Lou watched as the couple, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, became enfolded in their world, and silently thanked the vast forest that had somehow been small enough to deliver Lou and Cap a savior.
CHAPTER 13
The true means to provide sound and adequate protection against the vicissitudes of modern life may be found in self-reliance, a return to family values, embracing the pioneering spirit of our forefathers, and the shared belief that God, not government, is the determinant of life and death.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P.50
He could not believe he was alive. As consciousness returned, Ahmed Kazimi moved his arm, expecting to find it restrained—chained to a wall, perhaps. To his surprise, he could move both his arms and legs freely, although his whole body felt stiff and achy, as if he’d been passed out in the same position for hours. Instead of his familiar work attire, he was clad in shimmery red silk pajamas.
He imagined, as he opened his eyes, that he would be awakening in a barren, concrete room, the floor covered in damp straw reeking of urine—the sort of prison he’d come to expect from television shows and movies. Instead, he sat upright on a firm, king-size mattress, underneath black silk sheets of the highest possible thread count. He was cocooned within diaphanous white draperies that hung down from a beautifully ornate mahogany canopy frame.
Massaging his throbbing temples, Kazimi tried to clear his blurred vision, but without much success. Where was he? Why had he been taken in such a way? The questions swirled in his mind like windblown sand. Who was Burke? How had he infiltrated the FBI? Kazimi had been forced to the floor beside the window of his bedroom, so his image of Burke killing the two other agents protecting him was indistinct. The rest of what happened was even more hazy. He had been shoved out his third-story window into … into what? An open-bed truck filled with foam padding. The last thing he remembered was Burke injecting him with a drug that quickly made him feel like someone had poured concrete into his ears.
Gradually, Kazimi’s vision came into focus. He crawled out from the canopy and found himself in a richly appointed room adorned with magnificent oriental carpeting, laid on an exquisite fieldstone floor. The same stone covered the lower half of the walls, leading him to think of a medieval castle. The upper half was an ornate fleur-de-lis design done in crimson velvet.
The air was scented from three massive bouquets of fresh-cut flowers arranged in crystal vases. Directly across from him stood a black lacquer bureau, inlaid with mother of pearl, and above it hung an ultra-modern plasma television, currently powered off, but with a remote attached to it by Velcro strips. In addition to a well-volumed bookcase, there were five beautifully framed and lit paintings that Kazimi, hardly an expert at such things, believed were a Degas, a Picasso, a Monet, and possibly two of the Dutch masters—almost certainly all original.
Kazimi took a few tentative steps. He was wobbly and weak at first, but gradually regained his balance. Standing in the center of the room, he made a more extensive survey of his posh accommodations, and was both amazed and repulsed by the decadence surrounding him. He had always been a man of simple values, for whom material possessions had meant nothing. Perhaps, he mused, knowledge of that philosophy is why his captors elected to imprison him inside such opulence.
Moving to the corner of the room next to the bookcase, Kazimi scanned the bar, stocked with the finest spirits and bottles of wine, most likely from the very best vintages. Though alcohol would never pass his lips, he knew the value of wine bottled decades ago. In front of the bar was a glistening ebony table with four Louis XIV chairs, also most likely not reproductions. As a frequent guest of international conferences on bacteriology, he had been put up in hotel suites before. This room made even the most luxurious of those look like some of the concrete homes of his native Pakistan.
Automatic lights came on as he stepped into a cavernous bathroom tiled in spectacular white marble flecked with gold, and featuring a shower, steam room, and Jacuzzi tub cast in what appeared to be pure copper.
Glancing at his reflection in the oversized mirror, he winced at his raccoon eyes and sickly pallor. Again, the questions:
What drug did Burke give me?
Where am I?
What do they want with me?
How can I fight them?
How can I escape?
He rested his hands on the granite countertop until he felt steadier on his feet. Then he left the bathroom and crossed to the shuttered, black-lacquered double doors, which he assumed exited the garish room.
Locked.
He examined the walls and even under the carpet, searching for another way out. Only then did it register that the space had no windows. A velvet and silk dungeon.
