Nabil pressed the barrel of the revolver against her temple. “You will do as I say or die!”
Trisha closed her eyes. Her legs shook and in an effort to stave off fear, she began singing in a low, quivering voice, “‘Jesus, Jesus, He’s as close as the mention of His name.’” As her fear began to dissolve, her voice grew louder. “‘Jesus! Jesus! He’s as close as the mention of His name!’”
She waited for the sound of an explosion. There was only silence. When she opened her eyes, she saw Mustafa looking at her with a gaping mouth. She began singing again, and the louder she sang the more Mustafa’s mouth dropped. Finally, his shrieks silenced her.
“Majnun! Majnun! Majnun!” he shouted, as he backed away from the desk. “Demon. She has a majnum, a demon. She is possessed! See how crazy she is! Remove her! Take her away!” Mustafa had backed as far away as he could and stood pressed against the wall.
Nabil appeared cautious, but not convinced. “It’s best that I kill her,” he said, the revolver still pressed against Trisha’s temple.
“No! Are you so foolish? She may have many demons. And you know how they work. If she dies, the majnuns will jump from her body and take control of one of us. Away with her! Take her away!”
Nabil’s face revealed his disapproval but he slipped the revolver into his holster, then without another word led Trisha out the door. Once in the adjoining room, Nabil ordered Audra, who crouched against the wall, to follow him. She quickly rose in obedience.
When they entered the office, Nabil slammed the door. His scowling face was red. “I know your company is the tool of Zionist pigs. Do not deny it!”
Audra stared blankly at her interrogator. “I . . . I don’t understand.”
“May Allah the Merciful grant me patience!” bellowed Mustafa from behind the desk where he had returned to sit. “We are dealing with another lying whore.”
“No . . . please. I really don’t know . . . .”
“Silence!” Mustafa screamed. Then, looking over at Nabil who was once again sprawled across the mud brick bench, he added, “This one is worse than the last. She is of no more worth than a camel chip. See how uncooperative she is!”
Nabil pulled out his revolver. “Then let me dispose of her at once. It’s obvious that Jewish depravity has infiltrated these women completely. They are impossible. One is crazy, the other is a liar and thief. She doesn’t want to return to us what is rightfully ours. I say, kill her.”
Audra’s bottom lip quivered. “I do want to cooperate.”
Mustafa smiled. “Ah! Perhaps she is not as depraved as you thought, Nabil. Perhaps there is hope. Maybe the light of Muhammad’s truth can still penetrate her blackened soul.”
“Yes . . . I’ll do whatever you ask. Just . . . tell me what you want.” Clusters of tears worked their way down Audra’s cheeks.
Nabil slapped the black pistol against his palm. It made a dull, sickening noise, and for a moment Audra thought she was going to throw-up all over Mustafa’s metal desk. She clutched her stomach.
“We do not want to hurt you,” Mustafa said. “It was never our desire or intention. Do you take us for your cut-throat Jewish friends? Well, do you!”
Audra shook her head.
“Of course not. And if you cooperate, you will continue to be treated as an honored guest.”
“Alright,” Audra stammered.
“We know that your Zionist owned company is building an airplane which they intend using to slaughter our people. Because of this evil intent, they have forfeited their right to it. We claim this plane for ourselves. It is, by the will of Allah, ours. You can see that this is so, can you not?” questioned Mustafa.
“I . . . I suppose . . . .”
“Good. Excellent. Then you will furnish us with the details of this airplane; all the details.”
“I . . . don’t think I can.”
“May Allah make my teeth fall from my gums if I show this whore such mercy again!” Mustafa bellowed. “We are getting nowhere. Kill her, Nabil and be done with it.”
“What I mean is . . . I don’t know if I can remember everything without my notes. I . . . could try.”
Mustafa’s lips curled into a smile. “On your knees then. Beg for mercy and forgiveness. And maybe, if Allah wills, I shall allow you to give us that information.”
