The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

Blair was suddenly oblivious to the interns and nurses passing by. “And merconium is what exactly?” he asked.

  “Meconium,” the doctor corrected. “It’s an infant’s first stool. Among other things, it’s made up of mucus, bile, and water. Normally, it’s expelled into the amniotic fluid prior to birth or during labor. In the case of your daughter, she ingested the contaminated fluid. This is what caused the respiratory problem.”

  “You mean, she swallowed her own poop?” Blair wanted to know.

  “No, no. Meconium is not poop. Not exactly.”

  “Oh? So what is it, then?”

  “Well, it’s poop, as you put it, but unlike feces it’s sterile, and has no odor. Mr. Mulligan, your daughter is doing okay. I just didn’t want you to jump to conclusions. She is in the ICU, like I said.”

  Blair’s anxiety heightened. He did not associate the intensive care unit with anything good.

  There were too many of them. Tiny newborns lying in incubators. He followed Dr. Morgan to the furthest corner where a middle-aged nurse, wearing granny glasses, was seated. She was monitoring various instruments. When she noticed him, she stood and said, “Mr. Mulligan, I presume? I’m Susan Armstrong.” She indicated the incubator next to her. “And this is your beautiful daughter, Sandra.”

  A mop of reddish/blond hair. The correct number of fingers and toes. All overshadowed by the tubes and wires running to and from her mouth and chest.

  Suddenly, it seemed to Blair that his daughter’s heart was racing too fast. Up and down, up and down. He felt his own pulse picking up, in sympathy. He turned to the nurse. “Her heartbeat doesn’t seem normal,” he said.

  The doctor replied, “It’s perfectly normal, Mr. Mulligan.”

  He didn’t know if he should believe him. He bent down to get a closer look. Sandra’s chest seemed to bounce with each breath she took.

  “Barring any complications,” Dr. Morgan said, “your daughter should be released from the ICU before the week is out.”

  Blair traced a line with his hand along the glass of the incubator. “She’s so tiny,” he whispered, in awe.

  “Tiny but beautiful,” the doctor said, obviously trying to cheer him up.

  Standing in such close proximity, Dr. Morgan’s BO started to get to Blair. He moved away, until he was diagonally across from him. “When will Dr. Sherkin be here?” he thought to ask. Kal Sherkin was their obstetrician and someone in whom Blair had full confidence.

  “He’s already been,” the nurse said. “But he’ll be back.”

  When exactly? he wondered, but knew what the answer would be. Doctors worked to their own schedule.

  He remained standing, observing his daughter. He was nervous despite Dr. Morgan’s attempts to reassure him. It was just sinking in that he was actually a father. He wanted to bathe in the euphoria, and not have to fear for Sandra’s life.

  For weeks and months after his daughter was released from the hospital, Blair kept a constant vigil. The least complaint started him wondering—throughout the teething process, the times she came down with a cold, whenever a rash appeared. Every bit of discomfort she displayed sent his mind into overdrive.

  Blair had to discipline himself to refrain from pestering their doctor. And it took until her first birthday before he finally believed that Sandra was out of the woods. Then he vowed that he would protect her from harm for the rest of her life.

  No matter what…

  CHAPTER 56

  May passed into June.

  Blair sat at his desk, a decrepit antique made of wood, in the basement office arranged especially for him. It was a windowless room with bare walls. A fairly new Dell computer sat at his beck and call. His e-mail address had been inserted and was now operational.

  Requests to see his daughter were ignored. He tried every argument he could think of. He even swallowed his pride and begged. It was hopeless.

  Blair found it disconcerting that these people were religious enough to feel the call to prayer multiple times a day, yet embraced torture and murder as if they were sanctioned by a Supreme Being.

  Khalid Yassin paid him occasional visits, usually at night. Invariably, one of his unfiltered cigarettes would dangle from his mouth. Too often he would boast of how this was only the beginning. How each new strike they planned against the United States was going to get bigger and more bold. How he, Blair, and the rest of the infidels would meet a just fate. Whatever that meant.

  Blair dreaded these visits and bore them with a resolve that took all his discipline. Uppermost on his mind was the fact that on September 7th, one hundred thousand pieces of Cyber-tech would be released across America. A quarter of consumers, perhaps more, would turn the game on that same night. The numbers were staggering. Twenty-five thousand explosions.

  Blair thought back to when the concept of Cyber-tech was first introduced to him. The Israelis were normally leaders in this sort of product, not followers. Unlike the Japanese and the automobile industry, wherein the best features of German and American cars were often imitated, in the case of Cyber-tech, the tables had been reversed. A Japanese product, or a group of products, had been copied by the Israelis and made better.

  Unfortunately, rather than a chance at the brass ring, Blair had become a pawn of new-wave fanaticism: Islamic fundamentalists motivated by pure hatred masquerading as philosophical need.

  His fault.

  This is what it came down to. A realization borne not out of self-pity but the truth. Avarice had thrust him into this situation. His eagerness to hit the big score. Cyber-tech was to be his ticket to financial freedom. Instead he would be responsible for mass murder.

