by Brad Taylor
Khalid said, “He works for the United States. This isn’t a lone gunman. We need to capture him. Interrogate him. Find out what he knows.”
On the verge of panic, thinking of his father, Haider said, “How? We don’t know anything about him. He seems to know everything about us.”
Haider put his hands to his head and continued. “He’s going to find out about the Syrian. He’s going to learn our plans.”
Khalid turned cold. Clinical. “No, he won’t. He will learn about the existence of the Syrian. In fact, he most likely already has, but you didn’t tell Nassir what you told me after your meetings with the American secretary of state. Nassir doesn’t know anything of value, other than the Syrian exists. And we can use that against the American.”
“How?”
“When he learns of the Syrian, the man will want to hunt him. To kill him. It’s impossible for him not to. We use his own desire against him.”
Haider recoiled at the very notion, saying, “Khalid, I can’t do that. If anything happens to the Syrian, my father will disown me. I should call him. Get his advice. Let him know what has transpired.”
He brought the phone back up and Khalid placed a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“Don’t call your father. He will tell you to send the Syrian as planned, and then disown you anyway.” Khalid chuckled and said, “Don’t worry. It’s not too bad. I’ve been dead to my father from birth.”
Haider ignored the comment. “I have to call him. This is too big of a problem. The man has killed two of us, and now might destroy my father’s plans. If it festers, my father might do more than just disown me.”
Khalid said, “Give it a day. Contact Nikos and have him send some men to Crete. I’ll go with them. The American has Nassir’s phone, and I’m sure Nassir has given him whatever passwords went along with it. Send Nassir an email detailing a new meeting for the Syrian. Someplace where he won’t dare attack. Then call the Syrian and tell him to go there. The man will find him, and the Syrian will lead him straight to us, at a location we control.”
Haider waivered and Khalid said, “Remember Ahmed. Remember Nassir. Your father doesn’t care about them, but you do. We can avenge them.”
Khalid placed his hands on Haider’s shoulders, facing him square. Haider saw the crazy leaking out of his eyes. A small tear when they were in Qatar, it had grown larger since Afghanistan, like a split in a bucket. Khalid said, “You are my friend, but if you do not do this, you won’t have to worry about your father. I’ll kill you myself.”
—
Guy returned from the small bathroom, carrying a rag damp with water. He walked to the man in the chair, taking his time. Letting the dread build.
Eyes rolling left and right, unable to turn his head, the man was sweating profusely. Using a roll of duct tape, Guy had strapped him to a chair like a mummy, both legs and arms cinched tight. He’d taken two broomsticks and run them up the back of the chair, strapping one behind each ear, then down the chair. His target was completely immobile, his shirt hitched high and his pants pulled down to his knees.
Directly to the front of the chair was a small end table. On top of it were all of the possessions the man had on him. Wallet, smartphone, change, and a laser-cut key. Next to the key was a pair of pliers.
Guy moved the table back a few feet, then squatted in front of the man and pulled out the rag he’d stuffed in the man’s mouth. He said, “What is your name?” The man said nothing. Guy held up the rag and said, “Open your mouth back up.” The man pursed his lips closed. Almost conversationally, Guy said, “You know the most sensitive parts of the human body? Your fingertips and your penis.”
He picked up the pliers and said, “Oh, and your tongue, but I can’t use that, because I need you to be able to speak. Now, I’m going to start with your fingers, the first just to get you to open your mouth. Then, once the rag is back in to muffle the screams, I’m going to apply some pressure so that you know what’s going to happen. Then I’ll start my questions. Some of them I already know the answer to. Some I don’t. It’ll be up to you to figure out which ones to lie to me about, but if you make a mistake, the penalty will be enormous.”
The man began to cry. Inwardly, Guy felt the relief slip out, like a balloon losing air. This man was not nearly as hard as the one in Key West. After that episode, Guy had planned on each of his targets being die-hard fanatics. This man clearly was not.
