The other guard recovered to a ready stance, pointedly tapping the police baton against the palm of one hand.
Ali stood up, leaning on the desk. “Mr. Johnson? I am waiting. If you ever want to walk again…”
J. J. Johnson tried hard to choke off the sob rising from his core. He tasted a salty warmth and realized that he had bitten into his lip. He thought:
“Bugs.”
“What?” Ali gestured and his men set Johnson in the chair again. “What’s that?”
“Germs.” Johnson inhaled deeply, trying to keep his wits in the game.
“Go on, Johnson.”
“Water.” It came as a croak as he crawled onto the chair.
Ali shoved the bottle across the desk again. Johnson took his time sipping the water, then rubbed some on his stinging neck.
“One… two…”
Ali sat down again. “What kind of germs, Johnson? Do not test me!”
Johnson looked up, his vision blurring from the tears of pain. “I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know about the germs!”
Ali allowed himself to slouch in his chair. He wanted to appear calm, in control. He thought for a moment. He had to admire the American’s fortitude. Many men would have spilled all they knew by now. He had seen it before. Then he played his trump. “Tell me about Doctor Carolyn Padgett-Smith.”
Johnson’s eyes betrayed him. They widened in astonished recognition. Then he recovered. “Who?”
Ali turned his head, showing the wolfish smile again. Slowly, almost elegantly, he raised a hand. Five fingers.
Then he raised the other hand.
Johnson was on the floor after the fourth blow. He felt his back flayed open, then more strikes whipped across his buttocks and upper legs. He rolled in hopeless desperation, shrieking in pain. The two tormenters boxed him in, taking turns and leaning into their work, imparting every ounce of energy to each lash.
When he was able to stop sobbing, Johnson stretched out a hand. “Water.”
Ali was on his feet, taking long strides toward the wretch on the floor. Grasping Johnson’s hair in one hand, he flicked open a knife and held it against the victim’s cheek. “You get water when I have my answer. Or I take your eyes one at a time.”
Jeremy Johnson levitated. He was seeing himself from above, as if hanging from the rafters. His alter ego called to him.
He heard himself say, “She’s a British doctor.”
Ali shook Johnson’s head, pulling some hair out. “I know that! Why is she here?”
Johnson told him.
Ali was washing his feet in preparation for evening prayers when Kassim reappeared. The doctor beckoned him in.
“He is secure, Doctor. He cannot escape, and I doubt that he could walk far.”
Ali looked up from the basin at his feet. “Has he eaten?”
Kassim was taken aback. The alien was a shredded figure of bloody tatters who limped along on one leg. What did it matter if he had eaten? “He has been fed. I do not know if he partakes.”
“What did you give him?”
Kassim shook his head ever so slightly. “Rice with some mutton. And a cup of tea, as you ordered. Why do you ask?”
“Merely because he is our prisoner does not mean he should be starved. The Prophet requires it.”
“With respect… the man has been sliced to ribbons. He lies in the dirt trying not to cry out. I doubt if he has much appetite.”
“He will eat if he desires.” Ali turned back to his ablution.
Kassim nodded, then turned to go. The doctor’s voice brought him up short. “I must leave with my men. Meanwhile, remember this: no one is to approach the infidel alone. There must always be at least two guards, both armed.”
The Syrian furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “Truly? You believe he is such a threat in his condition?”
“He is an elite soldier. Regardless of his cause or greed, we must not underestimate him. If he escapes, he will tell the others of this place. That in turn could lead — elsewhere.”
Kassim did not share his colleague’s respect for the whipped dog in the pen, but the doctor’s judgment was seldom wrong. “I shall tell the others.” He shifted his weight to his good leg. “Will you question him tomorrow?”
“I do not believe he has much more to tell us. But I shall tend his wounds tonight. I have some veterinary cephalhexin to prevent infection.”
“Then… what shall we do with him?”
Ali raised his hands from the basin, palms up. “God will decide.”
“Well, he’s just not here. That’s all we know.”
Leopole slumped against the table in the briefing room, tacitly conceding the obvious to a roomful of operators. Omar Mohammed remained seated but appeared no less subdued.
Leopole continued, “We’ve tried every source we know: police, military, embassy. Even some back-channel contacts.” He decided not to mention that an attractive sum had been offered in certain quarters for any information leading to the missing American, no questions asked. “We have to notify headquarters. Maybe they can try something in Washington.”
Malten spoke the question on everyone’s mind. “Colonel, do you think that al Qaeda got him?”
“I don’t know how else to explain it,” Leopole replied. “You and Brezyinski were closest to him, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Like I said, he disappeared around the corner and when I got there maybe twenty seconds later, he was gone.”
Mohammed had a theory. “This was almost certainly a kidnapping. We suspected that the opposition had observers on the base, and they saw a pattern and took advantage of it.” He stopped long enough to visualize the scene. “It wouldn’t have been very hard: drive alongside him, point a gun at his head and tell him to get in.”
Breezy would not admit it, but he began feeling pangs of regret for the way he had ribbed the former legionnaire so often. “So what do we do, now? Looks like all we can do is wait.”
Leopole eased off the table and stood with his arms akimbo. He realized that he needed to demonstrate some leadership, even if he lacked confidence in the case of Jeremy Johnson. “We keep planning and training, gentlemen. Same schedule: training starts again at 0700.”
20
J. J. Johnson tried to reason it out.
The Muslims had fed him and even tended the appalling wounds on his back and legs. That fact seemed to indicate a willingness to keep him alive, if only briefly. But the vicious, smooth-talking bastard who fancied himself a doctor was obviously a religious fanatic. Johnson had no doubt that the man’s threat with the knife was genuine. Maybe he was taking a dual role: good cop, bad cop all in one. Maybe he was just playing mind games.
Johnson had no intention of waiting to find out. He realized that, having given the sophisticated sadist the