Fear buckled Audra’s legs. As she knelt before the gray, metal desk she whispered, “Forgive me.”
“What did you say? Speak up!” Mustafa barked.
“Forgive me,” Audra said louder, choking on the words that tasted like vomit in her mouth.
“You will demonstrate your sorrow by kissing our boots,” Mustafa returned, his piercing, hate-filled eyes drilling through any will Audra had left.
Audra struggled to keep back the tears as she crawled, first to Mustafa, then to where Nabil sat on the mud brick bench. By the time her lips touched the stocky guard’s dusty, black boots, she was convulsing in uncontrollable sobs.
“We must forgive her, Nabil,” Mustafa said. “It is our nature to be merciful. Can we fight against our own nature?”
“It would be most unwise,” returned the stocky guard.
“That’s it then. We forgive you, golden-hair woman!”
Audra sobbed into her hands.
“Ah! She is overwhelmed with gratitude!” Nabil cried. “That is good.” So saying, he took his boot and shoved her onto the ground. “And now I think we can make her even more grateful.”
There was a questioning look in Mustafa’s face as he watched Nabil unbuckle his holster. “Yes, it would be an honor for her to service us,” he returned, as the realization of what his friend was about to do, became obvious.
Audra watched in horror as Nabil moved towards her.
“She is, after all, only a whore.”
• • •
For the next week Audra was called into Mustafa’s office every day. The routine never varied. Her progress was questioned. It was always poor. Audra had lost, temporarily at least, the ability to think clearly. Her notes were disjointed; her diagrams incomplete or inaccurate.
The guards, lacking the knowledge to interpret the accuracy of her report, were unaware of Audra’s impediment. But her slow progress infuriated them. They viewed this as defiance. So everyday Nabil waved and pointed his gun. And everyday there would be loud cursing and name calling, accusations, and threats. And always, always it would end with one or both of the guards shoving her onto the floor saying, “She is, after all, only a whore.”
Those times on the floor especially, were times Audra tried to block everything out. Survival was, after all, everything. Maybe if she didn’t resist, maybe if she did all they asked, they would eventually release her, and she could go home.
Her thoughts of home were fuzzy. At times it was difficult to recall the color of her kitchen or how the living room was arranged. In her more lucid moments, she’d think of Tom Halleron. He had loved her once and even proposed. Maybe life in suburbia with kids and a SUV wouldn’t have been so bad.
But there was one bright spot. She didn’t have to take her vodka from a saucer anymore. The guards had tired of that game. Instead, they gave her half a bottle a day, to drink whenever she wanted.
Audra thought she would have gone mad if it were not for this one comfort. She especially needed it after her daily interrogation. When it was over, she’d go to her side of the room where the bottle was kept; drop down onto the straw mat and take one large gulp. After that, she’d take five or six sips, then cap the bottle for later.
It was only then that she was able to turn and look at Trisha Callahan.
She had grown to hate this woman with the thick, black hair and chocolate colored eyes. That brief moment of friendship, when the two held hands, was long forgotten. After the first day of interrogation, Trisha had never again been called into the offic
e. She was not shouted at or scratched by a gun barrel or threatened or pushed to the floor and used as a whore.
And Audra hated her for that.
“Was it bad today?” Trisha asked softly.
“I keep telling you to mind your business!” Audra snapped, pushing back the honey blond hair that hung in tangles around her face. She fingered the rip in her blouse. Nabil had been exceptionally vicious today, and in demonstrating his power over her had torn her sleeve. “And stop staring at me!”
“I just want to help. We need to stick together. Don’t isolate yourself. If you’d only come to know Jesus. He could . . . .”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” Audra screamed, her face looking like a hernia ready to rupture. “Stop preaching to me. I can’t stand it! I don’t need you or anyone! Do you hear that! I don’t need anyone!”
