by D. I. Telbat
Almost two weeks, she calculated. A lifetime ago, she'd been dragged from a Gazan street by Luc Lannoy and marched through the night by Hamas militants.
She touched her lip. It was bleeding again. That angered her, and though most of her anger was focused on her abusers, she was mad at herself, too. Expecting to be accosted by men, her captors had surprised her by being women—four women of hatred and violence. The anger she had for herself was related to her being so naive about a simple trip to Gaza and Israel. The Palestinian conflict was no small matter, and her intent on a few good deeds for the camera and a bathing suit shoot seemed like the most ridiculous idea now.
Crac Hassad. That's who controlled her now, though she hadn't seen the dark quiet man since the first night. The best Annette could guess was that she'd been handed over to Crac Hassad's wives. Two of them looked like Arab sisters. Their English was excellent, so their accusations against her weren't lost in translation.
They accused her of being a Zionist and a Christian. Under the weight of their brutality, Annette couldn't help but cry out to God. If she hadn't been a Christian before Gaza—which she doubted she had been—she was one now. She hadn't read the Bible since she was a youth at camp, but she knew enough about Jesus to know that He'd died for her, and she needed Him for the forgiveness of her sins. Corban Dowler had reminded her of all this—of her need for a Savior.
With disgust, she reflected on the years she'd wasted pretending to be a humanitarian, when in truth she just enjoyed the publicity. Because of her family's connections in California, and her career as a clothing model, being famous, wealthy, and spoiled seemed like the best of what life had to offer. But Gaza had shown her a major part of her life had been spent in ignorance, even blindness. The recent torment had caused her own sin to become very apparent, as if her suffering were a purifying agent.
Thus, she was angry at herself for being ignorant and naive, but also because she wasn't fighting back. The four women who kept her locked in the humid room were smaller than she was. Annette guessed she could fight and win against two of them, but not when three or all four came for her. She'd been waiting for her chance, to catch them with their guard down, but they were too careful. And now the beatings were taking a devastating toll.
Bruises covered her arms, back, and ribs. Usually, she was able to protect her head, but not when they held her down. And for what? Because they thought she was a Christian? Well, she was now! Their torture had backfired! No one could cry out for Jesus' comfort and deliverance as much as she had and not be a believer.
Annette rose to her feet and limped to the metal door that blocked her escape. Tapping her broken fingernails on it, she could tell it wasn't very thick. A few strong kicks might break it down, or crack the jamb. But such noise would surely bring her tormentors back. Maybe the occasional explosions outside would cover the noise of her escape. If she lived that long.
Or maybe there would be a time when two or more of the women weren't in the house. Yes! Finally, hope rose in her heart as a plan came together. If she learned to read the sounds of the house better, she might be able to determine how many were in there at any given time.
She looked down at her bare feet. She would need something on at least one foot to protect her heel from injury. Once she started kicking at that door, she wasn't going to stop. And whoever tried to catch her once she was free had better be able to run fifteen hundred meters under five minutes—which was her college track team record.
"Thank You, Lord," Annette prayed, certain the plan had come from God. Even if the plan didn't work, she decided it was still God helping her focus on something besides beatings and hatred.
Hatred? Limping, she turned from the door and began to pace the floor of the small bare room. No, it wasn't really hatred. It couldn't be. It was pity. She was a Christian now. If the Spirit of Jesus Christ was in her, then that's what she must feel—anger and fury at evil and injustice, but not hatred. The women who'd beaten her were bound in their own way. And she was bound in her own way—the Lord's way. Corban Dowler's non-lethal tactics had taught her something about a Christian's response to evil in the world.
Kneeling, she picked up her plate and fingered the last of the stale bread crumbs into her mouth. It was almost time for another meal to be brought to her, accompanied by one cup of tepid water. But a beating would precede the bland meal. A beating and a meal. It reminded her of a horror movie she'd once auditioned for. She hadn't gotten the part in the movie, but she was the lead actress in this mess!
