An Act of Treason

wetness splattered on his forehead.

The truck slowed and came to a stop. Anthony heard the mutter and clatter of an approaching crowd as people came to the vehicle and looked into the back, a sea of hostile faces. The kid stood up and pointed at the bound soldiers. “Hallo!” he blurted out, using the only English word he knew. The phrase rippled back until the whole mob was chanting in unison as if giving a football cheer. Hallo… Hallo… Hallo! They understood that the word meant the Americans had arrived. A few men reached in and punched Anthony. The truck began rocking on its tired springs, and a few rocks sailed into the bed and rattled against the metal.

The tailgate dropped with a clatter, and hands grabbed Anthony’s ankles and pulled him out of the truck, hurling him to the hard dirt and knocking the wind from him. Anthony gasped, trying to suck in some air while being mauled. He thought his life was about to end in being torn apart by a screaming mob, but more guards arrived and pushed the civilians away. They stood him up on wobbly legs. A moment later, both he and Jake Henderson were hauled away by the guards. They were dragged up a slight incline for about a hundred yards, then propelled through a large door and into a small mud-walled building with a dirt floor. The door slammed shut and was locked. Outside, down the hill, the mob howled in derision, “Hallo!”

* * *

THE NAME OF MUHAMMED Waleed was known far beyond his mountain camp in Waziristan. He had spent his entire life battling the enemies of Pakistan and Islam. Now in his fifties, he had ascended from being a naive but extremely bright product of the madrasah, or religious school, in his hometown to being an outstanding college student in France and then to fighting his bloody way upward to take over leadership of the Taliban. Though it had been on the verge of extinction after the American-led coalition threw it out of Afghanistan, Waleed had created a safe haven in the mountains of Pakistan and reorganized the force, unit by unit, and brought it back to strength, ready to fight again, and no longer just in Afghanistan. It seemed that his fierce eyes could see everywhere.

Waleed had learned of the arrival of the two American prisoners almost as soon as the trucks had threaded through the rugged border from Afghanistan and entered the long valley that emptied into Pakistan’s tribal areas, the desolate Waziristan. When the trip terminated at the village of Gilgot, they were still out on the high plain, about eight miles from the border and the same distance from the major town of Wana. That was only fifty miles from his stronghold. Waleed had given advance approval of the raid and the murder of the American solider, but the kidnapping of the other two took him by surprise. Bringing the Americans back into Pakistan represented a threat to his overall plans. They should have been killed in Afghanistan, where open conflict raged.

The United States could be counted on to apply immense pressure for the government in Islamabad to rescue and retrieve those soldiers. Waleed summoned his advisers, the council of longtime comrades he called the Wise Ones, and asked, “What should we do about this situation in Gilgot?”

“Once more, the instigator was Fariq, nephew of Mustafa Khan, the village headman,” replied one senior counselor. “He led the attack team into Afghanistan and helped capture the Americans. For unknown reasons, he decided to keep them alive and bring them home. His proud uncle now plans to honor him with a celebration.”

“Fariq is an ambitious boy,” observed Waleed.

“Very ambitious,” agreed the counselor. “Perhaps too much so.”

“I believe those American prisoners will not survive long in Gilgot. That will certainly draw more attention to this area by the Americans and the other Crusader countries. The prisoners could be of better value to us in the future.”

“Yes, Leader. On your word, we can go and take them. It would be no trouble.”

Waleed crossed his arms and lowered his head until his bushy beard pressed against his chest while he thought things through. “We need to keep Mustafa Kahn happy, too. He safeguards the area well for us. Please let him know that I send him congratulations and the blessings of Allah, the most merciful, for having such a brave young fighter in his family. Offer him twenty-five thousand American dollars for the soldiers.”

“He will not accept that amount.”

“Let him set a price, then. The main thing is to keep the Americans safe until they can be put to a maximum use. Spilling their blood in Gilgot would be a useless gesture to satisfy the pride of a headstrong youngster. Be quick about this.”

The Wise One was correct. The offer was made and rejected, but instead of a counteroffer, there came a polite invitation to the esteemed Muhammed Waleed to attend the celebration in two days’ time and personally meet the warrior nephew, Fariq. Not accepting the deal was a veiled insult to the authority of the Leader.

“Inshallah,” said Waleed. God’s will. He had everyone leave the room because he wanted some time alone to pray to Allah for guidance-and to make a private call to a very old comrade.

* * *

JAKE HENDERSON WAS A good-looking kid from Petersburg, Virginia, who had been considered a hound dog in high school for the way he had always sniffed after the girls. He liked women, and women liked him. Being in the Army had not changed the broad smile on his chiseled face. The touch of a woman, just the idea of the touch of a woman, usually propelled Jake into high gear. For the only time in his life, two women were pawing his skin, laughing, and he was scared to death.

“What are they doin’, Javon? Why they bathin’ me and not you?”

Sergeant Anthony shook his head. “Guess you stink more,” he said, feeling that something awful was in store.

Both men had been regularly beaten by guards for the past two days, more out of sheer brutality than to elicit information, and had expected another dose of fists and feet when the door had opened and two women carried in buckets of water and folds of cloth. Two guards accompanied them and hauled Jake to his feet, then sliced away the twisted tape that bound him and stood back to let the women work. All had dour smiles as they pushed him to stand in the middle of a square of oilskin. Then one woman used a pair of scissors to cut away the soiled uniform and his filthy underwear. Their boots had been taken the first day, and now Henderson’s stinking socks were removed. All of the discarded clothes were thrown into a corner, leaving Jake stark naked.

The women soaped and bathed him, scrubbing away the caked-on dirt with a bar of soap that smelled of flowers. A bucket of water doused his head, and the scissors came back to trim his hair and beard. Henderson stood as still as possible, but the chill of the water made him start to shiver. As the younger of the women shampooed his hair, the older one carefully cleaned the dirt from beneath his nails. As she bent to do his toes, her eyes roamed to his penis, which was shriveled almost to invisibility, as if it were trying to hide. She said something in her language, and the guards laughed; then the younger woman used soap and water in and around his crotch, allowing her fingers to rest longer than necessary on the penis. Instead of sexual attraction, Jake’s only feeling was one of horror. He whimpered, and the older woman made soothing tut-tut sounds and told the younger one to stop playing with the prisoner. Big towels were used to thoroughly dry him, and a sweet- smelling oil was massaged deep into the aching muscles.

Javon Anthony finally began to understand. The morning had been filled with noise outside their hut, even music and laughter lifted from the town square at the foot of the hill. When the door opened, he caught glimpses of the square, where colorful thin banners waved atop tall poles. As the hours had passed, he watched the crowd grow in the town square, and traveling merchants selling items at stalls. The guards were cheerful.

The younger woman needed several trips to gather the discarded clothes and cleansing items, and Jake Henderson was given a pair of new white jockey shorts before a guard clamped on handcuffs. This time, they put him in a chair, as if trying to keep him clean, and secured him tightly.

At a small bench beside the door, the older woman unwrapped a dark roll of cloth and exposed three long knives of varying sizes. One was a broad butcher-style blade, while the second was a long serrated knife that ended in a perfect point, for use in cutting joints. The third was slender and slightly curved with a tiny hook on the end, which was used for detail work in skinning animals. “They’re going to cut off my dick and balls!” Henderson screamed to Javon and started urgently thrashing in the chair.

The woman picked up the biggest blade and moved to Jake’s right side, putting her palm against the simple red