by Hal Ross
The straps holding him bound to the chair were undone. He tried to stand but was too weak to do so.
Yassin’s men carried him to his room, where he was unceremoniously dumped on the bed.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his strength to return. Thinking of Lisa brought back bittersweet memories. And he was reminded of the mistake he had made in not trusting her, in rejecting her offer to help.
Finally, he made his way to the bathroom. He examined his mouth in the mirror and found the cut in his cheek.
It was a small price to pay, he told himself, for not having caved in.
He tried to urinate. A weak stream came out, but most of it was blood.
A small price to pay indeed, he realized.
CHAPTER 60
Back in bed, he asked himself what was the measure of a man.
His integrity?
His intestinal fortitude?
His ability to act and react in a dignified manner?
By any criterion, he had failed and failed miserably.
Early on, when Khalid Yassin was still John Dalton, the man’s behavior should have been warning enough.
It was pitiful, Blair concluded now. The way he had followed orders. He blamed it on his upbringing, the fact that he was taught that anyone of authority automatically deserved respect. Dalton identified himself as a member of a government agency. And he had taken him at his word.
He worked at the wall, doing his best to enlarge the hole. He imagined himself crawling through it and finding freedom. For two hours he chipped away, until the muscles in his arms and shoulders became sore.
He paused.
He was not impressed with his effort at all.
It was just one more indication of his impotence. And this fact was as debilitating as his physical distress.
He settled into routine.
When his secretary advised by e-mail that his ex-wife had charged him with kidnapping, he was encouraged. Apparently, the police had issued a warrant for his arrest.
But an inner voice, playing devil’s advocate, warned that the chance of the police finding him was less than nil.
All he could do, he decided, was to will time to slow down, even as it marched, inexorably, closer and closer toward the unthinkable.
CHAPTER 61
It was late a few nights later and he had the bed pushed aside. The piece of plaster guarding the puncture in the wall had been removed. He was on his knees, anxious to get results.
His substantial weight loss had sapped his strength. If he didn’t try something now, he feared he wouldn’t have the energy for another attempt later.
He reached out to a chunk of insulation and pushed it aside. Then another section and another.
Some forty-five minutes later he was drenched in sweat. Dust seemed to fill every cavity, from his ears to his nose to his mouth. He examined his watch. Its gold-plated sides had been scratched beyond recognition.
His only chance of making progress, he decided, would be to reverse positions. This way he could use his feet as a battering ram. He lay on his back, brought his legs in, then kicked as hard as he could.
If this was to be his last chance, he was going to take it. He used both legs together, then one at a time. Until…
Disbelief threatened to crush him. His right foot had become stuck. No matter how he tried to free it, it wouldn’t work. Finally, he leaned in with his upper body and dug at the plaster with his hands. The strain on his back became unbearable. He lay flat for a minute or two before going at it again, this time using his free leg, a frenetic effort, giving it everything he had.
It wasn’t working.
He began to imagine the worst case scenario: his foot remaining wedged in place until the morning, when Yassin would walk in and find him.
This image set him off.
But no matter how he clawed at the wall, his foot wouldn’t budge. He alternated between his hands and his leg, until he actually considered giving up.
That’s it, he teased himself. Just quit. Show everyone what you’re really made of.
He let his breath out slowly.
No! He shook his head.
He mustn’t quit.
He went back at the wall, the noise no longer mattering to him. He grunted aloud and kicked for all he was worth.
When the door to his room flew open, Blair held his breath and waited. He had purposely kept the lights off. The bedspread had been bunched up so it would appear he was beneath it, asleep. The bed may have been moved out of position, but it still blocked him from view.
He remained still.
Unfortunately, the dust that had settled in his nose now began to tickle. He clamped both hands over his face. Instead of muffling the sneeze, it came out as a snort.
In a rush, the bed was jerked aside. Arms took hold, and tried yanking him free.
There was no give.
Yassin’s look was one of disgust. “What were you trying to do?” he asked. “This wall doesn’t lead anywhere. You were wasting your time.” He turned to the other men. “Get him out of there,” he instructed. “No matter what it takes.”
Blair couldn’t say how it happened. The men relentlessly pounded on the wall and on him. One minute he was stuck in the hole, helpless, the next he was strapped back into the all-too-familiar chair.
“I warned you about trying something stupid!” Yassin said, fury masking his face.
Blair knew any comment would be pointless.
The table that was used before to hold the Cyber-tech sample was now rolled in and positioned next to him. It contained a butcher’s block, masking tape, and a pair of scissors.
“I never should have trusted you,” Yassin muttered as if talking to himself. He gripped Blair’s right hand, splayed the fingers out on top of the block, and began to secure each digit in place with the masking tape. He trimmed the tape with the scissors.
Blair noticed the machete for the first time.
“I gave you freedom and you abused it.” Yassin continued to lecture as he took the machete in hand. “You are not a man of honor, Blair Mulligan. You must be taught a lesson.”
