young child.
“Major Mack Smith.”
“You are with the U.S. Air Force,” said the man. You were flying an F-16. What is the name of your unit?”
Smith didn’t answer.
“Your call sign was Poison,” continued the man. “You bombed an installation of the Somalian government.”
“It was an Iranian base.”
The man finally smiles. It was faint and brief.
“Major, the base is under the control of the Somalian government. The men who captured you and brought you here were Somalian. I assure you, there are no Iranian soldiers in Somalia, or anywhere in Africa.”
“What about you?”
“I am an ambassador,” said the man. “An advisor. Nothing more.”
“I’m your prisoner?”
“No. You are no one’s prisoner. You don’t exist.”
“I’m free to go then,” said Smith. The pain in his ribs stoked up as he mockingly jerked his body upright.
“If you were to leave here now, you would be shot.”
Middle-ages and obviously a cleric of some sort, the Iranian exuded calmness, as if he were projecting a physical aura of considered peacefulness. Two men stood in plain brown uniforms behind him; neither uniform had insignias or other marks of rank, and they were not carrying weapons. About a dozen troops, Somalians apparently, stood near the door and the sides of the room. It seemed to be a classroom; a blackboard filled the wall in front, its shiny surface glaring with the reflected overhead lights. There were several rows of seats, though no desks that he could see, behind him.
“Are you hungry?” asked the Iranian.
“No,” lied Smith.
“I would suggest it is in your interest to be truthful,” said his captor. He turned to one of the men in the uniforms and said something. The man nodded, then left.
Knife gazed around the room, trying to memorize details. Yellow parchmentlike shades were drawn down over the windows on his right. The floor was covered with seemingly new linoleum, the kind that might be used in the kitchen of a modest American home. A crucifix was mounted above the middle of the blackboard.
Maybe he was in an old mission school? Or certainly some building that didn’t specifically belong to the government.
Or maybe it did. He wasn’t in Boise.
The aide returned with a tray. A large bowl of rice and some sort of vegetable sat in the middle. There were no eating utensils. Smith looked at it doubtfully as the tray as placed on a wooden chair and sat down in front of him. A thick reddish brown liquid covered the rice.
His manacled hands moved toward the bowl. Stopping them seemed to require more energy than he had. Smith scooped a few fingers’ worth of food into his mouth, then quickly consumed the contents. The liquid was sweet and sticky in his throat; the rest of the food was bland.
“And get him some water,” added the Iranian.
Two other Iranians in plain brown uniforms came in with the man with the water. One of the men had a small Sony video cam, the kind of family might use to record their child’s first steps. Smith held his head upright, staring blankly into the lens.
“State you name, please,” said the Iranian cleric.
“Mack Smith,” he said, taking the metal cup of water.
“Are you injured?”
He considered what to say. “I think one of my ribs is broken.”
“How did that happen?”
He hesitated again. If he said they had beaten him, they would simply erase that portion of the tape. Besides, it wasn’t true.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“Good question.”
The Iranian cleric smiled and nodded. Finally he said something to the man with the camera, apparently telling him to turn it off, since he did so.
“The bruises on your face – did they come from the ejection?” asked the Iranian.
“What bruises?” asked Knife. He hadn’t realized his face was injured.
“The force of the ejection would have been severe. Your parachute was found near where you landed, on the side of a sheer cliff. You are fortunate that your legs were not broken.”
“Yeah, I’m one lucky dog.”