Showing nothing but malice, Guy said, “So you know, I have more than ten questions, so eventually, if you don’t answer correctly, we’re going to reach little peter there. After that, I’ll have to get creative.”
The man closed his eyes and mumbled something. Guy thumped his forehead and said, “What was that?”
“Nassir. My name is Nassir.”
Good.
“Now, that wasn’t too hard, was it?”
Nassir mumbled, “No.”
“Okay then, second question: When was the last time you were in Afghanistan?”
Nassir looked confused at the track of the question, and Guy raised the pliers, gently placing the tip of Nassir’s index finger between the jaws. Guy said, “I’m not even going to pretend I don’t know the answer to that question.”
Nassir said, “Two months ago. It was the only time. I’ve never been there before that. I swear.”
A strange mishmash of emotions flooded into Guy. Victory competing with sadness competing with anger. He felt the urge to take Nassir’s murdering life right then, the snake coiling for vengeance, but the meeting that had occurred earlier pulled at the back of his brain. A need to learn if this cell intended to kill again. A responsibility to the duty he’d sworn to uphold.
And a yearning for absolution for what he was about to do.
He changed tack to throw off his subject, turning to the table and pointing at the key with his free hand. “Tell me what this goes to.”
Whipped by the change in direction, Nassir stumbled for an answer, and Guy closed the pliers, shoving in the rag as soon as Nassir’s mouth flew open.
A tortured grunt came through the rag, and Nassir released his bladder. Guy leapt up, yanking the rag from his mouth. Without any humor, he said, “That’s not going to stop anything from happening.”
Between sucking in great gouts of air, Nassir choked out, “It’s for a safe-deposit box. A bank box.”
The room reeking of urine, sweat, and the uniquely pungent smell of animal terror, Nassir stared at the pliers on his finger, waiting on the bite. Guy said, “Safe-deposit box? At the Alpha Bank here?”
Nassir tried to nod, the forehead moving a millimeter in its tape cocoon. “Yes, yes, the Alpha Bank.”
Before Guy could ask another question, Nassir’s eyes flew open and he shouted, “No, no. Not here. Not the one here. The Alpha bank in Athens. Please, please. I didn’t mean to lie.”
Guy realized the man had broken. Nassir was now correcting himself without any pressure being applied. He was done.
Guy set the key down and said, “Good, Nassir. Very good. I believe you.”
Nassir sagged in relief, the tape alone holding him upright. Guy tapped his crushed finger, drawing a yelp of pain.
Guy said, “Don’t take my kindness for granted. We aren’t done.”
Eyes wide, tears running down his face, Nassir waited. Guy said, “Tell me about this man you met today.”
38
We hit the runway of Heraklion Airport and I immediately told Knuckles to call Creed, seeing if he’d gotten any more fidelity on the man we were hunting. Creed had managed to crack the Carrier IQ of the phone, giving us a wealth of data, including its location, but he was still trying to find out the man behind the phone. Or more precisely, the name of the man behind the phone. We needed that. Even in today’s electronic world, an identity was paramount. It was something that could be hidden online but was necessary i
n the real world, and the real world still mattered in a manhunt. At least for a few more years.
Too many vendors required identification. Required some measure of proving who you were, from hotels to airlines to rental cars, and in foreign countries, that meant a passport. A US driver’s license wouldn’t cut it. In the end, you just can’t fake it when you’re talking to a human, and if we could find that name, we could track Guy.
We taxied to the FBO, away from the commercial terminal, and Brett stood up, saying, “What do you want downloaded?”
The aircraft we were in was a Gulfstream G650—a Rock Star bird like the ones famous celebrities used to initiate unfortunate groupies into the mile-high club—and was leased to Grolier Services through about a thousand cutouts that eventually ended up at Blaisdell Consulting and the Taskforce. As much as I would have loved to test out Jennifer’s propensity to be a groupie—okay, I didn’t say that—its true purpose was to infiltrate our weapons and equipment through customs, with everything hidden in secret panels throughout the aircraft. Brett was wanting to know what to break out, since the concealment was a bit of a bitch to penetrate, with each category of equipment in its own little shell.
