by Fiona Quinn
***
Rooster had counted the number of times the keys had jangled in the locks. The rounds of screaming coming from the other building. And the number of people who were thrown back in their cells. The guards were bringing back number seventeen.
Meg had fallen asleep after they talked Stockholm syndrome and staying mentally healthy. She had slept the sleep of someone who’d run on adrenaline for almost twenty-four hours straight, and had their last ounce of energy wrung from them. The prisoners still hadn’t had food or water. He bet they’d bring water after they were done with the tapes. Humans don’t live long without it—and they, at least some of them, were precious commodities, no matter the terrorists’ end goal.
The three on this corridor—the ghost, Meg, and Rooster—were the last to undergo the ordeal. In many ways, it made it that much harder as they sat anticipating their turn. The brain was a devil as it tried to conjure up images of what was happening to the others. Rooster used techniques similar to the one he had taught Meg. He’d been doing it for so many years, it was a reflex.
Now he wondered how to make sure he went before Meg, so he could give her some warning and maybe some more precise techniques to get through it.
The guards came for the ghost first. One stood at the door to the cell with his rifle trained on the interior. The other two went in and hoisted him to his feet. He was able to get his legs under him. Rooster thought he was mostly unconscious, otherwise the pain of how they were holding his arm would make him shriek—no matter his training. The ghost never lifted his eyes, never looked Rooster’s way. He had moved robotically between the guards as he left, and he hadn’t been brought back in when they came for Rooster.
Rooster was cuffed for the walk. These guys were amateurs. They didn’t cuff him in the back. That was information. They slipped two pieces of rope in the chain between the cuffs. One rope was looped through the cuff, then each end was tied to one of his ankles, forcing him to either squat low or bend in half. The other rope then looped through the cuffs and was held by a guard, like he was walking a dog. That image came to him, and he let it drift right on along, never resting his attention on it, just noticing it and moving it out into the distance.
Rooster scanned over the other prisoners as he made his way out. He didn’t see any visible injuries. No broken noses. Broken noses were a quick and easy way to make a point. The pain was blinding and incapacitating. It let people know you were serious. It also made a bloody mess of their face that was sure to panic the families into selling all their assets to save their loved ones.
All the scientists had screamed. Rooster assumed this meant they were attaching electric wires and sending a blast of current through their system. Yeah, that would make a very effective video. But the ghost hadn’t screamed. And he had a serious head injury. Would Momo realize he couldn’t jolt someone with a concussion? Rooster didn’t hold out much hope that the ghost had lived through the ordeal.
As he had left, Rooster dipped his head under his arm, as if wiping his face on his sleeve, so he could catch a glance at Meg. He’d hoped she would still be oblivious in her cell, but she was gripping the bars and staring out at him with horror in her eyes. Now he had to decide whether to scream and give the asswipes what they wanted, or stay silent and protect Meg. He’d wait and see what was in store for him before he made that call. He was prepared for whatever they brought. Couldn’t be worse than what the Delta’s sprang on him in SERE—survival, escape, resistance, and evasion—school, he reasoned. Well, yeah. It could be. He noticed that thought and let it move on out of his consciousness and disappear over the horizon.
Rooster shuffled along beside them and reminded himself to affect the southern drawl he’d used earlier. He wondered if the ghost had given up Rooster’s identity to Momo, and the role he’d played in the Bowen case. If he did that, this is going to suck big fat hairy balls.
***
Rooster came back to consciousness when they threw a bucket of water on his face. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t ache. He knew damned well he’d gotten “special attention.” Momo obviously thought there was more to him than Rooster was willing to disclose, but it was worth it. Meg should be safe.
The guards stood well back as he got to his feet. He got as far as his knees, steadying himself with his hands on the battery contraption they’d used to elicit the screams from the others. He’d been spared that part. What was a little shadowboxing, after all? That last swing to his jaw had put him out, though. Just as well. They seemed to be done with him anyway.
Just another day at the office, he told himself. As he lifted off the ground and came to his full height, Rooster could see out the windows placed high on the walls. Two gunmen were out digging what looked like a grave, and beside the hole was what looked like the ghost. The Mossad would want his body back, even if he had officially died about ten years ago. Rooster tried to plot the point of burial in his mind, though his vision was blurry still. It was like trying to focus through the bottom of a glass. He had to concentrate carefully as he kept his balance and walked back to his cell. He hoped that they’d put him in with Meg now. But as they waved him into the same cell they stuffed him in earlier, it became evident that wasn’t in the cards. He hoped Meg still had some water. He could use a swig.
One of the guards untied his ropes, then handcuffed his left hand to the bar. Rooster made sure to keep his hand down this time, so it was on the lower panel and he could keep his blood flowing in the right direction.