#######
Vienna, Austria
Titus Caspertein stood outside the Cafe Sperl in downtown Vienna and looked up Gumpendorfer Street. Now was his time to run, if he were going to. Sure, the CIA had seized his accounts and Interpol knew a few of his old haunts, but Titus still had a hundred caches of cash and weapons no one knew about.
"Hey, Titus!" Corban called from a public phone a few yards away. The old spy pointed at the patio table. Titus fetched a napkin for Corban to write on. Whoever Corban was speaking to, it was in a mixture of German, English, and Hebrew. Knowing only English and fair German, Titus couldn't follow the conversation, and he was reminded the old spy could outsmart him any time he wanted to.
Looking northwest, Titus imagined the Danube Canal about twenty twisting blocks away. He could run that far and steal a boat when he reached the canal. A few years back, he and a partner had stolen a few paintings and escaped on the canal. He could do it again, and Corban would never find him.
But things weren't that easy. Sure, escaping was easy. Titus had given government agents the slip before, but Corban wasn't exactly an agent anymore. He'd shown Titus kindness when Titus hadn't expected or deserved it. Instead of sending him to rot in a foreign prison, Corban was treating him like a partner. The Uzbek operation had been daring and potentially deadly, but Corban hadn't hesitated to put his life on the line for Rasht Hassad, who waited for them at the airport. It was the second time Titus had risked his life for someone else. The first time had been for the Palestinian Christians. Both times, Corban had been involved, but Titus knew it wasn't Corban who was influencing him. He suspected God was chopping away at his hard heart, and he didn't like it.
Titus inhaled the aromas of Naschmarkt two blocks away, where both local and foreign exotic merchandise and spices were on display. He glanced at Corban, still speaking cryptically on the phone. The man was a rock. He prayed to God as often as he breathed. So connected internationally, and yet he was alone here with Titus.
Death had haunted Corban, Titus knew. Corban's family had been harassed for years by the US government. He'd shared some of this with Titus in the last two weeks of laying low while Rasht healed before they returned to Gaza for the final stage of the operation. Just because people were close to Corban didn't mean they were invincible, though. Luigi Putelli had died saving Aaron Adar and Oleg.
Oleg Saratov. The man caused Titus to reconsider his thoughts of running away to live underground again. Titus had learned a little more about the Interpol man who'd seemed at home as a criminal by his side for months. The man had only wanted to disrupt the bio-weapon sale and try to arrest the criminals involved. It was just a matter of time before Oleg would be back on his trail if Titus ran now. He'd have to look over his shoulder the rest of his life, and be especially careful since Oleg knew best how Titus' own network operated now. Corban was the only man keeping Titus out of prison. That meant Titus was dependent on the old man.
Outside of Vienna, a giant Ilyushin 76 cargo plane sat in a field near the Hungarian border. The flying tank from the Soviet era was Corban's remote base of operations. The monstrous machine with a forty-meter wingspan made Titus scoff at his own private jet he sometimes used to smuggle small shipments of contraband over foreign borders. Corban could carry sixty tons of rice into the heart of Africa—and that didn't count the fifteen extra tons of Bibles the plane could carry in the phantom cargo space beneath the main hold. The full-time pilot Corban used h
ad once been an outlaw aviator from Uganda. If Titus hadn't spent the last two weeks with Corban, witnessing his uncompromising commitment to Jesus Christ, he would never have believed someone could be so selfless for their God.
"Good news," Corban said as he approached. He was clothed in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. A camera hung around his neck, playing the part of a tourist. "Luc Lannoy was spotted in Pakistan. Seems he's trying to acquire another weapon, maybe a dirty bomb this time on such short notice. I wish I could've seen Crac Hassad's face when he realized the canister they had wasn't the real thing."
"Luc could lead us to Annette." Titus watched Corban's face. "We can't forget about her, Corban. I know people in Islamabad and Karachi. If we could pick up Luc's trail—"
"No." Corban sat down at one of the patio tables. "It's too far out of our way now. Our responsibility is Rasht. Besides, Luc wouldn't be traveling with Annette. He probably left her in Gaza. We have a better chance at getting both Crac Hassad and Annette if we stay the course."
