There was a short conversation, after which Hasan returned to the back of the van.
'How long will it take to make these connections?'
'Three quarters of an hour at the most,' Rodgers said. 'It'll take less time if you help.'
'I will help,' Hasan said as he retied Sondra and began to untie the general. 'But I warn you, if you try to get away, I will kill you and one of your people. Do you understand?'
Rodgers nodded.
Hasan finished removing the restraining rope, and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he retrieved the wire shears from the tool chest in the rear of the van. Rodgers held out his hand, and Hasan hesitated. Mahmoud upholstered his gun and pointed it at Mary Rose. Hasan handed the shears to Rodgers.
While Hasan collected the cable, Rodgers used a staple gun to make a protective, insulated mitt from a pair of rubber mouse pads. When he was finished, he went outside with Hasan.
Rodgers worked quickly under the glow of the headlights. As he bent beside the fence, he couldn't help but think about what he was doing. Not about rewiring the fence. That was rote. He and Hasan cut the cable into two ten-foot lengths, stripped the ends, and used the mitt to wrap them carefully around the two separate but intermeshed coils of barbed wire. Then they laid the cable on the ground and cut the barbed wire. Rodgers used the mitt to pull it aside and staple the end to the post.
No, what Rodgers thought about during those twenty-seven minutes was the fact that it was his job to try to stop these bastards. Now here he was, helping them to escape. He tried to justify his actions by telling himself that they would probably get away regardless. This way, at least, his people wouldn't be hurt. But the idea of being a collaborator, for whatever reason, stuck in his throat and refused to go down.
When they finished, Hasan gave an okay sign to Mahmoud. The leader motioned them back inside. As they entered, Rodgers removed his mitt. He paused to cut Pupshaw free.
Hasan pushed his gun against Rodgers's temple. 'What are you doing?' he asked harshly.
'Letting my man back in.'
'You presume a great deal,' Hasan said.
'I thought we had an agreement,' Rodgers replied. 'I wire the fence, my people ride inside.'
'Truly,' said Hasan, 'we have this agreement.' He pulled the shears away from Rodgers. 'But it is not for you to give freedom.'
'I'm sorry,' Rodgers said. 'I was only trying to hurry things along.'
'Don't pretend that you are on our side,' Hasan said. 'Your lie insults us both.' Hasan lowered the gun. He used it to motion Rodgers inside.
Rodgers watched the gun from the corner of his eye. As he stepped up on the running board, his sense of duty began to gnaw at him again. That and the humiliating reality of having just had a gun pressed to his head. He was a United States soldier. He was a prisoner. His job should be to try and escape, not to take orders from a terrorist and abet enemies of a NATO ally.
Rodgers quickly considered his options. If he turned and threw himself against Hasan, he might be able to get the gun, shoot the Syrian, then turn the weapon on the other two. Certainly in the dark, on the ground, he'd have a decent chance of success. And if he waited until Pupshaw was free, the private would seize the initiative and probably tackle Mahmoud, who was right behind him inside the van. With luck, the only ones who would be at risk were himself and Pupshaw. Even if they lost their lives, the others were still valuable hostages. The Syrians probably wouldn't kill them.
Action was clearly on Pupshaw's mind as well. Rodgers could tell from the way the private's dark eyes followed him, waiting for his lead. Rodgers knew then that if he didn't act, not only would he hate himself, but he'd lose the respect of his subordinates. He had only an instant to decide. He also knew that if he managed to get the gun, he wouldn't be able to hesitate.
Mahmoud said something. Hasan nodded, then pulled the rope from his pocket. He pushed Rodgers in the small of his back.
'Turn around,' Hasan said. 'I have to tie you up until we reach the next fence.'
Shit, thought Rodgers. He'd been hoping they'd leave him free while they transferred Pupshaw inside. Now, if he acted it would have to be alone — with Pupshaw tied up in the line of fire. Rodgers glanced at the private, whose gaze was unwavering.
Rodgers extended his hands toward Hasan. The Syrian tucked his gun in his waistband and slipped the rope around Rodgers's wrists. Rodgers's hands were held palms-together. Slowly, imperceptibly, he curled the third and fourth fingers of his left hand slightly so that the tips of all four fingers were even. Then, pressing the fingers one against the other, he drove the solid line of fingertips into Hasan's throat. The Syrian gagged and reached for Rodgers's hand. As he did, Rodgers's right hand shot down and grabbed the gun. He fired twice into Hasan's chest. As the Syrian tumbled soundlessly to the ground, Rodgers stepped into the van and aimed at Mahmoud.
'Use me as a shield!' Pupshaw shouted.
Rodgers had no intention of doing so. But before he could shoot around the private, Ibrahim gunned the engine. Rodgers was thrown to the floor as the ROC raced forward. The passenger's door was still open with Pupshaw tied to the handle. The private was bucked off the running board and his lower body was dragged alongside, under the door, as the van sped ahead.
Mahmoud vaulted from the passenger's seat and threw himself on top of Rodgers. As the American tried to bring the gun around, the Syrian drew his knife. Rodgers was able to move Mahmoud's arm to the side. But with incredible speed the Syrian literally fed the knife to his finger tips, pinched the hilt between his thumb and index finger, turned the knife around, and grasped it facing the other way. Once again the knife was pointing down at Rodgers. He was forced to let go of the gun to concentrate on Mahmoud's knife hand. The general grabbed the wrist with one hand and tried to pry his fingers from the hilt with the other.
Suddenly, Ibrahim braked. Mahmoud and Rodgers were thrown against the prisoners who were tied to the base of the passenger's seat. The van's noisy advance became the deathly quiet of late night as Ibrahim drew his own weapon. Shouting at Mahmoud, he aimed at Rodgers's head.
Mary'Rose screamed.
Before Mahmoud could fire, the wail of a siren reached them from across the plain. A patrol must have heard the shot. Without hesitation, Ibrahim threw the van into reverse. When they reached Hasan's body, Mahmoud jumped out and pulled it in. He was dead. His eyes were wide and unseeing. Blood stained his shirt-front and was seeping into the fibers around the side.
There was more conversation, probably about whether to kill Rodgers. Though Ibrahim was shaking with rage, the Syrians obviously decided that a gunshot would only tell the Turks exactly where they were.
Mahmoud pulled the dazed and bloodied Pupshaw inside and tied him back to his chair, while Ibrahim kicked Rodgers in the head before tying him to the chair leg, his back on the floor. They drove off, Ibrahim leaning heavily on the gas pedal.
Mahmoud punched Rodgers several times as they drove. Each time he struck the American's jaw, Mahmoud spit in his face. He stopped only when they reached the fence. Grabbing the mitt and the shears, Mahmoud went out to cut them through. There was no longer any need to be secretive. He sliced the wire quickly, pulling each strand to the side and wrapping it around the post.
Rodgers looked up through bloodstained eyes. He saw Sondra struggling hard to get free.
'Don't,' he said through his swollen jaw. He shook his head slowly. 'You're going to have to survive to lead them.'
When the last strand was cut, Ibrahim pressed on the gas and the van tore across the border. He stopped to let Mahmoud in. Evidently having had enough of punishing Rodgers, Mahmoud settled into his seat. As he sat in silence, picking pieces of bloody flesh from his ring, Ibrahim continued into the night.
TWENTY-NINE
'You don't have to tell me,' Martha Mackall said as Bob Herbert wheeled into her office. 'The ROC has gone
