by Dan Mayland
The inside of this one smelled like a sheep, Decker noted. Which didn’t surprise him, given that the felt blankets that had been stretched over wooden trellises to form the walls of the yurt had been made from sheep’s wool, as had the blankets that lay over the roof ribs. On top of that, the exterior-facing side of the blankets had been waterproofed with sheep’s fat. Decker still hadn’t gotten used to the pungent, musky smell.
He turned over onto his side. The glow of the cow-dung embers in the open stove was just bright enough to illuminate Muhammad and Jessica.
He thought back to earlier in the day, when he and Jess had taken Muhammad on a pony ride. Although the terrain up here was barren and cold, the boy hadn’t cared—he’d loved the little horse, had buried his hands in the pony’s mane, squealing and bouncing with delight. Decker had to admit, the kid was growing on him. He wondered whether Muhammad would remember any of this when he was older. Did two-year-olds make permanent memories? Decker didn’t think so; he couldn’t remember anything from when he was that age. Just as well. Decker had little doubt that a couple of pony rides weren’t going to outweigh all the awful things that had happened to Muhammad in the last few days. Better not to remember any of it.
Trying to recall some of his own memories from when he’d been a two-year-old made Decker think of his dad again. The guy hated hospitals and couldn’t stand being cooped up. Being bedridden must be killing him.
Decker exhaled, then twisted around looking for Jessica’s phone, which she’d placed by her head next to a bottle of water. He navigated to the e-mail account he and Mark were using to communicate. Since they were high above the cell towers near the lake, the reception here was decent.
During the day, he’d checked that e-mail account at least once an hour. But it had been nearly two hours now since he’d last looked. His hopes weren’t high. He’d resigned himself to having to call his family again the next morning and make another excuse for his absence. By tomorrow night, though, he’d be making his excuses to Mark.
To his surprise, there was a message.
Take package immediately to Bishkek. Further instructions regarding delivery of package to follow shortly.
“Jess, Jess, wake up,” said Decker, gently shaking her shoulder. “We’re outta here.”
55
Bahrain
Bandar bin Fahd returned to his suite at around eleven that evening. Hidden under the bed, Mark heard him pour himself a glass of what he imagined was Laphroaig. A thirty-minute conversation in English followed—with, Mark gathered, a London-based employee of Fahd’s private equity firm.
Fahd began with an update on a 180-key hotel in London he was considering purchasing, then went on to talk about what the turmoil in Bahrain might mean for one of his firm’s current investments—a water park south of Manama. He sounded nothing like the whoring, drunk idiot Mark had hoped he’d be. After Fahd showered and listened to the BBC world news for ten minutes, the lights went out. Mark swept his finger over his iPod. It was nearly midnight.
He started thinking about Rad.
He’d seen his brother all of three times since his mother’s suicide. The first time had been just two days after it had happened. He’d come back home, not because he was tired of being homeless—he wasn’t—or wanted to reconcile with his father—he hadn’t, but because he’d been concerned about Rad and his youngest brother.
But he needn’t have been.
The woman his father had been “counseling” down at the Eastern Orthodox church was caring for his brothers—the same woman his father married six months later.
The second time Mark had seen Rad was a full seven years after the suicide. Mark had just received his first paycheck from the CIA. He’d come back to New Jersey to check on his brothers, to see if they needed anything now that he had something to give. One of the priests who’d remembered Marko had arranged for him to meet them at church after Sunday school. Mark had asked Rad and his younger brother whether they were doing OK. They were. He’d asked whether they needed anything. They didn’t. Not from Mark, at least—indeed, they’d hardly remembered him.
And then there had been that lunch in New York City fifteen years ago. After that, there’d been a couple of phone calls, and Mark had sent some money when Rad had graduated from college. But they’d never seen each other again in person.
So why are you doing this?
Because he’s your brother.