At that instant, a sharp knock on the door startled him.
“Come in,” he managed. His voice, hoarse from disuse and possibly from his having been drugged, sounded foreign.
A key turned in the lock. The double doors swung open on soundless hinges and in walked a stoop-shouldered man with graying hair, neatly parted on the right. He was impeccably dressed in a butler’s uniform, and was wheeling a food cart bearing several trays. The pungent aromas were as familiar to Kazimi as they were pleasing.
“Good evening, sir. My name is Harris. I’m the head butler here. Welcome to Red Cliff.”
“Where is this place? What is it?”
“I have been instructed to tell you that all of the food products and ingredients meet with the dietary restrictions of your religion. I hope you find the preparation to your liking.”
“You’ve been instructed by whom? Who told you to bring me this food?”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir. My orders are to deposit the food cart and then be on my way, and I have maintained my position here at Red Cliff over the years because I always follow orders. Your host will be joining you shortly. Would you like me to set the food out for you, or would you prefer to do it yourself? The utensils you will need are right here.”
Harris pointed to a rolled-up cloth napkin. Kazimi immediately noticed the pointed end of a knife poking out the top. His eyes narrowed as he began thinking of ways he could use the knife to aid in an escape, but he knew the timing was bad. He wanted answers. Who had taken him and why? Who had orchestrated the murders of two FBI agents? First he needed to meet his host. Then he would consider escape.
“Just set the food out,” he ordered disdainfully.
Harris closed the door with his foot.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it locks automatically. If you wish, I’ll stay with you until your host arrives.”
For the next several minutes, Kazimi paced the silk and velvet dungeon while the butler identified, then set out dishes of food on the ebony table—lamb in a turmeric gravy, white potatoes in a rich red sauce, gogji beans with turnip in black pepper gravy, sweet green tea with cardamom—food from the Kashmir region of Pakistan, Kazimi’s home during his early years. Another knock on the door. Harris immediately stopped what he was doing and stood beside Kazimi like a trained dog.
“Come in,” Kazimi called out.
A key sounded in the lock. The double doors swung open, and in walked a moderately overweight, suave-looking man, fifty or so, who stood there as calmly as if he were assessing a pair of ballroom dancers. His right hand was wrapped around a walking stick capped with the tennis-ball-sized head of a lion, either bronze or, more likely given the opulence of Red Cliff, gold. His other hand comfortably grasped a tumbler of whiskey. Kazimi, who had lived his life in relative self-denial, disliked the man at once. He had a broad and flat nose and the coal-dark eyes of a predator. The impressive cane was more than decoration. The new arrival walked with a modest limp, favoring his right leg. Kazimi’s thought of overpowering him lasted only until two beefy men—one white, one black—materialized behind the man, filling the doorway.
“Thank you Harris,” the fat cat said. “You did well, as usual.”
“Dr. Kazimi,” Harris said,
“may I present to you the master of this house, Mr. Douglas Bacon.”
CHAPTER 14
The only entitlement guaranteed should be the fruits of one’s own labor.
—LANCASTER R, HILL, A Secret Worth Keeping, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1937, P.199
“Pleased to meet you, doctor,” Bacon said, gracefully maneuvering his tumbler of whiskey to the hand holding the cane so he could offer his free hand to Kazimi. Eyeing Bacon’s hand with contempt, Kazimi kept his arms tightly folded across his chest. It was a small display of defiance, but at this moment even the smallest victories mattered. “Very well,” Bacon said, returning the tumbler to his right hand and indulging in a sip. “As you wish.”
“I wish to leave here now!” Kazimi snapped.
“That, I am afraid, is not possible. We need your help.”
“Exactly who are ‘we,’ Mr. Bacon?” Kazimi asked.
“Please, call me Doug. And all answers in good time, doctor. All in good time.”
No one disagrees with or even questions him, Kazimi thought. Ever. Keep the pressure on. Someone is going to crack. If not Bacon, one of the others I will be asked to deal with in Red Cliff. Someone is going to show me the way out of here.