• • •
CHAPTER 14
Joshua sat in Michael Patterson’s paneled office watching the handsome face of Peter Meyers contort in an array of emotions. He was flanked by his brother, Daniel, and Mossad agent Iliab Nahshon, a man of shadows with a lethal reputation.
“I’ve been told of your efforts to track down Kamal and other members of ISA.” There was a smile on Peter’s face, the kind that was as plastic as an iPod cover. “And all without the aid of the DHS or CIA or FBI. But I suppose we should be grateful.”
Joshua met the blond agent’s fierce stare and shrugged. He refused to engage in a verbal war over turf like a bulldog marking his territory.
“But I don’t mind telling you that when Mike told me he had gone to see your brother, Dr. Chapman, I was pretty ticked off. And actually furious when he told me it was because Trisha suspected you were working for the Israeli government in some clandestine capacity.” The muscles of Peter’s face tightened. “I figured you for a corporate spy. I never imagined you were Mossad.”
Peter fingered the lapel of his dark blue suit. “Do you know what Mike said when I told him to let DHS handle things? He said he was having trouble believing DHS could handle a bus transfer across town.”
Joshua stifled a laugh. No use insulting the agent. Besides, he had been at the other end of this stick and was still embarrassed by his own failure in his last Middle East mission involving Kamal—the mission where the Mossad had Kamal in their sights but lost him due to his miscommunication, a snafu that forced the agency to send Iliab Nahshon to America.
Joshua eyed Peter with sympathy. The women had been missing for twenty days. It was only in the last forty-eight hours that any intelligence on their whereabouts had been gathered. And that information had been gleaned, not by DHS but by the Mossad.
“Your concerns are noted. But I think we need to put aside our differences and work together. Illiab, here, has come up with a plan.” Joshua gestured with his chin toward the man on his right. “I’ll let him explain.”
“First, understand that this is not an unselfish act on our part,” Iliab said with a thick accent, the gentleness in his deep voice contrasting the scarred, rugged face.
Joshua had learned a few things about this enigma of a man since working with him. And aside from the scars on his face, Joshua knew a network of scars also plated his body; some obtained in combat but most while in an Arab prison.
“We are hoping these efforts on our part will encourage greater cooperation between your agency and ours.”
“I understand,” Peter said, “but you must know that any commitment I make now is strictly unofficial.”
“Must we play these silly cat-and-mouse games when lives are at stake?”
“I don’t make policy. The bureaucrats in Washington . . . .”
“Politics don’t interest me,” Iliab snapped. “And quite frankly, there are many in the Mossad who no longer trust your government and do not wish an alliance between us. Fortunately, there are more who do. But we all have a long memory and still mourn our martyred Mossad brothers.”
Peter blushed. “Our agency had nothing to do with that fiasco. That was well before our time.”
Joshua tensed. He hoped this wouldn’t get out of hand. Iliab, like many in the Mossad, still resented the former secretary of state who, while trying to bring Arafat to the peace table, had given the PLO, as barter, the names of three top Mossad agents, agents who had infiltrated two different terrorist groups. It cost the agents their lives, and with no real peace to show for it. That same secretary of state continued to be a curse word among many in Israel.
“What is it you want?” Peter asked, his forehead creasing.
“It goes without saying that relations between the U.S. and Israel have been strained of late. President Thaddeus Baker is decidedly pro Arab. And as long as martial law is in effect, nothing will change. I don’t believe your countrymen want to live under a dictatorship. We have certain facts in our possession that could remedy this; facts damaging enough to warrant congress impeaching President Baker and force the lifting of martial law.”
“What information?” Peter pressed.
“We’re not prepared to go there,” Joshua said hastily, seeing the impatience on Iliab’s face. Lacking diplomatic skills, Iliab would be more than capable of pressing Peter to the wall. A counterproductive move. “Once the mission is over, we can discuss this aspect.”
“Fine, but what do you hope to gain from the lifting of martial law?”