A few shared genes, that’s all that was, thought Mark. What mattered was the relationship between two people, not the fact that they were related. Human beings and mice shared a lot of genes but nobody—or almost nobody—went around thinking they owed anything to mice. Why should it be any different with humans you shared a few genes with?
Intellectually, Mark couldn’t think of a good reason why it should be different. But it was. He wondered where Rad was, whether he was still thirsty, still panicking. Probably.
Hang in there, brother.
At one in the morning, Mark received a text message from Larry Bowlan:
Ready.
He inched his way out from underneath the bed. Fahd’s breathing was steady, and he snored lightly.
Experience had taught Mark that it was almost always better to proceed slowly and deliberately in an operation like this—and to shut down the natural impulse to get it over with quickly just because you felt exposed. So he timed his micro-movements to Fahd’s breathing, moving slightly each time the Saudi exhaled.
It took him five minutes to make his way out from under the bed, and another two before he was standing next to Fahd. By now not just his movements, but his own breathing was tied to Fahd’s.
Though all the curtains in the room had been pulled shut, just enough dim light from the street seeped through so that Mark, his eyes now fully adjusted, could see through the gloom. Fahd had a dark neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a white sleeping robe and had pulled a single sheet up to his chest, having cast the heavier blankets to the side. His hands were folded on his stomach.
This was a disciplined man, Mark thought. Odd that he would use prostitutes as much as he did, but then people were odd. And the Saudis sure did have some screwed-up ideas when it came to women.
Mark positioned one hand just above Fahd’s throat, and the other above Fahd’s head, inches from the pillow. He waited for the Saudi to start his exhalation—better to attack when the lungs were empty—and then struck with precision and speed.
The palm of his right hand came down on Fahd’s throat as his thumb and fingers pressed down on Fahd’s carotid arteries. At the same time, he used his left hand to rip the pillow out from under Fahd’s head and press it down over Fahd’s nose and mouth.
Mark leaned down, exerting just as much pressure as was needed but no more. The Saudi fought for maybe thirty seconds or so, then went limp—knocked out, but not dead.
Mark immediately released his hands from Fahd’s neck, reached beneath the bed, and pulled out a roll of duct tape from his suitcase.
He used a bed sheet to wrap the Saudi up, as if swaddling a baby, and then bound him with the tape. Just as he was finishing, Fahd began to regain consciousness. Mark slipped a pillowcase over Fahd’s head, pulled out the Makarov he’d taken from the dead bodyguard, racked the slide quickly and loudly, and said, “I need you to be quiet and compliant. Nod if you understand.”
Fahd stopped struggling. Moments later, he nodded.
“I’m going to continue to bind you. If you fight me, I’m going to knock you out again. If you yell, I’ll have to silence you quickly. You understand what that means?”
Fahd nodded again.
“But if you handle this like a professional, I will too, and I promise you’ll be free within the next twelve hours. It’s all up to you. Do we have an understanding?”
Fahd nodded, and didn’t put up a fight as Mark finished binding him.
“Stand up.”
Fahd tried to.
As he did, Mark said, “I’m going t
o pick you up.” He crouched down, placed his shoulder at Fahd’s midsection, and struggled to hoist the Saudi up onto his shoulder in a rough approximation of a fireman’s carry.
Mark made his way slowly to the door, which he opened with one hand while steadying the Saudi on his shoulder with the other. Along the way, he grabbed the bottle of scotch.
Before exiting the room, Mark listened for footsteps in the hall. Hearing nothing, he stepped into the hall, cast a wary eye at room 516, where he suspected Fahd’s bodyguard was sleeping, and turned right. He walked fifty feet before stopping at a utility closet, which he unlocked with the master key. Inside was a large laundry cart with canvas sides.
“You’re going to feel…” Mark took a few deep breaths. “… a bump.” He tried to lower Fahd gently into the cart.
It was more than a bump—more like a big bag-of-concrete-hitting-the-ground flop—because Mark lost control at the end, but he managed to get Fahd into the cart and cover him up with several clean towels that had been folded and stacked on a nearby linen shelf.