The gunmen left, and they didn’t take Meg with them. It had worked. He stuck his other arm out in Meg’s direction. He could feel the very tip of Meg’s finger brushing down his arm, trying to reach for him. “Meg, I could use a sip of water, please.” He wondered what he looked like. She would have seen him as he came in. He hoped she didn’t think that was heading her way. Plastic pushed against his arm. He reached to take it from her, filled his mouth and let the water sit there for a moment, then he swished to get the blood from between his teeth and swallowed it down. He waited to make sure that was going to stay in before he took another gulp.
He let his head rest back against the bars. The longer he waited to speak, the longer she’d be afraid that this was her destiny. He needed another minute to catch his breath, then he’d explain.
Chapter Thirty
Meg
Jail
“We have a new strategy. Can I have one of your t-shirts, please?”
Meg scrambled over to the corner where she had piled her extra clothes. She chose the second one of the three she’d had on—she figured it was the cleanest, and she was sure Rooster needed it to staunch a wound. Now she understood why Rooster asked her to put on so many clothes. She pressed it into Rooster’s hand. “Have they chained you up again?”
“Only the one arm,” Rooster said.
The gruffness in his words told Meg just how much pain he was in. She swiped away the tears that had been running down her cheeks since they took him. Abraham hadn’t been brought back, and she’d been terrified that they wouldn’t bring Rooster back either. She had been mentally preparing herself.
Now they’d be coming for her next. That thought sucked all the energy out of her body.
“I wasn’t on their science list.” Rooster said. “They needed to know if I’m more useful alive or not. And I am. Useful, that is. I’m the president of Honig International Consultation. A billion-dollar-a-year private business with deep political and industry ties. Say that name to me three times out loud.”
Meg thought he was buying time to catch his breath, his last words had had no volume behind them, just air. But she did as she was told.
“Rooster Honig is the president of Honig International Consultation.”
“Right. And we’re married.”
“We are?”
“Yep. Just got married. Congratulations, Mrs. Honig.”
“Thank you. It was all so sudden, but you know the heart will have what the heart wants
.” Meg’s heart squeezed down tight, and she hid her gasp of pain behind her fist. “Though you know a quick trip to the magistrate’s office isn’t going to take the place of a wedding. My parent’s will expect me to walk down the aisle with at least three bridesmaids. And Randy. Randy will be the best man.” Her attempt at a chuckle came out as a choking noise. She stopped reaching for levity. She pushed the question of her future—their future—out of the way so she could understand why Rooster would tie them together when he’d been trying to keep them separate in the eyes of their captors.
“I gave them the phone number to my business, and I told them we’re covered by kidnapping insurance.”
“What number was that?”
“It’s a number at Headquarters. It goes to a special switchboard that keeps up with all of the employees’ different doings. Honig International is my red flag. They’ll handle it. I made sure Momo knew you were covered by the insurance too. By the way, you haven’t changed your last name to mine because you made your name in the field of science as Finley, so for professional reasons you’ll keep that as you travel. Socially, you’re Mrs. Honig, though.”
“Thank you for your understanding, darling, it took me over a decade to build that reputation.”
“And I’d never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do. I think this is a good plan if it works. We’ll have to wait and see how smart Momo is.”
“How do you mean?”
“If he calls from here—wherever here is—he’ll be calling the emergency department at Iniquus. My hope is that he didn’t believe me, and before he does any more damage to either of us he needs to check out the story. They have very bright people on that line. They can obfuscate with the best of them.”
“You like that word—obfuscate.”
“Yeah, it’s a good one. Tattooed it on my left butt cheek.”
Meg could tell that he too was trying to lighten things. But just like her attempt, his fell flat. “Stop. Tell me more about this call. They’ll call to make sure that you’re the president and corroborate your story, and if they corroborate it we’re protected somehow?”
“Yes. With several somehows. First, it means we’re an expensive chip for bargaining, so that should keep us healthy. Second, it means that Iniquus will know where we are. They’ll track us on GPS, and get satellite feeds from the military to keep an eye on the area, gather intel from the sky, and supply it to Panther Force, who are for sure on the ground now and on the hunt.”
“Tanzania has remarkable cellphone coverage, but when I’m in the bush, I also have my satellite phone with my SOS button, just in case. Most people who travel in the bush have them, so I assume Momo will too,” she said.
“Right. Good. Because if he travels away from here, it will give the Panther’s information, but the more exact the dot on the map is, the quicker the turnaround.”
“Would the Panthers wait and negotiate?” Meg asked.
“That, I can’t say. It depends on what intel they gather. And again, Momo might just send someone a message in a different country through the Darknet for a follow up—then that route would be next to useless.”
“In the interim, we need to get our stories straight. We should probably start with when did we get married?”
“When were you last in the United States?”
“The first week of February.”
“Congratulations then, Mrs. Honig, on your Groundhog’s Day trip to see the judge. Tuesday, February second at zero nine hundred hours, we were the first couple to stand before the judge that day. Tell me the day and date.”
“Tuesday, February second. Nine a.m. I was wearing a cream-colored suit, and I carried sunset-colored, yellow and orange roses. You think your company can pull this off?”
