Samad hit the floor, along with his lieutenants, and Ballesteros was there as well, unhurt but grimacing as another salvo of gunfire stitched through the walls, splintering wood and sending dust motes swirling up toward the ceiling.
“What is this?” cried Samad.
“We all have enemies,” Ballesteros said with a grunt.
Israr Rana had not been very receptive to being recruited by the CIA. It had taken Moore nearly three months to finally persuade Rana that not only could this work be thrilling and lucrative, but Rana could be doing something for the greater good and helping to keep his own nation safe. Going to college was supposed to be his priority, but as Rana had been trained by Moore and sent off to gather information, he found the work very exciting. He’d seen every James Bond film and had even memorized some of the dialogue, which he’d used during conversations with Moore, much to the man’s chagrin. In fact, Rana had perfected his English through American cinema. Unfortunately, his wealthy parents would never, ever approve of him doing this kind of work, and so he thought he’d have some fun — at least for a little while — until he grew bored. It was true that Moore could have resorted to other means to recruit him — less-than-ethical means, such as blackmail, and Moore had even described how that worked — but he’d said that he wanted to create a real apprenticeship founded on trust, and Rana respected that so much that it made him work even harder at gathering information for his friend and mentor.
At the moment, he was tucked tightly into a ditch along the foothills overlooking the hotel, and his pulse rose as he thumbed a text message to Moore:
LOCATED GALLAGHER. SERENA HOTEL.
ISLAMABAD.
Rana was about to tell Moore that their dear colleague was as dirty as they came. Gallagher was working with known Taliban lieutenants now and had been meeting with several of them at the hotel. Rana thought that he may very well have killed Khodai’s family — when in fact he’d been charged with protecting them. Every man had a price, and the Taliban had met Gallagher’s.
Rana did not hear them come up from behind. A hand suddenly wrenched the phone out of his hands, and as he turned back, a club came down as an echoing blow knocked him into unconsciousness.
Rana’s head hung toward his chest, and a deep throbbing emanated from the back of his neck and across the side of his face.
He opened his eyes to find only curtains of grainy blue and green — and then suddenly a bright light was in his eyes.
“You are the traitor who is working for the Americans, are you not?”
The man who’d posed that question was nearby, although Rana still could not see him. The blurriness persisted, and it felt as though he had little control over his head.
Judging from the sound of his voice, the man was young, no older than thirty, and probably one of the lieutenants Rana had already observed.
“I’m sorry, poor boy,” came another voice, and this one he knew. Gallagher. His accent was unmistakable.
And now Rana couldn’t help but try to talk, his lips feeling strangely numb. “What are you doing with them?”
“Moore sent you after me, huh? He couldn’t leave well enough alone. You’re a good boy.”
“Please, let me go.”
A hand fell on his cheek, and he finally mustered the strength to tilt his head back and look up. Gallagher’s wizened face came in and out of focus, and Rana realized they were not in a hotel room but in a cave somewhere, perhaps the Bajaur tribal area northwest of the hotel, and the blue and green he’d seen earlier were part of Gallagher’s tunic and trousers.
“All right, we will let you go, but first we’re going to ask you some questions about what you’ve been doing and what you and Moore have learned here in Pakistan. Do you understand? If you cooperate with us, you will go free. You will not be harmed.”
Every part of Rana’s being wanted to believe that, but Moore had told him that that was exactly what they’d say if he was ever captured. They would assure him freedom, make him talk, then kill him once they learned what they needed to know.
Rana realized with a chill that he was already dead.
And so young, too. Not even out of college. Never married. No children. So much of life waiting for him — but he would never arrive at that stop.
His parents would be heartbroken.
At that, he gritted his teeth and began to pant in anger.
“Rana, let’s make this easy,” said Gallagher.
He drew in a deep breath and spoke in English, using words that Moore had taught him: “Fuck you, Gallagher, you fucking traitor. You’re going to kill me anyway, so get on with it, you scumbag.”
“Some bravado now, but the torture will be long and terrible. And your friend, your hero Mr. Moore, has left you here to rot. You’re going to remain loyal to someone who has abandoned you? I want you to think about that, Rana. Think very carefully about that.”
Rana knew that Moore had not intentionally left Pakistan. He was called away, and that was the nature of his job as an operative. He’d mentioned that several times and had explained that other agents might contact him and that his relationship with the Agency was very important to them.
But Rana was not sure he could deal with the torture. He imagined them chopping off his fingers and toes, attaching battery cables to his genitalia, and pulling out his teeth. He imagined them cutting him, burning him, putting out one of his eyes, and allowing snakes to bite him. He saw himself lying in the dirt, hacked apart like a lamb, and bleeding until the cold consumed him.
He tugged against the bindings around his wrists and ankles.
His vision finally cleared. Gallagher stood there with the two Taliban lieutenants behind. One of the men clutched a large knife, while the other was leaning on a large metal pipe, using it as a cane of sorts.
“Look at me, Rana,” said Gallagher. “I promise you, if you tell us what we need to know, we’ll let you go.”
“Do you think I’m that stupid?”
Gallagher recoiled. “Do you think I’m that ruthless?”
“Fuck you.”
“All right, then. I’m sorry.” He glanced to the men. “You are going to cry like a baby, and you are going to tell us everything we want to know.” Gallagher gestured to the man with the knife. “Cut his bindings. And then we’ll start with his feet.”
Rana trembled. Held his breath. And yes, he wept like a child now.
The sheer panic came on in quakes throughout his chest and gut. Maybe if he did talk, if he did tell them everything, they would free him. No, they wouldn’t. But maybe they would? There was nothing left to believe. Now he shook so violently that he was about to vomit.
“Okay, okay, I will help you!” he screamed.
Gallagher leaned in closer and smiled darkly. “We knew you would …”
13 WHERE WE BELONG
All of the high-tech devices in the world could not replace old-fashioned boots on the ground gathering