“What do you want with me? What is this all about?” Kazimi’s demands came out without nearly the force he had intended. Most likely, the drugs in his system still lingered. “Who are you?”
“I am not your enemy, Dr. Kazimi,” Bacon said with the hint of a Southern accent. “That is the first thing you need to know. Or would you prefer I call you Dr. Farooq, the name you abandoned when you left Stanford and went to work for the FBI?”
“Whatever you want from me, you’re not going to get it.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Where are my clothes?”
Kazimi tugged at his silk pajamas as though they were burning his skin.
“While you are my guest, you may have anything you wish. Whatever clothes you desire; whatever food; a prayer rug and a place to pray; a place to exercise. Simply ask and it is yours. But I remind you, time is of the essence. Lives are at stake. Many, many lives.”
For all Doug Bacon’s cultured charm and geniality, Kazimi sensed a ferocity in him—a dark intensity and commitment to … to what? How was Bacon connected to the Doomsday Germ? It was clear from his bearing and the way he had orchestrated Kazimi’s kidnapping and imprisonment he was a powerful, utterly determined force. And for the first time in Kazimi’s life, his faith in Allah could not ablate his fear.
“I want the clothes I was wearing when you brought me here,” Kazimi said. It felt good to issue a command.
“As you wish,” Bacon said. “They are washed and folded. I’ll have Harris bring them to your room right away.”
“And then I demand to be escorted from these premises,” Kazimi said. “I will not assist you in any capacity. You will get nothing from me. Not one bit of my cooperation.”
Bacon returned an oddly inscrutable look that made Kazimi feel exposed and penetrated. It was as if the master of Red Cliff was surgically dissecting his personality, computing at lightning speed every thrust, and preparing a parry for it in advance. Controlling people was a game to him, Kazimi concluded, and one he played very well.
“I need your cooperation, so how about I offer you a deal,” Bacon said, breaking a pregnant silence. “If you agree to my terms you will be permitted to leave Red Cliff, I will even assist with your departure.”
“Go on.”
“As those who know me are aware, I am a betting man. I enjoy the rush of a good gamble. All that is required here is for you to best me in a battle of wits.”
“What is the subject matter of this battle?” Kazimi asked. “I am smart, but not in every area.”
Bacon’s face brightened. “Ah, doctor, that is part of the fun of this wager.” His drawl seemed to have become somewhat more pronounced. “You must agree to participate without knowing.”
“And if I refuse once the subject of our battle is known to me?”
“Then our wishes will become demands and you will simply comply with them. You will swear to accept this wager in Allah’s name.”
“I won’t do it.”
“I’m giving you a chance to walk away from here, Dr. Kazimi. The people I work with would not like this. Not one bit. Can you outsmart me in a game of wits? Naturally, I believe the answer is no. But will you not take a chance?”
Kazimi considered his options while eyeing the two powerful guards. It would be impossible to force his way out. His options were limited at best.
“I accept,” Kazimi said finally. He trusted his intellect. He could match wits with any Mensa member. Bacon might get a rush from betting, a sin for true Muslims, but he’d regret ever making this challenge.
“Very well,” Bacon said. “Let us begin.”
Crossing the room, using his cane for leverage, he went over to the ebony table, deposited his whiskey tumbler, and retrieved from the place setting the serrated steak knife Kazimi had noticed earlier. Then he took up his previous spot in front of the open door, symbolically positioning himself between Kazimi and his freedom.
“Now then,” Kazimi said. “Ask your question. Test me. I am not afraid.”
“In Allah’s name.”
“In Allah’s name.”
Bacon leaned forward and held out the knife, ebony handle first.
“It is not a question,” he said, “but a deed you must perform. Take the knife.”
Kazimi hesitated. Bacon waved the handle of the blade, encouraging him.
“If you refuse you will lose without even having tried,” he said, a sardonic smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
Kazimi wavered, then grasped the knife by its handle, point facing out.
“Very good,” Bacon said, smirking. “Well done. Now then, to win our little game, I ask you to kill me.”