Mark rolled the cart down the hall toward the elevators. No one was in the elevator, nor in the main fourth-floor hallway. Directly across from the bank of elevators was a large framed photograph of the king of Bahrain. Mark pushed the cart over to it, slipped his hand behind the frame, and felt along the bottom edge. Near the left-hand corner, an electronic key card had been taped to the frame.
Bowlan had come through for him.
Relieved, Mark pulled off the key card. Written on the tape that was affixed to it was the number 432. He wheeled the cart to that room and inserted the key. The lock opened. Though he could have used his master key, that might have left an electronic record.
Bowlan’s standard room was far more cramped than the luxurious corner-room executive suites on the fifth floor. Two small chairs were arranged in a corner around a low circular table. Two twin beds took up most of the remaining floor space; between them was an enormous red suitcase.
Mark stripped the sheets from one of the beds, draped the fitted bottom sheet over one of the chairs, moved the chair so that it stood in front of the one window in the room, then hung the top sheet over the heavy curtains that covered the window.
“I’m going to move you,” he warned Fahd. He slowly tipped the linen cart over, dragged Fahd out of it, and pulled him up onto the chair.
A reading light was mounted on the wall between the beds; Mark turned it on, pulled out his iPod, set it to camera mode, and stood behind Fahd. “Now I’m going to remove the pillowcase from your head. Look directly in front of you. Don’t turn around.”
Mark was careful to stand directly behind Fahd.
After removing the pillowcase, Mark extended his iPod in front of Fahd’s face, and snapped a quick picture.
“Who are you?” whispered Fahd. “Why is this happening?”
Mark inspected the image. As he’d hoped, the white sheets had masked any distinguishing features of the hotel room.
Fahd added, “I can pay you myself. I am a wealthy man.”
“It’s not about money and it’s not about anything you did or didn’t do. The only reason you’re here is because of your connection to the Saudi royal family. But again, if you do as I say, you’ll be released unharmed tomorrow. If you don’t, then you’ll have problems.”
Mark set the iPod to video mode. Without warning, he reached his right arm around Fahd’s face and dug his fingers deep into the soft spot between the Saudi’s skull and neck, just below the ear, where there was a sensitive cluster of nerves.
Fahd let out an involuntary yelp accompanied by a spasmed tilt of the head. Mark whipped his right hand away and, with his left hand, recorded a two second clip of Fahd writhing.
Then he put a hand over Fahd’s mouth and spoke in his ear.
“Easy there. I had to hit you with that. No one’s going to take this kidnapping seriously if they think that you’re living it up, getting room service, and being treated like royalty. If you cooperate from here on out, though, I promise that will be the end of the pain. Be thankful I didn’t shoot you in the leg, or the shoulder, and record that. Because sometimes, that’s how it’s done. And no more talking. No more crying out. Just face forward, and listen.”
Mark stepped back, grabbed a glass from the table behind him, and pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket. The bag was filled with a white powder—eight 50mg Benadryl tablets that he’d bought and crushed up on the way from Exhibitions Avenue to the Golden Tulip, because sleeping pills weren’t sold over the counter in Bahrain. He dumped the powder into the glass, opened the bottle of scotch, poured out a healthy amount onto the powder, and mixed everything up.
Fahd was hyperventilating.
“Now’s the fun part.” Mark gently swirled the alcohol in the glass as he spoke. “It’ll be better for both of us if you’re relaxed. So I want you to drink some scotch. Enough to help you forget what a lousy time you’re having tonight. I’m going to put a glass to your mouth, and I want you to take a big drink. We’re going to do this once a minute until I think you’ve had enough.”
Mark first showed Fahd the bottle of Laphroaig, then put the glass up to Fahd’s lips. The Saudi smelled it, then took a big thirsty slug of it, almost too much.
“Easy there. Don’t have so much that you throw up.”
After Mark had fed Fahd what he gauged was the equivalent of around eight shots, he put the bottle down.