  He began to type on the computer. He hit each key much harder than necessary. Blair always considered his secretary, Andrea Victor, to be a bright woman. He wondered now why she wasn’t getting it.

  For the past few weeks he had purposely refrained from giving her the okay to place their orders for the fall season. Without these goods, his company would be in default with many of the major retailers, thereby incurring huge fines.

  Andrea knew this. More often than not, she would be the one to remind him of the approaching deadline. What with the requirement of ninety-day lead times or longer, the toy product was either ordered from the Orient now or it would arrive too late.

  Blair hoped that by avoiding the subject, Andrea would perceive that something was wrong. It was grasping at straws, he knew. But what else was there? He had racked his brain ever since his capture. Unless his secretary noticed his omission, it would all be for naught.

  The image of Sandra’s fingernail being extracted constantly haunted his dreams. Tonight it was more pronounced. Giving up on sleep altogether, he sat up in bed and looked at his watch. It was the one piece of personal property that they hadn’t confiscated. The time read 3:17 AM.

  He stepped to the floor.

  His room seemed to be an afterthought, perhaps something added on after the original house had been built.

  He rapped his knuckles on the wall. It made a solid sound. As quietly as possible, he continued to probe.

  When nothing came of his search, he crawled under the bed. He removed his watch and, cognizant of the noise, began to tap at the space between the headboard and the floor.

  It took almost a half-hour before he finally heard something hollow. Too exhausted to continue, he marked the spot with a pencil and vowed to get back to it tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 57

  The next morning the knock came, as expected, at precisely seven o’clock.

  Blair opened the door. The woman was wearing a hijab. With her face covered, he couldn’t tell if he’d seen her before. He could only go by her size and body language. Neither rang any bells. She handed him a tray of food. He accepted it in silence. The woman turned and he closed the door behind her.

  There was a bridge table in the center of the room. He placed the tray on it and took a seat in one of two plastic chairs.

  The light in the room came from a lone bra
ss fixture. Unattractive, it dangled like a poor man’s chandelier. Blair found its brightness intrusive.

  This morning his breakfast was something they’d never served him before. It could have been fish or eggs. It was impossible to tell with the brown sauce that was slathered on top of it.

  Blair tentatively dug his plastic fork into the concoction. Ignoring the unpleasant odor, he took a small bite, then practically gagged. He spit out the balance. Then he hurried into the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

  Settled in his office, he began to compose e-mail after e-mail. To his secretary, his group of independent sales representatives, Andrew Sciascia, his sister, to Jeremy Samson. No matter how he tried to improvise, to insert a call for help, words failed him. It was truly disheartening to not be able to reveal what was on his mind.

  Lunch was a small portion of fresh fruit. It was so much tastier than his breakfast, he savored each morsel as if it would be his last. Then he went back to work. He flailed away on the computer keyboard, but achieved nothing worthwhile.

  Dinner resembled chicken but had a foreign texture. White meat on a bone. Blair didn’t know what it was and didn’t care. His taste buds accepted it and that was good enough for him.

  In his bedroom that night, he started on the wall again, taking his time.

  When the voice came to him, he paused. Until now he’d been able to ignore it. But it forced its way into his subconscious and reminded him of his options: his daughter or the lives of no less than twenty-five thousand strangers.

  He shook his head, desperately trying to clear it.

  CHAPTER 58

  Blair continued to ask to see his daughter. Yassin was unwilling to let that happen. So for the next few days he stopped working, stopped eating, stopped getting out of bed.

  Now it was Yassin who opened the door and stepped inside. “I hear you’ve been misbehaving,” he said.

  Blair glared at him. “I want to see Sandra.”

  “I already told you. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not? What harm could it do?”

  “No harm. The simple fact is, your daughter is doing well. There is no need to add confusion to her life.”

  “Confusion?” Blair came to a sitting position. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Don’t raise your voice, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “What confusion can there be?” he asked more quietly. “I am her father, for God’s sake.”

  “And don’t take the name of your lord in vain.” Yassin stepped closer, and took a seat on the edge of the bed. “You would think you’d have learned your lesson by now,” he said, the voice of reason. “You will do as I ask without any more of your demands. You can starve yourself to death, as far as I am concerned. But only after my operation has been completed. If you dare try something else, no matter how insignificant, you will be made to pay, in a way you will always remember. Have I made myself clear, Blair Mulligan?”

  He was fed up with the way the man continued to use both his surname and given name. But he kept his silence.

  “Well?” Yassin pushed.

  More than ever, Blair resented his own shortcomings.

  Yassin rose to his feet. “Do not try my patience,” he said.

  “At least let me speak to Sandra by phone,” Blair pleaded.

  Yassin went to the door, opened it and stepped out. He did not bother to look back, let alone offer a reply.

  CHAPTER 59

  Blair got out of bed, furious that his hunger strike had been a waste of time. He moved the bed aside and dropped to his knees. Carefully, he took hold of the one solid piece of plaster he had been able to extricate recently. It was approximately three-by-two. By preserving it, he hoped to cover up whatever damage was being done to the wall.