"But Luc is a direct link to Crac! How can you take a chance like that? You said he could be after a dirty bomb."
"I'm not saying Luc's not being looked into. Relax, Titus. Others are on it, but we're not."
"We can't risk it. Corban, we have to go to Pakistan. Hand Rasht off to someone else. I know Luc Lannoy. Trust me. He's not that smart, but he's smart enough to lay down contingencies if he knows we're onto him. Others won't know to be that careful."
"Titus, they're not even sure it's him in Pakistan. But the people that need to be are on it. If it's real, they'll get the bomb before it can be sold. Even if Luc's watching his tail, it won't be anything these agents can't handle."
"Who is it? Mossad still giving you orders, like they did with Rasht?" Titus joined him at the table. "Luc hired me to get the last weapon for him. I don't trust any government policy-makers to nab him. You shouldn't, either. We need to get him ourselves."
"That's not how this works, Titus. We have functional unity with other agencies, other operatives intent on the same objective. We're a team, to a degree. My people will keep us informed on Luc's movements and when he's been picked up. Right now, Rasht is healthy, so we're headed back to Gaza. Israel is waiting for us."
"So I don't even get a vote?" Titus asked with more bite to his words than he wanted to express, but Corban had a way of seeming stubborn. The first time they'd met under fire in the Gaza factory, Corban had been immovable and bull-headed about completing his own mission. He was still just as unyielding.
"No, you don't get a vote. If you haven't figured it out yet, you're in my custody. You have a lot to answer for, Titus. You sold your freedom with that stunt in Gaza. The only vote you do have is between being in my company, or in Interpol's. I hear they still have wanted posters with your face on them. Oleg wouldn't mind seeing you again, I'm sure."
Titus gritted his teeth and looked down the street. He had too much pride and skill to be treated like this. He was the Serval! For a moment, Titus had thought seriously about sticking around, but not now. Nobody kept the shackles on him like this. He could call in his own favors. After all, he was the American exile who the US couldn't afford to prosecute because of his resources.
Thrusting his right hand into his pocket, Titus felt the tranq-pen. He was nobody's prisoner, and he definitely wasn't trusting a police force to bring in Luc Lannoy. Titus would get him himself, and even find out what he'd done with Annette Sheffield. He'd show them all he wasn't just an arms smuggler. They weren't better than him!
When Corban rose to his feet, Titus was an instant behind him. He drew the pen. Titus was taller and stronger than the older man, but Corban still blocked the thrusting motion of the pen.
Titus didn't retreat. He even ignored several pedestrians who cried out and pointed at the two men locked in the struggle. Little by little, Titus strained against Corban's strength. The pen moved closer to Corban's chest. It punctured his shirt, then his skin.
Slowly, Corban went limp, but didn't go unconscious immediately. Titus eased him into the nearest patio chair.
"This is a . . . mistake," Corban said, his voice shallow.
"Yeah? Why?" Titus searched Corban's pockets until he found the napkin. Sure enough, there was a Karachi address written on it.
"I'm one of God's servants, Titus. The Lord is my shield and my . . ."
Titus' nostrils flared. What was he becoming? Where was the honor in doing this? Shaking his head at himself, Titus pushed his way out of a gathering circle of observers. Several Austrians tried to grab him, probably to hold him until the police arrived, but Titus shook them off.
He was a fugitive again, but at least he wasn't anyone's prisoner.
#######
Gulf of Aden
Nathan Isaacson fought against the hypnotizing roll of the ocean as he floated on his back in the Gulf of Aden. Night had come and gone, and now the sun was baking them alive.
Beside him, sleeping softly now, was the child Nathan had saved from the Yemeni soldiers. Nathan cradled the boy's head in the crook of his arm, supporting him amidst the gentle waves. His lips were cracked, but Nathan was helpless to do anything. They had drifted too far out to sea. Part of him wanted to live, but the rest of his being had resigned to drift into the afterlife. He was ready to go, and his prayers through the night had reflected as much.