“That’s enough. From here on out, I expect total silence and minimal movement. Don’t panic and everything will be OK. I’ll be here throughout the night and tomorrow, keeping an eye on you. Try to sleep.”
He left Fahd gagged, blindfolded, and strapped to a chair in the bathroom. Taking the giant red suitcase that Bowlan had placed between the beds, he stuffed it full of blankets and sheets and pillows so that it was bulging. Then he closed the door to the bathroom and turned on the television set in the main room—not so loud that it might trigger complaints, but loud enough to drown out minor noise.
On the elevator ride down to the lobby, he uploaded the two-second video of Fahd to YouTube, using one of his Gmail accounts to do so. He saved the web address in his Contacts folder.
From the moment he exited the elevator, he walked slowly, as though the suitcase he was wheeling behind him was extremely heavy and he was struggling with the load.
He passed the receptionist in the main lobby. A uniformed doorman opened the glass exit door for him.
“Do you need help with your bag, sir? Or a taxi?”
“No, thank you.”
Idling in the circular drop-off area in front of the hotel was a burgundy Lincoln sedan. A tall, white-haired man wearing a blue blazer, a white oxford shirt, and thick black-rimmed glasses that might have been considered fashionable in 1962, stepped out of the car. He had big ears, and his face was creased with smoker’s wrinkles, making him look older than his seventy-one years. But he moved quickly and surprisingly fluidly as he exited the car and popped open the trunk.
“Good to see you, Larry.”
“Sava.”
They shook hands. Bowlan’s grip was firm.
“Give me a hand getting this suitcase into the trunk. It’s supposed to be heavy, so act as if it is. You’re on stage. You grab one end, I’ll grab the other.”
“How heavy?”
“About the weight of an average-sized Saudi.”
Together they made a show of bending down, lifting with their legs, and muscling the suitcase into the trunk. After it was in, Larry made a show of breathing heavily, hands on his hips.
“Don’t overdo it,” said Mark.
The air had cooled, and there was a slight breeze. The city was quiet all around them. Bowlan slipped into the driver’s seat, and Mark got in beside him.
“Where to?” asked Bowlan. He was glancing in his rearview and sideview mirrors in a way that might have appeared normal to a casual observer, but Mark could tell Bowlan was in that hyperalert zone. Mark was there
himself.
“Manama fish market.”
“I know it.”
When considering the best place to meet Admiral Garver, Mark had remembered reading once that the fish market in Manama was a huge daily affair, renowned throughout the region. He figured people would be there even in the middle of the night, getting ready for the market to open before dawn. It was neutral territory, and only a short drive away.
As they were pulling away from the Golden Tulip, Mark asked, “So’d you talk to Kalila Safi?”
“No, but I talked to her brother just before I got on the plane…”
56
Rad woke up thinking about the drive from the oil fields. Sometime after dark, they’d pulled him from the shack and dumped him in the back of a pickup truck. Though he hadn’t been able to see over the walls of the bed of the truck, he’d been able to glimpse the bright flames atop the tall flare stacks.
The truck had driven through the desert over dirt roads, and all the bouncing around had been excruciating. But he’d tried to remember Mark’s advice—to stay alert and calm to fight off shock. He recalled passing a gate in a chain-link fence, and a building that had looked like military barracks. And then he’d blacked out. Or had he been drugged? He vaguely remembered a hand coming down over his mouth, but maybe he’d dreamed it?
He certainly felt groggy now. His shoulder still ached, but not as much as before.
Where was he? He raised his head from the table he lay on. Though he was now shirtless, he was still wearing the same boxer shorts that he’d had on when he’d been abducted in India. Bright lights shone down from above, making it hard for him to see. To his left, he thought he could make out what looked like the steel walls of a warehouse. To his right, arranged on a small metal tray, was a collection of scalpels.
Rad stared at the scalpels.
He wasn’t in an operating room. So what the hell were the scalpels doing there?
