His forehead broke out with beads of sweat, and his stomach felt as if it were being strangled by nerves. This moment was always so overwhelming, yet so satisfying. He grabbed a magic marker and entered the closet of the master bedroom. As he did, he felt the weight of every life that had been taken, and those who were left behind. It was a burden he was honored to carry on his broad shoulders.
He separated a wall of hanging shirts and removed a piece of wood paneling from the back of the closet, exposing a door handle. He then maneuvered the numbers of the combination lock. The numbers were significant.
He entered an 8 x 8 windowless room that was encapsulated in a steel structure. The door was fourteen- gauge steel mounted in a steel frame and secured by three dead bolts. It swung inward.
The contractor had guaranteed him the room would provide protection from 250mph winds and projectiles traveling at 100mph. Safe rooms were common in beach houses to reduce loss of life and injury during a major storm. His use of the room focused on loss of life, but had very little to do with storm safety.
He walked to the wall that displayed the pictures of Craig and George Kingsbury. He methodically drew an X over them with the magic marker. He felt sparks shoot through his body, and he tried to make the pleasure last as long as possible. When he finished, he took a step back, feeling dizzy, and a rare smile leaked from his lips. Another mission completed successfully.
He didn’t savor it for long-his attention diverted to the photos still awaiting an X. His mood turned melancholy-realizing the job would never be finished. He had so much still to do, and time was rapidly slipping away. He was overcome by emotion, and tears began to trickle down his face.
He wiped the tears, ashamed of them. He took one last look at the picture of Craig Kingsbury, which now had a large X scrolled across his perfect smile. His eyes wandered to another newspaper article taped to the wall, which had faded to a dull yellowish color. When he locked on the date of the article, it confirmed that it wouldn’t be long until the twenty-year anniversary of the event. A reunion would take place in Rockfield, Connecticut, where Kyle Jones was a police officer.
After a couple of deep breaths, he was able to pull himself from the shrine. But before leaving, he tested the alarm-when it was tripped, it was programmed to buzz the medallion that hung around his neck, to indicate that the closet had been penetrated. It was on the same necklace that contained a locket with pictures of lost loved ones. He caressed the necklace, vowing to get them justice, or die trying.
After he secured the lock, he moved to the kitchen. He grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator and retired to the outside deck.
The humidity felt soothing, and his swirling emotions slowed. He sipped his drink and watched the fireworks over the beach as he dozed off to sleep. His dreams were peaceful.
The next morning, he would fly back to his Connecticut home and begin the meticulous preparation for his next mission.
Chapter 14
Except for the occasional roar of a plane taking off from the adjoining Ramstein Air Force Base, Landstuhl Hospital was a quiet setting amongst the peaceful forests of western Germany. But ever since a certain television reporter was flown in from Belgrade, a large blockade of media had set up camp across the street from the medical center. Since I hadn’t been able to leave my hospital room the past six weeks, I was only getting this information from my television.
While my stay had been long, my list of medical maladies was even longer. Concussion, broken eye socket, broken rib, torn knee ligament, and punctured left lung. But the most painful injuries of all were my wounded pride and badly bruised ego. My face was still splattered with dark scabs, although the doctors told me that they were healing, and my face would return to its “TV standard” in no time. I decided not to let them in on the scoop that my television days were over.
Contrary to what my critics often say, my biggest professional nightmare has always been becoming the story. But that’s exactly what happened. What the media dubbed
As the world looked on for twelve long days, we were held captive in a remote eastern section of Serbia, near the Bulgarian border. Perhaps the terms “exclusive interview” and “tortured hostages” got mixed up in translation. Our living quarters were in a small, dilapidated house, where we were chained in sauna-hot, windowless rooms.
The leader was an eerily calm man named Qwaui-one of the top lieutenants of Mustafa Hakim, the leader of Al Muttahedah. He wore desert camouflage and spent most of his time playing chess with another bearded soldier who was decked out in matching attire.
Zahir, the man we sought for an interview-although, in hindsight, it was clear that they were seeking us-was also present. He wore traditional Islamic garb, and his clean-shaven Western looks from his Chicago days were long gone. He was a loose cannon, often going off on violent tangents about the “infidels,” which I brilliantly deduced was us.
I found Zahir’s act a little contrived, fearing the quiet Qwaui much more. A deep look into his eyes revealed an unwavering zealotry. I knew there would be no reasoning with him.
To make matters worse, our hosts played the incessant, and usually inaccurate, reports by Lauren Bowden on a small black-and-white television that looked like a relic from the 1970s. Lauren seized the moment to take advantage of my martyrdom, usually referring to me as her “soul-mate” during her reports, and I’m sure to Sutcliffe’s delight, often cried crocodile tears into the camera as she begged for my release.
On the twelfth day of captivity, I was summoned before the group and instructed-with machine gun to temple-that I was to deliver a statement to the Western World. The camera rolled and I swallowed hard. Logic said they would kill me anyway, so I should refuse to spread their propaganda and die with a little dignity. It’s hard to explain to someone who has never had the cold steel of a gun poking into the back of their neck, but survival instincts kick in, dignity goes out the window, and the only thing I could think of was to survive the next second. For such a natural act, dying doesn’t come very naturally.
I completed the anti-American monologue like I was the keynote speaker at an Al Muttahedah convention, and signed off as I had so many times before, “JP Warner … Global Newz.” The camera was shut off and I braced for my throat to be slit.
But nothing happened.
I was still alive, but things were different. There was a distinct change in mood-Qwaui’s normally meditative demeanor had vanished. He began pacing like a lion stalking its prey, and barking orders to Zahir in Arabic. We were blindfolded again, and whisked into the Serbian night.
The details of what happened next are a little foggy. The therapist I’d been assigned at Landstuhl believed that I wanted to suppress them-he was probably right-but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remove the familiar screams from my memory bank.
My relationship with the military had always been complex. My job was to uncover information, while they, understandably, wanted to keep things under wrap. So naturally things became strained at times between us. So while they were forced to be nice to me publicly-my capture having turned me into an American hero-they were able to show their disdain in more subtle ways. For example, they claimed that the only room they could find for me was in the “Labor and Delivery” section. For six weeks, my nights and days were filled with the sounds of screaming babies. My nurse, Lieutenant Colonel Knight, told me that I fit in well.
But that didn’t compare to the torture of the television, which was left constantly running in my room, playing the GNZ coverage of my demise. If it wasn’t bad enough to be forced to watch the endless coverage of my downfall, Lauren was the lead reporter on the story. It was like she had been in my room with me for six weeks. There was no escape.