“A new president,” Joshua said. “One who will protect us in the UN. One who will veto the continuing efforts by the Palestinians to declare themselves a state without first renouncing their terrorist activities and acknowledging Israel’s right to exist. One who will not allow Russia to steal our oil and gas rights.
“We also want the U.S. to stop twisting Israel’s arm to give up land for peace. We’ve done that. And where is the peace? Tensions are higher than ever. The area is a tinderbox.
“And finally, we want you to stop threatening to cut off our weapon supplies as a means of pressuring us to do your bidding. We’re allies. Your best friend in the Middle East. Your only friend right now. Stop treating us like the enemy.
“If we pool our intelligence, our resources and efforts, we’ll be able to defeat terrorism. Alone, we’ll accomplish a fraction of what we actually could.”
“That’s a tall order,” Peter said, pulling his chin. “You’re pretty much asking for carte blanche. We may be allies but we don’t always see eye to eye.”
Joshua nodded. “That’s because your current president is weak on terrorism and we are serious, often unconventional, and strike hard. We’re in this to win because that’s our only option. The world hates terrorism, but all too often has no stomach for doing what is necessary to stop it. But we cannot fight global terrorism alone. We need you as a partner.”
Peter twisted the bulky West Point ring on his finger and Joshua wondered if it was to remind himself that he was trained in tactical warfare as well as negotiations. “I understand,” he said. “And I agree, off the record, of course. But again why me? What makes you think I can do anything for you or have the clout or connections needed to begin impeachment?”
“You have powerful friends,” Iliab said, curtly, then smiled when he saw the surprised look on Peter’s face. “We do our homework. Under the current law we know where the power has shifted and that you are connected with one of your country’s most influential men; a man we don’t think supports President Baker.”
“I suppose you’re talking about my friend, the National Continuity Coordinator?”
When Peter didn’t answer, Mike leaned forward. “I don’t know what there is to think about. Terrorism is not just a Jewish problem. The sooner we all get on board this train, the sooner we’ll win. And I want to win, gentlemen.”
Joshua glanced at his brother who sat glum and silent. What was he thinking? Joshua already understood that Daniel had lost Trisha to this man who built airplanes, a man not willing
to sit idly by while someone he loved was in danger. Still, he was proud of his brother for not hesitating to help. The heart was a strange thing, and not all who had been spurned would be so inclined.
“Well, what do you say?” Joshua said, brushing his hand over his brother’s shoulder as he settled back in the chair.
“If your information is all that you imply, then it could be dangerous for me and anyone else I share it with.”
“It is,” Joshua said, without emotion. “But if you want your country back, you’ll need it.”
Peter gnawed his lips. “What you’re implying is that there are some in my government I’m not to trust.”
Iliab leaned forward. “Exactly.” He extended his hand to Meyers. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” Peter said, taking his hand and shaking it. “Now, tell us about this Seco Polvo where they’re holding the women.”
Iliab’s lips arched into a thin smile. “Seco Polvo is a small Mexican village about a hundred miles from the U.S. border. It’s one of several villages taken over by ISA; where all the men and children have been killed and the women kept as slaves. It was obviously chosen for its inaccessibility—being surrounded by desert and rough, mountain terrain. We also believe it is Kamal’s North American home base.”
“I understand you have been contacted by ISA,” Joshua said, looking at Mike. “Once to claim responsibility, the second time with demands.”
“Yes. They want one million dollars before releasing the women. I’ll be contacted in three days for my answer, along with further instructions.”
“You cannot pay,” Joshua said. “Once you do, they’ll kill them both.”
“Then what are our options? What can we do?”
“We can go to Seco Polvo and get the women out.”
“How?” Mike returned, leaning forward in his chair. “You’d need an army.”
“Yes, it would take an army if we wanted to conquer the village,” Iliab said. “And the terrorists would kill the women before we reached them. That is why we will use only four men.”
The Babel Conspiracy Page 20
