He stood up and barked a command in Arabic. A fighter stepped forward and dragged the backpacks into the center of the room. He went through the bags, tossing the contents into a pile in the middle of the floor. He handed the biscuits and medicines John had carried for Mia to the other men. The plastic folder of letters and permissions was handed to the leader who scanned through it, then tossed it on the pile. John’s laptop was also passed to him, and after looking at it briefly, dropped it on the floor and stamped on it with his boot. The fighter went through Steve’s bag, removing the cameras and lenses, placing them to one side. Everything else was thrown onto the pile forming at the leader’s feet. Once the bags were empty, the fighter upended them and shook them out, ensuring nothing remained, then tossed the empty bags behind him. He then stood and approached John. Crouching down in front of him, he went through his pockets, removing his phone, passport, and press card, and money, handing it all back to his leader. He did the same with the other men, then stood and stepped behind his leader.
The leader passed the phones back to him, said something in Arabic, and the fighter ripped the backs off the phones, popped out the SIM cards, and threw everything separately onto the pile. While he did this, the leader opened the passports, looking up to match the faces with the passport photos.
“Steven Jacob Jones. Australian. John Hayes. English,” he read out loud, spitting out the word English with derision. “Mansur Wahibi. Oman.” He looked up and stared at Mansur. He said something in Arabic, and Mansur refused to answer, but John could see his eyes blazing. The man shook his head, cleared his throat, and spat on the floor at Mansur’s feet. He then stuffed the passports into the thigh pocket of his camouflage pants, turned on his heel, muttered something to the guards, then walked out the door. The men stayed still, weapons still trained on the men until the sound of a vehicle leaving carried through the window. They then stepped forward and rummaged through the pile, selecting pieces of clothing, and picking up the phones and reassembling them before sliding them into their own pockets. One stepped forward, knelt beside John, and pushed him over to his side. John could feel his fingers near his bound wrists. What was happening? Were they going to let him go? But then he felt the strap of his G-Shock being loosened and slipped off his wrist. The fighter stood up with a grin and held the watch in the air in front of his colleagues. The other men commented, and they each stepped forward and removed Steve’s and Mansur’s watches, slipping them into their pockets before turning and walking out the door, pulling it shut behind them.
68
“Have you heard from Steve yet?”
Maadhavi shook her head. “Not since this morning’s message. You?”
“No.” Adriana looked at her watch, four p.m. She frowned and walked to the hotel room window and stared out the window at the Tigris flowing past. On the other side of the river was Syria. Where are you, John? She turned around and leaned against the windowsill and crossed her arms.
“I hate the waiting.”
“Me, too. Why do you think we haven’t heard? Steve’s message said they were meeting Mia at ten this morning.” A note of worry was creeping into Maadhavi’s voice. It was understandable. It was the not knowing that was always worse.
Adriana had been there before, but she’d learned the hard way, you had to keep busy and stay positive. Otherwise, negative thoughts would drag you in a downward spiral that was almost impossible to get out of.
“It could be anything. No signal, flat battery. There’s no point in worrying just yet. They’re not likely to make it back here until tonight or tomorrow. I’m sure one of us will get a message soon.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Adriana smiled. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll send a message to John, too. I’m sure one of them will reply as soon as they get a signal.” She walked over to the bedside table, picked up her phone, typed out a message, and hit send.
“Come, let’s go down to the restaurant and see what they have for afternoon tea. We need to do something to pass the time, and we’ve already seen what there is to see in the town. Might as well eat some good food.”
69
The room was growing dark when they heard footsteps and voices outside again. The door swung open with a bang, and two of the fighters dragged a black-clad figure through the doorway and threw it on the floor. One gave the body a kick with his boot, but the figure didn’t move or make a sound. He said something to the other fighter, and they laughed before leaving the room, pulling the door closed behind them. John peered through the darkness at the black shape lying at his feet. Who was it? It wasn’t moving, but he could see the faint up and down movement of the fabric as the body breathed. Whoever it was, they were alive.
John turned to look at Mansur and nodded. Mansur understood, cleared his throat, and spoke in Arabic. There was no response. He spoke again—nothing. He looked back at John and shrugged as well as he could with his hands bound behind his back.
John looked at the body again.
“Hey. I know you can hear us.”
There was no response. John tried again.
“Hey.”
The body moved and groaned.
“Who are you?”
The voice was soft and feminine. Before John could reply, he heard Steve.
“Mia?”
The body stopped moving.
“Mia, is that you?”
“Unc... Uncle... Steve?”
“Mia!” Steve shuffled along the floor until he
