Silly man, Fernandez thought. You should have thought a bit more carefully on what it meant when you were tried, sentenced to death, reported hanged, and yet found yourself here.
A sort of articulated cage was fitted onto Nail's head, with metal projections to fit between gums and lips and blunt-tipped screwbolts to hold the head to the frame. The guards set the helmet on Nail's head and began turning cranks on each side of the helmet. When it was firmly affixed, a far from painless process in itself, they rotated the jaw separator down. Nail refused to open his mouth, of course. One of the guards picked up a small hammer and deftly whacked Nail between the legs. That opened his jaws for a scream. They then forced the device into his mouth and turned another crank, which spread the device, separating the invading bits of metal and forcing the terrorist's lips and jaws apart.
'He's ready, Doctor,' one of the guards called out. In walked a white-jacketed dentist who looked over the arrangement and nodded satisfaction. The dentist put in earplugs and covered his ears with muffs. Then he picked up one of his drills and stepped on a pedal. The drill began to whine.
Nail's fear-filled eyes followed the drill bit as it inched closer to his mouth, ultimately crossing just before the bit touched enamel.
In a few moments he was screaming, pleading, begging to be permitted to talk, but over the whine of the drill no one seemed to be able to hear him.
Ar-Ramadi, Ninewa Province, 14/1/462 AC
Giulia Masera didn't have Westplatz's local connections. Still, she wanted to help the cause. Indeed, she'd been fighting for the cause all her life. For the better part of the last year she'd been fighting in the role of a journalist, uncovering the misdeeds of the FSC and its running dogs. When a Sumeri, apparently having noted her sympathies, approached her with the offer of a kidnapping to both raise funds for the resistance and discredit her own fascist government, she jumped at the chance. She'd have made the offer herself if she'd only known where to find members of the resistance.
If one had asked a Roman Catholic why he or she believed in the Bible and the teachings of the Church, the nearest to an honest answer might have been something like, 'That's how I was raised.' Masera was not different. She'd grown up at the knee of the hero of her life, her grandfather, who had been an antifascist partisan in her native Etruria during the Great Global War. Both her mother and father had been Marxist activists and had made the easy transition to cosmopolitan progressives.
She didn't like the Salafis or even the more secular terrorists she supported. But when she considered the evil she saw in the FSC, in capitalism, and in the travesty that passed for democracy, she saw something that justified even support for murderers, oppressors of women, and theocratic fascists. Sometimes you have to choose the lesser of two evils.
Giulia was picked up off the street without incident and taken to a residential basement somewhere in the city. The men who took her were as polite as she'd expected they would be, being allies and all.
In the basement, a small TV studio had been set up. Her co-fighters spent a few hours coaching Giulia before she made a teary-eyed plea for her government to come to her rescue by withdrawing their troops from this imperialist war and paying the just ransom demanded.
Imagine her surprise then when, taping apparently completed, her newfound comrades tossed a rope over a hook in the ceiling, tied her hands to the rope and hauled her up to her tippy toes. Imagine her greater surprise when she was stripped to the waist and, out of deference to Islamic modesty, turned around to face away from the cameras, her legs being likewise tied by the ankles to bolts in the floor to prevent her from twisting and shamelessly showing her breasts to the camera.
Neither of those surprises, however, compared to the surprise she felt when the whip first bit a bright red, oozing strip out of her back.
'Now howl like a dog, bitch,' her captors instructed as one of them lay on the whip for another stroke. Still in shock from the first stroke, Giulia shook her head in shocked misunderstanding. No matter, the second lash evoked a piercing scream that was every bit as good as a howl.
When the flogging was done, another twenty-three strokes later, and Masera sobbing and hanging by her wrists from the rope, the leader and the other captors pulled balaclavas over their faces and lined up three to either side of her shuddering, bleeding body. Into the camera the leader said, 'Twenty-five million Tauros,' he said, 'or this twat gets fed feet first into a wood chipper for the nightly news.'
At that, all the captors raised their weapons above their heads, shouting, ' Allahu akbar! '
SS Hildegard Mises, 16/1/462 AC
They'd let Nail talk, but only after drilling away most of the enamel on his two front upper teeth. This had been replaced with a temporary filling material. There was no sense, after all, in wasting the good stuff on a walking corpse.
Talk he did, intending to lie. Sadly for Mohammad, lies required concentration and pain destroyed it. They'd caught him in a lie, a trivial thing, really, from his own badly abused mouth.
He'd thought he'd get the drill again and shat himself at the thought of it. He'd probably have been happier if they had gone the dental route. Instead, though, they'd moved him to a different chair after stripping off his trousers. Even over the pain, he'd been deeply embarrassed when his captor had stuck something cold and hard up his ass, then put his penis in what looked like a light socket.
There were things, he discovered, that hurt worse than dental work without anesthesia.
23 Al Rasul Street, Doha, 17/1/462 AC
Although weapons were easier to obtain on the Yithrab peninsula even than slaves, the four Sumeris had brought in their own. These were silenced pistols, in 9mm. Other weapons, though it was to be hoped they would not be needed, were secured in the rental car's trunk.
The team waited near the guarded gate for the chauffeured limousine that always came at this time every day but Friday. Not that they intended to attack the limo, far from it. But the limousine carried four children, two boys and two girls, to and from their school every day. Its arrival thus signaled that all the targets were present at home.
Seeing the limousine pull through the guarded gate at the front of the mansion, the rental car's driver waited five minutes before following the same course. The gate opened and an ethnic Bengali emerged, wearing a uniform far, far too hot for the climate.
'May I be of assistance, sayidi?' the Bengali asked of the driver. In answer, the man sitting beside the driver shot the gate guard with his silenced pistol. One man got out to drag the Bengali's body behind some well-tended bushes. The car proceeded through the gate, and into the mansion complex.
Al Iskandaria Studios, Doha, Terra Nova, 17/1/462 AC
'I won't show this perversion,' Sheik Hamad insisted to the vicious looking man seated opposite him in his plush blue and green themed office.
Hamad was a study in contrast to his visitor. The sheik was tall and lean, with the sharp features of a desert nomad accentuated by his pure white keffiyah. His visitor was short and a bit overweight, perhaps the scion of some peasant family.
Probably a Sumeri peasant family, the sheik thought, based on the accent.
'Yes, you will,' the visitor answered amiably. 'By the way, have you spoken to your wife today? Why don't you give her a call? They live at Twenty-three al Rasul Street, do they not? Here, use my cell phone. The number is already dialed.'
SS Hildegard Mises, 19/1/462 AC
