by Patrick Dent
“You are brilliant, Peter, simply brilliant. I'll pick up the sheet music right after lunch.”
Peter raised his glass for a toast, “To Gunny Fulton, best damned soldier in the USMC.” Fulton joined the toast with a smile.
* * *
The Kechla Citadel - Safi, Morocco
Amin gasped for air when Falon removed his hood. He had been traveling across the desert in the back of a jeep for over an hour with that hood on. He didn't realize that, despite the hot suffocation, the hood had prevented the choking dust from clogging his nostrils. Falon spoke a solitary word, indicating the massive stone fortress, “Kechla”.
Kechla stood alone in a vast expanse of desert - a square edifice about sixty feet tall and roughly two hundred feet on a side. The windows were cross-shaped, eight total on the front face. Amin thought it an oddly Christian symbol to see in an Arab country, but then he thought about the age of the structure. He figured five hundred years easy, going back past the French occupation to the Portuguese. They built this – the Christians. It made sense. A four-foot wall encircled the roof. The entrance was a heavy steel door, ten feet by ten feet.
The surrounding terrain burgeoned with rock formations; keeping out heavy ground equipment - armored personnel carriers and tanks in particular, anything that could carry a gun heavy enough to penetrate the citadel.
Apparently, a single guard patrolled the outer perimeter. At least four guards walked a pattern hugging the walls of the citadel. All carried AK-47s and hand held radios. Pretty tight security, but the real trick was to figure out where this place was. When he returned to deliver the goods to Tartus, he'd need at least a platoon for the sting operation. He saw the whole thing in his head. First, launch Chemical Smoke grenades into the windows, then blast the door, throw in flash-bangs, followed immediately by Ranger sharpshooters. The instant the CS grenades were launched, they would signal four helicopters waiting just outside earshot. From that point, they could have men on the roof in just over sixty seconds, nicely timed with the ground level assault.
He estimated three minutes to capture and secure the facility. That meant three minutes to convince the bad guys of the benefits of immediate surrender. There would be sixty American soldiers, each with an M-16 capable of delivering eight hundred rounds per minute. A lot could happen in three minutes. Amin realized he'd need a second platoon to help clear the citadel room by room, after the primary assault. This was a pretty classic scenario. Estimated enemy casualties 75% plus. Estimated American casualties no more than 10%. All things considered, a good day's work. The problem was capturing Tartus alive. No living American knew what the man looked like, and Amin had no way to confirm the man he was about to meet was the genuine article.
Falon chose to use rough gestures rather than speech. He shoved Amin toward the large steel door. Amin almost lost his step because his hands were still bound behind his back. Falon, noting his oversight, slit Amin's ropes with a ten inch curved knife appearing from and disappearing back to nowhere.
The guard strained to get the enormous door open. Amin was amazed at the scale of the place. Just inside the door was an enormous room, whose walls bore authentic Portuguese tapestries dating from the sixteenth century. There was a fireplace so large that a man could easily walk into it without ducking. He took a quick headcount and figured about twenty, maybe twenty-five men on staff to operate the place.
Although there was an opulent wooden table of French design near the center of the room, the chairs had been removed. There was nowhere to sit. Tartus stood on the opposite side of the table with his hands crossed in front of him in a completely casual manner. His stance was relaxed and his expression was inviting. He was about forty years old, handsome, no facial hair. He wore typical robes, nothing ostentatious.
“Welcome,” Tartus said. “I prefer to conduct business standing. I hope that does not inconvenience you.”
Amin noticed that Tartus' Arabic didn't have the French accent so prevalent in the region - probably a result of extensive travel. Amin, however, deliberately kept his French drawl. “Not at all. Shall we get down to it?”
“You are direct. I like that quality in a man. Yes, please give me your proposal.” Tartus hadn't moved a muscle yet. No fidgeting, no gestures. He was a speaking statue, one whose words delivered both life and death.
“I have a cousin in LA who runs a travel agency,” Amin began.
“I fail to see how this involves me,” Tartus said.