I said, “Surveillance stuff only. Cameras, cell phone penetration, and beacons. I want only one suitcase. I don’t want to walk out of here like we’re tracking an army.”
“Weapons?”
I considered, not liking the thought, but knowing it was necessary. “Pistols. Suppressed.”
Nick was sitting wide-eyed next to Jennifer, listening to the conversation. He’d taken that seat on purpose, I was sure, because he knew her and she was friendly. He was still scared of me, which suited me just fine. He said, “Are we going to do an assault here? On Crete?”
I said, “That’ll all depend on him. Don’t freak out on me here, kid. You just point him out. I’ll do the rest.”
Nick went from Knuckles, to Jennifer, to me. He said, “I’m not sure . . .”
I said, “Not sure of what? All I’m asking you to do is ID him for me. Jennifer will be with you. She’ll work the kit. Don’t make me regret bringing you here. I promise you won’t get hurt.”
I saw him take the words as an insult, and I realized I’d misjudged his reticence. He said, “When I was in Ireland, you showed a desire to do good. A ferocious will to rescue Kylie. It’s why I came to the Taskforce. I’m just not . . . sure this is good.”
I said, “Look, I’m sure you thought you’d be slaying terrorists left and right, but sometimes you follow orders, even if they’re unpleasant. This doesn’t make me happy any more than it does you. But you are doing good.”
“How? We’re chasing an American. We’re hunting a guy in the Taskforce. Someone I’m supposed to emulate. Someone I should look up to. Instead, I’m wondering if I’m going to kill him.”
I glanced at Jennifer, passing the ball. She took it seamlessly. She said, “You talked about Pike as someone you trust. Someone who got you to join this organization because you saw something in him that you wanted to follow. So did I.”
I nodded, pleased with her using my leadership to get him to continue. Then she said, “But Pike wasn’t always this way. When I met him, he was the sorriest human being I’ve ever seen, and I don’t mean just because he was pathetic. He was worse than that. He was despicable.”
I started to spit out something to get her to shut up, and she held up her hand, silencing me. Nick looked surprised at the action, which really aggravated me. Before I could explode, Jennifer said, “I saw him slaughter two men with his bare hands in a psychotic rage. I ran from him because I saw a sociopath. Then he saved my life at great risk to his own. He was not that man. And neither is Guy.”
As serious as I’ve ever seen her, she said, “This is just like hunting terrorists, because you’re going to save a life. Guy’s life, and he deserves it. Pike picked you for the same reason you joined. He trusts you. And I’ve been here before. Let’s bring Guy home.”
Nick looked uncertain, and I said, “Hey, this is a shitty mission all the way around, but I wouldn’t have taken it if I didn’t have a team to get it done. I chose you because of your judgment. Don’t sell me short on the same thing.”
Knuckles came forward, holding out the phone. He said, “We got him. He’s currently at a tourist attraction south of Heraklion, inland. Been there for a couple of hours.”
“Name? Did they get his ID?”
“Yeah. They think. They’ve found digital links to some guy named Sean Parnell, and they think it’s him. He’s used a credit card to buy a ferry ticket and a moped here on Crete, and the name came into Greece on the timeline we have for Guy. Nothing on hotels, though.”
All I heard was the name, feeling a little sadness at what Guy had done. I said, “Sean Parnell?”
“Does that mean something?”
“Yeah. It’s him. I knew a guy named Parnell in Ranger Battalion. Second Batt. No way is that a coincidence.”
“So he’s getting help from active-duty guys? They gave him a passport? You think this is a conspiracy?”
I shook my head. “No. Parnell’s dead. Killed in Iraq.”
39
Sitting just inside the entrance to the Palace of Knossos, an ancient archeological site detailing Minoan life on Crete, Guy kept his eyes on the ticket booth, waiting on his target to show. He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly five p.m.—the time the tourist destination closed—and wondered if he’d put too much trust in the email. Maybe his actions last night had somehow altered the instructions the second man had received. Did they know his phone was compromised? Had they decided to change venues? Did they understand that the man who owned that handset was now dead?