What flashed in Blair’s mind was a life without fingers. Not being able to write or play golf. Not being able to feel or touch.
Yassin’s hand rose above his head. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Blair’s thought process had shuttered, rendering him mute.
“I asked you a question.”
Say something! Anything!
Too late. The machete came down.
CHAPTER 62
One week prior, Abdul Masri, Yassin’s second-in-command, a tall, bearded man in his early forties, had joined Yassin for a cup of coffee. Yassin didn’t particularly like the man. But Masri had proven himself to be defiant yet loyal. And loyalty went a long way with him.
When Masri asked if the years of planning were worth it, Yassin hesitated before replying. He was tempted to tell his second-in-command it was none of his business. “Why do you ask?” he said instead.
“Because, if it was me, I wouldn’t have the patience.”
“Even if you knew the good you were doing?”
“Even then. So I admire you.”
“There is nothing to admire. This plot was initiated a few years ago. Paid informants did the research. Arranging the funding was the most complicated part.”
“But still worth it?” Abdul persisted.
He nodded. “Absolutely. Look at the impact we will have. The number of casualties. You will go down in history, my friend, along with the rest of us.”
When Yassin asked about the final arrangements, Masri acted as if it were an imposition to have to review it with him.
“First,” he began, making a show of counting on his fingers, “your airline ticket has been bought and paid for, in cash, in the name you provided. A few of us will be leaving the country by other means. The rest will disperse. Some will return to their private lives, at least for t
he time being.
“Second, the videotaping of the girl will be completed this afternoon. We will get her to say all the right things, so her father will believe they are to be reunited.
“Third, our group has already been divided into teams as you had instructed. One team will handle luggage and transportation and the like. The other will assure that every piece of furniture, as well as utensils, walls, windows, and lavatories are wiped clean and sterilized.
“Fourth, on the day the retailers put the product on sale, at midnight on September 7th, I will leave New York and drive to Montreal, then fly to Cairo. I will make my way by land back to Palestine. A few others, especially Bishara and Munir, will take circuitous routes but use similar itineraries. They will catch up with us later. Did I cover it all?”
Yassin caught the tone of the question but let it pass. He had either been locked up with Masri too long, or the man simply grated on his nerves. “Seems like you covered it fine,” he said. “Thank you.”
Yassin now took a digitized electronic receiver out of his pocket and turned it on. Feedback caused it to shriek. He changed positions in the chair and the sound stopped. Sometimes, when he got too close to the transmitting wire, he’d get the same result. “I guess it’s working,” he said. “Why don’t you step into the hallway and say a few words?”
Masri did as he was told.
Yassin found that the signal was clear enough for him to hear the other man’s breathing.
“Testing,” Masri’s voice soon came through. “Testing, one, two, three.”
“One week from Friday,” Yassin said when the other man returned, “you will take Mr. Mulligan with you to his distribution center. There, you will park opposite the loading dock on the side of the building. Mulligan will be wired. You will listen in as he approves the shipping of Cyber-tech to the retailer’s warehouses across the country. If he doesn’t do this, if anything he says raises suspicion, you will immediately abort your position.
“If he does as he is told, however, as soon as you see him returning to the car, you will call me on your cell phone. Once he gets in the car, you are to kill him, dump his body in the trunk, and call me back.
“Without that second phone call we will assume that something has gone wrong.” He paused. “Do you have the cyanide tablet?”
Masri told him that he did, motioning toward his shirt pocket.
“Good. Under no circumstances are you to allow the authorities to capture you. We are too close now to have anything go wrong. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Masri muttered disdainfully.
Yassin looked at him long and hard, but held his silence.
CHAPTER 63
Blair shut his eyes just before the machete reached his hand. He waited for the pain. Waited for his life to change forever. It was only a matter of a second. Perhaps not even that.
He opened his eyes.
The look on Yassin’s face embarrassed him. It was a bluff. The son of a bitch wanted to see him squirm.
Yassin set the machete aside. “Unfortunately, my friend,” he said, “I need you in one piece. We still have our endgame to play out. But—”
The punch was unexpected. It caught Blair just below his heart.
“Your little act of rebellion cannot go unpunished,” Yassin stated matter-of-factly.
Blair couldn’t breathe. He gulped for air.
“What’s the matter?” Yassin questioned with mock concern. “Did I hurt you?”
Blair glared at him, doubting he’d ever hated anyone as much.
And Yassin came at him again, his punches thrown systematically, pummeling Blair’s chest and stomach.
Blair tried telling himself it was mind over matter.
“Had enough?” Yassin taunted.
The hurt was unlike anything he’d experienced. It seemed to swell without release. Battered, he doubted whether he could take much more.
Yassin’s fists were relentless.
The last thing Blair remembered was crying out.
His dream came that night.
His fingers had not only been severed but gangrene had set in. He heard the doctors discussing his case.