He'd lived a full life as a man of war in the Middle East, and then a Special Forces operative for COIL. Dozens of times, he'd escaped death by bullets, and even a series of poisonings in Germany. Had God saved him from all that only to die some obscure death at sea?
There were worse deaths, he decided. If only he could save the boy. Whatever language he spoke, it wasn't Arabic, and Nathan didn't know any of the Yemeni tribal dialects, so he couldn't communicate God's love to him. No, that wasn't true. He was communicating God's love perfectly—so said the cramp in his right arm from holding the boy as he slept, keeping his face above the surface of the water.
A muffled chiming reached Nathan's ears. It sounded like his satellite phone, but it wasn't possible. He was miles from shore. His sat-phone had been lost when his raft had drifted from the shore. Under other survival extremes, he'd had similar hallucinations. Now he knew he was close to dying; he was losing his mind.
Nevertheless, Nathan righted himself to tread water for a moment, careful to continue supporting the boy. He stared at a black mass ten feet away before he realized it truly was his raft. Gasping a sob, he kicked sluggishly toward that which had to be an apparition. But the sat-phone continued to ring.
He lifted the boy into the raft first, then climbed halfway in before he reached for the phone.
"Yeah?"
"Nathan, it's Corban. Can you talk?"
"Sure." Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, allowing several tears to slip out. "You called right on time, Boss."
"I need you in Colombo by tomorrow. Can you make it? Are you finished in Yemen yet? Chloe said you haven't called in."
"Uh . . ." Nathan opened his eyes to check the raft. The boy had found the water container and was struggling with the cap. "Yeah, I'm just finishing up here. Another one to chalk up to God's touch, let me tell you!"
"Okay, I look forward to hearing about it. Here are the coordinates where I need you to meet me . . ."
Nathan stored the GPS coordinates in the phone, then hung up. With a final kick, he dragged the rest of his exhausted body into the raft. The inflatable was equipped for eight people and had enough fuel to reach Somalia.
After helping the boy drink a little water, Nathan gazed northward before he took a sip. He confessed his previous feelings of despair. Too quickly, he'd stopped believing that God was watching over him, in control of even the ocean currents.
Not only had the phone rang at precisely the right moment, but at no other time since Nathan had gone solo did he crave company more. The Lord was moving the world to take care of him, Nathan thought with a smile. Whatever Corban needed from him in Sri Lanka's
western capital, this recent lesson of faith and trust had to be applied!
All he could think about now was sharing everything with Chen Li.
*~*
Chapter Sixteen
Sri Lanka
Corban Dowler stood beside a crumbled cement wall. Villagers from a dozen towns had gathered to rebuild the ruined church. Those picking through the rubble weren't disheartened—they were the true Christians. It brought tears of joy to Corban's eyes to be in the presence of such faith. And though the persecution in Sri Lanka was vicious, these people had already prayed to forgive their tormenters.
The road into the hill country six hours north of Colombo was rutted and muddy this time of year. Corban had parked his Land Rover and walked the last few miles. Humidity caused his clothing to cling to him, and the mosquitos seemed to sense he wasn't a native and attacked his exposed skin.
A translator had helped Corban communicate upon arrival, but since he didn't speak Sinhala, he remained separate. His work was done here: delivering supplies, flannel graph materials, and other Sunday School items to this persecuted body of believers.
"Couldn't you have picked a more remote meeting place, Boss?"
Corban smiled as he turned.
"Nathan!" He embraced the young man in khakis and safari hat, then stepped back and grimaced. "Yeman was that tough, huh?"
"I about beat you to my mansion in the sky." Nathan chuckled, touching his bushy beard and cracked lips. "But you shouldn't talk." He frowned and pointed at Corban's chest.
"Oh . . ." Corban felt his shirt to find his collar open, exposing the bandage on his upper chest. "That Titus Caspertein used a tranq-pen on me. It didn't faze me other than to tear my skin and bruise me up a bit. You were right: that tetradetoxin works against our tranquilizer toxin."
"Bet Titus was surprised when you didn't pass out." Nathan slapped his thigh. "Wish I could've seen that!"