The guards moved instinctively toward the man, but he held them back with a raised palm.
“Take the knife and kill me,” he repeated. “If you do, I give my word that you may walk out of here without any interference.” He swiveled to face his guards. “Is that understood?” The men nodded. The reluctance Kazimi detected in both their eyes and mannerisms made him feel certain Bacon’s offer was for real. Bacon took a step forward until the tip of the blade, quavering in Kazimi’s outstretched hand pressed up against his ample abdomen.
“Go ahead, Dr. Kazimi. Do it. Kill me and then walk away.”
Kazimi pushed with the blade, but not hard enough to puncture the fabric of Bacon’s white shirt, or worse the skin underneath.
“I give you three seconds to comply. Plunge the blade and walk away. Three…”
Kazimi pressed a little harder.
“Two…”
Harder still.
“One.”
Kazimi let the knife drop to the floor.
“How did you know?” Kazimi asked with his head bowed, keeping his gaze fixated on the blade, his one possible means of escape.
“Take not life, which Allah has made sacred—except by way of justice or law. Thus doth He command you, that ye may learn wisdom. Chapter six, verse one-fifty-one. Murder in self-defense is permissible, but here I was unarmed. Taking a life this way is forbidden by your religion. It would be considered a haraam—a truly detestable act that would anger Allah. Am I not correct?”
“You are,” Kazimi said.
“I hereby declare our battle of wits—or should I say, battle of wills—over. And now I ask that we begin anew. Allow me to introduce myself once more. My name is Doug Bacon and for the foreseeable future you are to remain a guest in my home.”
Bacon did not bother extending his hand this time.
“Not guest,” Kazimi said. “Prisoner.”
“I need to learn more about you, Dr. Kazimi, such as your reaction to stress, and I need to learn these things quickly. Your brilliance in infectious diseases is very important to us. Crucial would be a better word. Be
lieve me, whatever happens here at Red Cliff happens for a carefully designed purpose. The stakes are high. Frighteningly high. And we have no intention of failing.”
Before he agreed to leave Stanford and go undercover, Kazimi had been thoroughly briefed by his FBI handler, Beth Snyder, on the highly clandestine extremist group named the Society of One Hundred Neighbors. He had no doubt now that Doug Bacon was one of the higher-ups, if not the leader, of that organization. It did not seem the man was using an alias, and the fact that he was purposely so free with his name was not a good sign. Either he had plans on holding him indefinitely, or Kazimi was a dead man walking.
“I presume you’ve found the accommodations to your liking,” Bacon said, returning to the lacquered table to retrieve his whiskey tumbler.
“You can skip the civility and the small talk, Bacon. Where is Burke? Why would you authorize the cold-blooded murder of two people like that? Burke was a coward. A pathetic coward.”
“Mr. Burke is no concern of yours,” Bacon said. “For now, you need nourishment. There is work to be done.”
He motioned to the food Harris had set out.
“Wager or no wager, I’ll die before I do any work for you.”
“That is a problem we have considered and rejected.”
“No! I do not need to eat. I need to get out of here. I absolutely refuse to help you murderers in any way.”
Doug Bacon’s smile turned menacing.
“I assure you, Dr. Kazimi, you will eat when we say, and you will rest when we say, and most important, you will work when we say. The only thing in your life we will not control are your prayers. A new prayer rug is beneath the bed. Right beside those two vases of flowers, facing toward the wall, is Mecca.”
CHAPTER 15
A government exists to provide order to the people while 100 Neighbors exists to define what that order shall be.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 27
On the stretcher beside Lou, covered with a heating blanket, Cap was in a drug-induced sleep. Lou had come away from his wilderness trauma course convinced that in any situation outside the hospital, he would go with a paramedic, EMT, or trauma nurse over most M.D.s any day. The North Georgia medevac team had done nothing to dispel that notion. Their biggest decision after Cap was stabilized was whether or not to do anything with the splint. After sending photos to the orthopedist covering the Arbor General ER, it was decided to leave that as it was and to start immediate antibiotics.
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