  Now, he noticed the outline of a crawlspace. Unfortunately, it was surrounded by mortar and insulation. Much of it had hardened and was twinned together. He tried using his watch as a tool again. But very little plaster came loose. He worked for almost an hour before pausing to examine his handiwork. He still hadn’t made much headway. And his task remained formidable.

  He replaced the piece of plaster in the outer wall and stood, slowly made his way into the bathroom, and took his shower. There was soap but no shampoo. Drying off, he made the mistake of looking in the mirror. His hair was growing long and unruly. For the first time in his life there was significant stubble on his face. He did not find it attractive.

  Getting dressed in the same sport shirt and jeans he’d worn since the day he was captured, Blair tried to ignore his body odor. For someone who always prided himself on his hygiene, it hurt not to have the use of something as basic as cologne and deodorant.

  With a shrug of resignation, he left his room and headed for the office, located a mere step or two down the hall.

  Jeremy Samson’s e-mail was waiting for him on his computer:

  I’VE BEEN TRYING TO CALL YOU FOR THE LAST WEEK AND A HALF. DID YOU LOSE YOUR CELL PHONE? OR ARE YOU SIMPLY TRYING TO AVOID ME?

  Blair paused. By not sending a reply, Jeremy would surely know something was wrong. So he decided to do nothing.

  Within minutes, Yassin entered the office with a landline phone. He unraveled the cord and plugged it in. “Here, use this,” he said, handing him the receiver.

  “What for?” Blair asked, professing ignorance.

  “What do you think it’s for? Your friend in Israel wants to talk to you. So you will call him. This phone is untraceable and works on a delay. As usual, we’ll be listening.”

  Knowing he had no choice, he took hold of the receiver and nodded automatically. Once Yassin left, Blair began to dial the Tel Aviv number, at the same time trying to think of a way to foil the man’s plans.

  “Shalom,” Jeremy said.

  Shalom to you, too, would have been Blair’s normal rejoinder. Instead, he offered a plain, “Hello,” hoping the subtle difference would be noticed.

  “I guess you found a phone that works.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Where are you, by the way?”

  “Away,” he said. Then quickly added: “On a business trip.”

  “Oh? It must be a long trip.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “The Cyber-tech TV commercial’s been shot and it’s wonderful. I was wondering if I could send you a copy?”

  “Please do.”

  “To your office?”

  Blair paused. “Yes,” he said, “my office is fine.”

  “Will you be back soon?”

  “I should be.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “Oh, no, I’m sure,” Blair said unconvincingly. And a new thought came to mind. “Jeremy, I was wondering if you’d heard from Ms. Brandt?” he asked.

  “Just the other day.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Would you let her know that she wasn’t wrong? I believe she’d like to hear that.”

  “Uh-uh, boychick. That’s something you’ll have to tell Lisa yourself.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  Jeremy led the conversation back to Cyber-tech. But Blair was hardly concentrating. After his goodbye, he wondered if he’d said enough for his friend to notice.

  Almost immediately, Yassin came storming back in. Three of his henchmen were by his side. Without a word, Blair was snatched off his feet. The men bodily carried him out of the room and into the one a few doors down, where he was strapped into the metal chair he’d come to hate.

  “I am going to ask you some questions,” Yassin began. “And I want your truthful answers.”

  Yeah, Blair told himself. You’ll get the truth, all right.

  “Who is Ms. Brandt?” Yassin asked.

  Blair knew if he didn’t act natural, he’d be caught. And Lisa along with him. “A friend of mine,” he said, fighting down his panic.

  “Who does she work for?”
<
br />   “I don’t know the name of the firm. She’s a masseuse.”

  “Liar!” the man hissed. “I will ask you again. Who does she work for?”

  Blair tried to change positions in the chair. The straps were too tight. “I can only repeat what I know,” he said. “She works as a therapeutic masseuse, mainly with athletes.”

  The smack came quickly, once across his cheek.

  “What is Lisa Brandt’s connection to Jeremy Samson?”

  “They are friends,” he said.

  “Just friends? Not business associates?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Yassin’s nostrils flared. Then he smacked him again, harder this time.

  Blair tasted blood, and knew his cheek had been cut.

  “You are lying. Who does Lisa work for?”

  “I already told you.”

  Yassin’s hand formed a fist. But before the punch could be thrown, his arm went into spasm.

  By the time he recovered, he was furious. “You will tell me the truth,” he warned. And he palmed the same remote switch he’d used before, held it up so there’d be no mistaking what it was.

  Blair tried to buy time. “Lisa is a masseuse,” he said quickly. “Jeremy owns a toy company. That’s all I know about them. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because you are not being truthful,” Yassin said.

  “I am.”

  “You are not, my friend.”

  “Listen to me…”

  “No, you listen,” Yassin said, and he pressed the remote.

  The pain in Blair’s testicles gradually subsided, but he knew he’d been burned and it would take a long while to heal.

  Meanwhile, he wished he could recant his conversation with Jeremy. He cared about Lisa, far more than he’d been able to admit. Putting her at risk was the worst thing he could have done. Getting a message to Jeremy was one thing, not thinking it through clearly, quite another.

  “We will talk again,” Yassin said.