“You will, Tartus, I assure you. Now, you trade in women, many of your customers being sheiks stocking their harems. But, the market is flooded with inferior merchandise - all these Brazilian and Philippine junkies and whores, half of them diseased.
“Now, picture this - beautiful, young, blonde American girls, completely untraceable. I suspect such girls would bring a bountiful price, no?”
“And how do you plan to deliver such merchandise?” Tartus asked. Again, his tone was neutral.
“My cousin has a friend in Brazil, a country where the authorities are nothing more than a monetary nuisance. Also, it's a country where a lot of people disappear. When the right girl is traveling to Rio, the friend assists in the abduction and we deliver the girl to your people.”
“Where?” Tartus asked.
“You would take possession in Brazil. I don't have the means to get them across the Atlantic.”
“What you offer is of no value to me. I can already hire anyone in Brazil to do any kind of abduction. I choose not to because the risk is too high.”
“But Tartus, the abductor is the tour guide. It's perfect!”
“Ah, so you do have an angle. That's what I've been waiting to hear. Perhaps we can do business, but such a conversation will take place at a different time.”
Amin kept his poker face. “Of course.”
Tartus abruptly changed the subject. “I am an intelligent man, so I am told.” He smirked before continuing. “But, one must be especially wary of sycophants, don't you think?”
“They say that between flattery and admiration there often flows a river of contempt,” Amin said. He knew he had Tartus. They were speaking as equals!
“Still,” Tartus continued, “I am an introspective man.” He leveled his gaze on Amin's eyes. “Do you believe truth and knowledge can be found within? Purely from contemplation?”
“All of the great philosophers found truth and knowledge from introspection,” Amin responded. “Democritus reasoned out the existence of atoms in five hundred BC.” Even as he spoke the words, Amin wished he could somehow retract them. Time slowed to a crawl as that tiniest little mistake flew through space at 350 meters per second toward one of the most dangerous men in the world. Part of Amin knew that he was already dead. The other part prayed for a miracle. His face revealed precisely nothing. In extreme conditions, his training always prevailed. The training provided the most important battle asset – confidence. With confidence, came calm.
“I agree with you perfectly, my friend,” Tartus said. The words 'my friend' brought his men to full alert. To the casual observer, nothing changed. But fingers slipped inside trigger housings, thumbs subtly unsnapped holsters or eased safeties off. Most importantly, eyes came into sharp focus. Each man shifted his stare to cover his prearranged zone. In this manner, they collectively viewed every square inch of the room.
Amin saw Tartus nod his head once, subtly, and within three seconds two men had securely restrained Amin; a third placed a pistol to his head from behind. Two more guards positioned themselves ten feet out with their AK-47s trained on Amin's torso. Headshots were for the movies. In real life, victims frequently tried to avoid being shot, and they did this by moving fleetingly and erratically. If Amin had any surprises, the guards would be firing rapid shots at a moving target surrounded by friendlies. They would aim at center mass. Four more guards had their rifles trained as well, but these men were invisible by design.
“Five hundred BC, huh? That would have been 1150 years before
the Hijra, according to the Arabic calendar.” He strolled around the table and stopped directly in front of Amin. His black eyes were like machines, emotionless recording devices. “The Hijra was Mohammed's flight to Medina. But, of course, anyone raised as an Arab would know this.”
“I am well aware of our history, Tartus,” Amin asserted, not backing away from Tartus' invasive stare. “I do most of my business with Westerners. Sometimes I find myself thinking in their terms. It was a mere slip of the tongue, mental confusion, if you will.” Amin knew his death was assured if he panicked. His training allowed him to conceal all external signs of distress. His body language and tone of voice were casual, as if he were mentioning what he'd had for lunch. But, sometimes, not panicking simply isn't enough.
“There is only one truth. What reason does a truthful man have to become confused? As I mentioned before, I am an intelligent man.” Tartus grinned, broke his gaze from Amin's, and walked around the French table. He turned to face Amin, placing both palms down on the table. “But, there is one thing that perplexes me, one concept I simply cannot wrap my mind around. Do you know what that is, my friend?”