“The people who answer the red phones are very good at what they do. I trust them with this.”
“Do you think they’ll get in touch with my brother, Steve?”
“They’ll debate it. If they think they can get resources, and it will help get those resources to us, yes. If they think that they’ll be a burden and slow the movement, no. I trust them to make the right decisions there too.”
Meg stalled. She’d tried to blow up the pictures, she’d tried to put them in a box, but it wasn’t working. She had to know. “How bad was the beating? What happened to you? You looked like you... It looked bad.”
“Meg.” Rooster stopped and the silence between them felt heavy. The sobs and moans echoing from around the corner gave them no respite from the fact that they were in dire straits.
Meg desperately wanted to reach for Rooster’s hand, but if he’d asked her for a t-shirt, it meant he needed to apply pressure to his wounds. “You don’t need to answer. I don’t want you to relive it. Can you tell me why we’re changing strategy?”
“I have a better handle on what’s going on. Remember how I told you that we had a long row to hoe, but a good outcome if they had taken us for ransom?”
“Yes, and if we were being held for terrorist propaganda then we were shit out of l—”
“Stop,” Rooster said. It was quiet, but it was an order.
Meg felt chastened. Rooster was chained in the cell next to her, she had no idea how badly it had gone for him, and here she was chewing on her own despair. “How badly are you hurt?” she asked again.
“I’m still working on your last question. It’s a bit complicated, and I’m not sure I’m fully coherent, so try to follow the best you can. I’m going to tell you a story about Momo, and why I think you’re safer than you might have believed. Back in Zanzibar, I asked you about Derrek Bowen. He’s an oil executive, as you know. What you might not know is that he was in negotiations with the Tanzanian government. Yes, he wanted to do off-shore drilling for oil, but the profits from that drill were to go one hundred percent to developing Tanzanian energy independence. All clean energy. It was taking an environmental risk in the short run, in order to shift the dynamic in the long run. The Hesston Corporation has decided to become a global green energy leader. This is internal. A big secret. The reason for keeping it a big secret is politics among other oil companies.”
“How does this pertain to our situation?”
“Bowen was supposed to meet with a scientist from Technion in Zanzibar.”
“Okay.”
“Bowen and his wife were sailing down the Red Sea to Zanzibar. Their yacht was overtaken, and they were kidnapped.”
“And you were sent in to rescue them? That’s why Randy said his assignment was salty? You were on the sea?”
“We were sent to Djibouti to negotiate their release. They were being held for three-million dollars. We ended up rescuing them from the Afar camp, because we got word that Mrs. Bowen wasn’t going to make it. She was very ill. People died. But Randy and I got the Bowens out with the help of the US Navy. We couldn’t have done it on our own.”
“That’s how you knew about the Afar Tribe. I was wondering.”
“When you went there to listen to the concerns of the Afar people, and to make sure your group made contact, since Abraham Silverman couldn’t, Momo was there. He was there because he was hiding the Bowens in the village.”
“That’s why I couldn’t go to the huts and speak with the women?”
“That’s what I think.”
“He could have kidnapped me then.”
“No, I think that would have been counterproductive for him.”
“And you think this was because…”
“The most obvious reason is that people would know where you had gone that day. If you went missing, it would put eyes on that camp. Beyond that, you were an organizer of the Key Initiative. If something happened to you, the scientists might not have come to Tanzania.”
“You’re suggesting that he was planning to kidnap our group all along? Why would he want to kidnap scientists?”
“I’m still making my way around to explaining that. This is going to take a little patience. The man who you knew as Abraham S
ilverman was actually an Israeli operative. He was in Djibouti at the same time Randy and I were. I might have thought he was a part of this, but if he was, he isn’t anymore.”
Past tense. He’s dead. “Wait.” She needed a second. She needed to deal with that. Another of their group had been killed. She willed that damned elephant into the room to blow up her feelings, and help her seal them away in the box. But there they were, flowing through her bloodstream like poison. When her brain was functioning again, she asked, “Why would an Israeli operative pose as Abraham Silverman? Did he suspect there was a plot?”
“I think the Mossad picked something up in their intelligence gathering. I think they wanted to deliberately hold their scientist back. It was happenstance that the real Silverman’s father died when he did. The Mossad operative—Randy and I called him the ghost—said he was assigned to scope out the security of the situation. I have a theory that the Technion professor that Bowen was going to be meeting with in Zanzibar, along with the Tanzanian government, was the real Abraham Silverman.”
“He was our energy guy on the team. But that doesn’t explain Israeli intelligence getting involved.”
“First, Tanzania wants the safety of energy independence. And they are working on the world stage to put on a big show of their environmental stewardship. Being a green energy nation would go far in that way. Second, Tanzania loves tourist shillings. Shillings flow in and there’s no government system that needs to support that money. If the money was gained through taxes on wages, then it would have to go to educating the children, providing socially for them, healthcare and so forth. You know this.”