It was a question he couldn’t answer, and so he sat, waiting. Watching. Regretting letting the other man out of his sight. He consoled himself by thinking about the ferry ride. He would link up with the target there, whether he showed here or not. Worst case, he would miss a piece of the puzzle, but he hadn’t lost the target.
He brushed off one more vendor looking to sell him bottled water or a postcard, glaring at the woman hard enough to make her scurry away. Or maybe it was just his appearance. A three-day growth of beard, no sleep, and the devil slithering through his soul.
He’d spent the better part of six hours interrogating Nassir, the subject answering all questions unhesitatingly.
Nassir told him he’d passed identification and money to the man he’d met, that the identification had come from a safe-deposit box owned by the Qatar Investment Authority, and that the man was up to no good. But he didn’t learn what that might be.
Nassir didn’t know, of that he was sure. During the interrogation, in between Guy’s sessions of vomiting at what he was doing—the only break the subject received—Nassir would have made something up, if he was smart enough.
He was not.
Eventually, Guy turned to the table again, picking up the cell phone. Nassir gave up the passwords, scared of what Guy would find but more afraid of the repercussions if he remained mute. Guy had searched it, seeing justification for his actions. He waded through names, text messages, and PDF files, laboriously using Google Translate only to find all detailing normal activity. Then he’d come across a word document held on a service called Dropbox. When Google Translate finished, he saw it was a damn after-action review of his brother’s killing in Afghanistan. A triumphant discussion of slaughtering the infidels in the quest for jihad.
And then a new email message appeared, about a meeting tomorrow. He’d grown angry at that point, losing his objectivity and his nausea.
He demanded answers for the email, but Nassir refused to tell him. Or didn’t know. After the destruction was wrought, Guy was betting on the second reason.
When he felt he’d gathered all he could, Guy had dragged Nassir to the shower, still in his chair cocoon, placing his head near the dra
in, a gag in his mouth. Nassir had begged, thrashing in the tape. Guy had placed the barrel of his suppressed pistol up to the temple, saw the rolling eyes, tears streaming down, and couldn’t do it.
Not with the man looking at him.
Key West had been different. There, the man had fought, pulling a knife and coming close to gaining the upper hand. The rage had been flowing, and it was almost self-defense. Man on man, with Guy earning the win. Nothing like this. Nassir had no fight in him, and was completely defenseless.
Guy had knocked him out at that point, hammering his temple with the barrel, getting the eyes off of him.
And then had pulled the trigger.
Afterward, he’d distractedly turned on the shower, strangely feeling that it wouldn’t be right for the maids to be forced to clean up the blood after it had solidified. He’d watched the red water swirl down the drain, feeling his soul going with it. He’d then curled up on the bed in the fetal position, trying to sleep.
Way past midnight, staring at the ceiling fan in a half sleep, he heard Nassir speak, asking for help. He’d snapped awake, sweat dripping down his back, straining his ears. He heard it again. He leapt out of bed, running to the bathroom and flipping on the lights. Nassir lay on the chipped tile, a gaping hole in his temple, his eyes unseeing.
Guy began to believe he was losing his grasp on reality.
He packed what little he’d brought, and went outside, leaving the PRIVACY PLEASE sign on the door. He’d rented the room for three nights, hoping nobody would check the room until he was gone, but if Nassir kept begging for help, the maids would hear.
The thought made him giddy and confused.
Losing it.
He slept on a makeshift bench built by workers at a construction site next door. When dawn broke, he’d awakened, retrieved his scooter, and began to watch.
At 0900, Guy saw a cab pull up to the hotel, a spike, given the small size of the town and the absolute absence of a taxi business. Someone had called him. At 0910, the target exited the hotel, his face now shorn clean, and got into the back of the cab. At 0912, the cab drove away, winding through the small roads of the town, heading back to the main highway.