“How to know when to trust someone?” Amin ventured.
“You see? You wear your heart upon your sleeve. That is exactly what a Westerner would say. You think forming alliances makes you strong, and that will be your undoing. Even your own Western philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche said it, 'Friends weaken. Enemies strengthen.' The answer to your question is so obvious that a properly raised child could tell you. The answer is never. How could it possibly be anything else?”
“How can you go through life never trusting anyone?” Amin asked.
“Alive,” Tartus answered. “My friend, you're missing a critical point. I didn't even suspect you were an American agent until that slip-up with the Christian calendar. But, even before that, I was planning to kill you. You were never destined to survive this transaction.” Tartus said this with no emotion whatsoever. It was that calmness that frightened Amin the most. There was training, but there was also occupying a human body with a lot of nerve endings.
Amin knew all was lost, but denial is the most powerful force in the universe. He kept trying. “What you say makes no sense. How would a businessman profit from killing his associates?”
“What do you want – a lesson on how to be a businessman before I kill you? Let's just say there are legitimate reasons for everything I do. By killing you, I decrease the odds of there being a next you. I was going to tell everyone you were a spy anyway. By coincidence, it turns out to be true. What an amazing universe we live in! So much to learn!”
Tartus leaned close to Amin's face and whispered, “There's one concept I can't grasp and I think you can be instrumental in my education on this topic.”
Amin knew from his training to prolong the conversation as long as possible. He needed every second he could buy to use for tactical analysis. One man was behind him at 5 o'clock with a pistol to his head. One man held each of his arms twisted behind his back. Two men with rifles stared menacingly from a range of about three meters. Plus, there were certain to be hiding gunmen. Scenarios ran through his head – none of them good. “And, what is that topic?”
“Masochism.” Tartus paused for a long moment, preparing his quarry in much the same way a young lion toys with a wounded antelope before killing it. “You see, I have seen much pain inflicted in my life, and I've never seen any person enjoy it. Yet, there are self-proclaimed masochists out there. These people claim to have reversed polarity. They actually enjoy pain. The more pain they experience, the more joy they feel. What would cause a person to feel this way?”
“Low self esteem?” Amin asked.
“I disagree. I think these people have experiences that shift their perspectives. Some traumatic event, somehow connected to a positive result.” Tartus turned his gaze directly into Amin's eyes. “Are you a gambling man, my friend?”
“Yes, I am,” Amin replied, maintaining his composure. “Do you propose a wager?”
“Oh, the wager has long since been made between myself and Falon. I bet him I could convert a normal man into a masochist. You see, I have always had an interest in behavioral science. It is theoretically possible to reprogram the mind to love pain via a series of actions and reactions. You will be pleased to know that I have selected you to be the subject of this experiment. It is a great honor, yes?” Tartus gave one of the two rearguards a curt nod. The guard responded by walking to Amin and striking him in the solar plexus with the butt of his rifle. When Amin bent over in pain, breathless, the guard backed up a step and kicked Amin in the mouth as hard as he could. Amin spit several teeth to the floor along with about a half pint of blood. He saw one of his incisors protruding from the toe of the guard's boot. The guard returned to his position and his companion forced Amin to stand erect.
“You see? That was unpleasant, wasn't it?” Tartus asked in a conversational tone. “My hypothesis is that I can make you genuinely enjoy pain. Here's how I intend do it. Over the next seventy-two hours or so, my men will perform experiments on you, and these experiments will expose you to pain like no man has ever imagined. When you pass out from pain, they will inject you with adrenaline to keep the experiment moving along. Your extremities will be first mutilated, then amputated and fed to dogs. There's something enormously special about the look in a man's eyes when he sees his severed penis eaten by a ravenous animal. Through the use of adrenaline and antibiotics, we can keep you alive and awake indefinitely. When you have convinced me that you are enjoying the pain, when you are begging for more skin to be peeled from your body, for more tendons to be cut; when you tell me this and I believe you, two things will happen. First, I will shoot you in the forehead. Second, Falon will give me twenty American dollars.” Tartus had a sparkle in his eye as if he were reminiscing about a family picnic. “But, I don't want to bore you with the details, nor do I want to spoil any surprises.” Tartus turned to the rearguards and instructed them to take Amin to one of several torture chambers designed by the Portuguese in the 1500s.