“Amputate?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Within the hour.”
“Is there any other way?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The scene was so real, Blair shuddered.
It took a full day before he could get out of bed. He pushed the covers aside and sat up. He felt as if he had a fever. Reluctantly, he allowed his gaze to drop. It was a relief to see that his fingers were still attached.
He coughed; blood trickled down his chin.
Blair stood and slowly made his way to the bathroom. Once again, there was blood in his urine. A few of the burn marks on his testicles had formed scabs and were sensitive to the touch.
Getting dressed in the same shirt and pair of jeans, he could smell the sweat in his clothes. There was a gallabiya hanging in the bathroom, but the Arab robe was the last thing he’d wear.
Being honest with himself, Blair understood that he was an ordinary Joe, ill-equipped both mentally and physically. Ordinary simply wasn’t good enough in his situation. He had no illusions. He felt like a loser. And he was getting a loser’s comeuppance.
His insides burned from the physical beating he’d taken as he began to pace the room. His eyes went to the oversized light fixture. Something clicked but he didn’t know why. He continued to pace. Then he noticed the bed sheet. And he realized how easy it would be to tie a noose.
Those who wanted to cast stones could do so. His daughter was too important for him to decide against her, twenty-five or even fifty thousand strangers, as the case may be, not withstanding.
It seemed so logical. Why choose at all if a choice could be shunned? He was dead anyway. Hastening this fact by a few weeks made perfect sense. If he waited and Yassin didn’t kill him, his conscience would.
CHAPTER 64
It is four o’clock in the afternoon. Blair is twelve years old. He is ice skating with friends in Montreal. They are on a frozen neighborhood pond. It is five below zero. They have the pond more or less to themselves. What bothers Blair is the fact that his skates don’t fit. Handed down from a cousin, they are at least two sizes too big. For this reason, his toes are so cold he can barely feel them. Couple that with his constantly running nose and he decides to call it quits.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Bobby Harris calls to him as he heads for the spot where he left his shoes.
Bobby is in his class at school. He is heavyset for his age, and was born with a left arm that is deformed.
“I’ve had enough,” Blair tells him.
“Pussy! Get your ass back here!”
Blair hesitates. He doesn’t want to appear weak. So he changes his mind. He goes after his friend and challenges him to a race. Despite the ill-fitting skates, he is confident that he can beat him. He has been skating since he was four years old.
Bobby takes up the dare and they start to circle the pond. Each time they pass one of their friends, Bobby makes it a point to push the boy closest to him out of the way.
Each accepts it in stride. Alex Simmons first, then Ivan Chittenden and Felix Beauchemin. But when Bobby bumps Jean Bernier on his shoulder, the boy takes exception and bumps back, using more force than necessary.
Bobby tumbles to the ice.
Instead of stopping, Jean continues to skate as if nothing has happened.
Bobby gets back on his feet and races after him.
Both boys are more or less equal in weight and stature. The fight starts in the center of the pond. Bobby’s right arm helps position his left hand in front of his face as a shield. Then his right hand forms a fist and he strikes out. Jean counterpunches. Soon Jean’s nose starts to bleed as does Bobby’s lip.
Taking this as their cue, Alex and Ivan finally step between them and pull them apart, which is when the insults start f
lying:
“Fuckin’ Frenchman!”
“Maudit Anglais!”
“Screw off!”
“Baise mon cul!”
All five boys change into their winter boots. The fight between Bobby and Jean has already been forgotten.
It is only 5:30, but being the middle of winter, darkness has fallen. The friends live in the same lower-class neighborhood. They cut through a laneway and end up on a street that is snow-laden and quiet.
“Lookee here,” Bobby says, pointing at someone coming toward them.
The blind boy is in his early-teens. He is of average height, wearing an oversized parka and baggy jeans.
“Hey, man,” Bobby says.
The boy stops. His white cane taps the sidewalk. He is unaware that three of the others have formed a circle around him. “Do I know you?” he asks.
“No,” Bobby says. “Though I’ve seen you before.” He snatches the cane from his hand.
“Give that back!” the boy demands.
Bobby flings the cane to the other side of the street. It hits the sidewalk and slides another ten feet. “You have to find it,” he says. “But we’ll guide you.”
“No, you get it for me!” The boy holds his ground.
“Fuck you!” Bobby says. “Go get it yourself!”
The boy doesn’t say anything. He brushes past them and continues walking, leaving the cane behind.
Blair admires his courage. And he asks himself why he didn’t do anything to help. But his aversion to violence is inbred. He comes to blows only when pushed to the brink, when he loses his temper. Until that point, he does everything he can to avoid it.
Two afternoons later, after their skate, they are taking the identical route home when they encounter the same boy.
Bobby does it again. He strips the cane from the boy’s hand and fires it across the street. It embeds itself in a snow bank.
“Sonofabitch!” the boy swears.
