“Bigger than potentially infecting and killing fifty million Americans? I don’t think I want to know what that could be.”
“I want you, as a deputy director of the FBI, to authorize a guy who I have been following for a while. He’s Dr. Robert Fusco, a psych-ops guy who’s got some methods and practices that might give Brooke and us an edge.”
“I am only dep director for stuff under my area.”
“This guy is under your area and, besides, the funding can’t go on any record, so I need you to bury it in your SCIAD budget.”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me. Is this one of your wild-assed ideas?”
“Who was it who taught me to think outside the box?”
Joey positioned it perfectly to create the maelstrom in Bill’s head. It raged there for a minute then he simply said, “You really think this is going to pay off?”
“It’s got a good shot.”
Bill responded in the affirmative by giving Joey the Boulevard Blades gesture of a fist with the thumb jutting out between the index and pointer fingers. Not that they knew it, but it was an actual gesture from the ancient Neapolitan society, meaning “to protect.”
At 4:00 p.m. in the Situation Room beneath the White House, President Mitchell was being pushed to make a decision between two diametrically opposed evils.
The Secretary of State was uncharacteristically lobbying hard to save the life of the man who worked for him. “Mister President, the ambassador is a prime asset of the United States. He is worth every effort to retrieve.”
“Chuck, we can’t negotiate with terrorists. You’ll be setting a precedent that will have every American overseas being kidnapped round the clock,” the Chief of Staff needlessly reminded him. “The only option is military, if we get that lucky. Otherwise, the ambassador is now a combatant and prisoner of war.”
The Secretary of State turned to Mitchell. “Mr. President, how can you sacrifice his life like this?”
“Look, Charles, this ambassador makes over $200,000 dollars a year plus all expenses paid. There are dog faced G.I.s, who are just as valuable to me as he is, who die in shit-holes all over the world and their families barely live at poverty level. So they are both soldiers and, unfortunately, he is as expendable as they are. Chuck, what’s really going on with you? You know the damn policy as well as anyone, yet you continue to lobby for a trade that isn’t going to happen?” The President’s agitation was evident in the way he threw down his pencil.
“I pushed Greely into this post, sir. He wanted out and I personally strong-armed him to take another tour. He is a close personal friend of Saudi Prince Ramalli; they were roommates at Choate. I needed him in that post as part of my mid-east initiative.”
“God damn it, Charles, then get your head out of your ass. We send people to dangerous places and into jeopardy all the time. It may be a first for you, but, trust me, the bad news is you have to live with it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brooke took a deep breath as her hand rested on the latch to the Sheik’s cell. She hoped this would be the last time she’d have to do this. She hated it. But it was working. The last time, he wet himself as she approached. She wanted to let up on him a little because of it, but that would signal that she was weak. She had double-checked and made sure that she wasn’t hitting him in the same spots. That could result in real injury and cause internal bleeding. She wanted him healthy.
Her hand pushed the door open. “What do you know about this?”
She held up the front page of the
“Hey, shit for brains, what do you know about this?”
“Nothing,” the Sheik said as he retreated to the corner.
“Oh yeah? Well they want us to release you in trade for him.”
“I know nothing of this. Except that Allah’s will be served. If it is his way that I will be saved, then so be it.” He half closed his eyes in a now rare, cocky gesture.
It was too much for Brooke. For the first time, she wanted to wallop him in the jaw with the sock sending him reeling backwards and out cold.
Instead, she grabbed her gun, turned, and fired at the men coming through the door. They returned fire, sending her spinning back and crumbling onto the floor, lifeless. The Sheik heard more gunshots in the hallway and the sound of men yelling and groaning filled the room. A man in a ski mask grabbed and held down Aliz as another jabbed a needle into his arm. The last thing he saw was Brooke crumpled on the floor.
?§?
The Sheik awoke with a light shining brightly in his eyes. He was on his knees; his hands were tied behind his back. There were other people in the room. He turned and behind him was a banner with the words, “But One Answer.” There were two tall torches on each side. Two hooded men stood with M4 carbines across their chests. Everyone around him was hooded and in ski masks. One grabbed his face and turned it toward the light again. As the Sheik’s eyes adjusted, he saw that the light was atop a camera. He was being videotaped.
Someone held his head back and a bayonet was drawn across his throat without cutting the skin. A man unfurled a scroll and read from it.
“You are no longer a prisoner of the United States nor subject to its protection. The Scared Brotherhood of the Shores of Tripoli, in accordance with the traditions set forth by our founders, has captured and taken custody of you and has declared you as a Practical Prisoner of War. You are hereby sentenced to endure the same life, conditions, and final status as the one that has been kidnapped in trade for your life. Those who have murdered, kidnapped, and extorted so that you might be set free are now warned; your fate and that of Ambassador Greely’s are now inexorably one”
Aliz squeezed his eyes at what seemed the conclusion of the speech. Surely that was when they’d cut his throat. He started praying to Allah aloud.
It made for dramatic video. But instead of the knife separating his head from his torso, the man continued speaking.
“To the abductors of our Sacred Ambassador Extraordinary amp; Plenipotentiary, his Excellency, Wallace Greely: every hardship, every discomfort, every trauma, and, ultimately, the fate of our ambassador, will be inflicted upon, and suffered by your Sheik. Therefore, the Sheik’s destiny and the ambassador’s are one, and in your hands.”
The man released the grip on the Sheik’s head. The light went out and he was quickly dragged out of the room and thrown onto a cot in a small dark room.
?§?
Back in the makeshift studio, the ski masks and hoods came off. Brooke’s smile matched others in the room. They went up to their mentor, Dr. Robert Fusco of the Psy-Ops division of the new FBI. He critiqued their performances.
“Bob, the guy with the knife in the videos we referenced, always stays close to the captive. You veered away.”
“Got it.” Bob nodded.
“Brooke, you still have a trace of perfume. That could’ve sent a false signal and compromised the whole ploy.”
“Won’t happen again, sir.”
“Chet, a little more passion when you speak of the Brotherhood. Zealots whip up their emotions, almost to rapture, a torrent of devotion to the cause. They are almost overcome with their own sense of self-importance. Let it flow more in your voice!”