Amin knew this was his best chance, with the two rear guards distracted. Either of them could incapacitate him non-lethally in less than a second. He had coiled his body into a spring. Now, he released that spring. In one swift movement, he kicked the guard behind him in the balls and propelled himself into a forward flip, painfully but effectively freeing his arms from the grip of his captors. He landed awkwardly on the small of his back, but the pain didn't matter. He had just one thing in mind. He scrambled between the two surprised guards and managed to get his hand on the downed guard's pistol before six jacketed rounds ripped through the center of his back. What surprised Amin the most was how long he actually lived. The men took every advantage of Amin's remaining time on this Earth. That gave them merely four or five excruciating minutes.
Chapter Eight
Beaumont, South Carolina
John squinted as Fat Jack drove into the morning sun toward Fort Jackson. Vast forests of pine trees lined both sides of the interstate. As John gazed across the blurring expanse of green, his thoughts wandered. What would the Army be like? Would he go to Vietnam? How could this be happening to him? His only solace was in knowing that Tammy would be waiting for him when he graduated Basic Training. At least their marriage would be an island of stability in an ocean of confusion and uncertainty. He noticed the sign 'Fort Jackson – Next Exit'.
John's head was bald as a result of his Mohawk bet. His father's kindly administered advice to cut off the strip of hair was probably a good idea. He doubted the Army would appreciate the humor in the mohawk. As they approached the gate, a corporal waved them to a stop.
“May I help you?” The corporal asked.
“Yea, I'm dropping my friend off for basic,” Fat Jack responded.
“I need to see his papers.”
John produced the appropriate documents. The corporal snatched the papers and studied them with some interest.
�
�You need to take the third right, then look for Administration Building B on the left. Go in the door marked 'Special Processing'.”
“What's special processing, Sir?” John asked.
“I'm not a Sir! I work for a living. And special processing means you're a convict,” the Corporal said, taking on a condescending tone.
Fat Jack drove through the gate and followed the Corporal's simple directions, passing between rows of Quonset buildings. They turned right on a narrow road running through an immense open field, populated with various structures used for training – rappelling walls, tires, jungle gyms, long cylinders as tall as a child, barbed wire over mud pits. There were scattered groups of soldiers in their battle dress uniforms negotiating the obstacles with varying degrees of success.
While Fat Jack was watching a soldier covered in mud being dressed down by a Drill Instructor, John was looking at the flashing blue lights in the rear view mirror. What the Hell? He motioned for Fat Jack to pull over. The two MP's jumped out of their jeep and approached the car aggressively. The first MP, the one with the most stripes on his arm, had a shockingly white crew cut with a unibrow to match. His partner was an enormous black man with pockmarks covering his face. John wondered if the man had had small pox or something like it as a child.
“What's the problem, Officer?” Fat Jack asked Unibrow.
“Get out of the car, both of you!” he barked.
“I don't understand…” Fat Jack stopped in mid-sentence when Pockmark produced his baton.
“Out! Now!” Pockmark truly had a way with words. His jaw was square, and his hair was cut in a flat top. His bristly five o'clock shadow at 10 a.m. reminded John of the GI Joe action figures he had enjoyed as a child.
Fat Jack and John immediately exited the vehicle with their hands up, as if they were in a stagecoach robbery. Without words, the MPs made their intentions clear. The two teenagers put their hands on the hood while they were frisked. John decided not to mention that the hood was burning the tar out of his hands. The MP's swiftly but thoroughly determined John and Fat Jack had no concealed weapons. Unibrow spoke. “Don't think I don't know what you're trying to pull here!”
