by Tim Heath
In the US, teams of people were monitoring the situation. The British had been mainly kept out of the loop, though they were aware when and where it was all meant to be happening. They would be thoroughly briefed after the success of the mission had been understood, but for now, they were keeping it in-house.
At The White House, all senior commanders were gathered with the President’s team, the man himself due to join them in the morning to give the command to begin the operation. By then, Nigerian leaders in Lagos would have been informed of what was about to happen. It would be an information-giving phone call, not a permission-asking one. That was made apparent several times that day.
Satellite imagery was updated hourly, two CIA birds locked in on the coordinates and mapping the entire area, indicating each new arrival and looking for signs that things might be winding down. There were no such indications yet. They trusted this would be the case right up to the point the first missiles piled into the ground beneath them.
Northern Nigeria
Elizabeth was carried back into the cell two hours later. Her legs were not working, and she was barely conscious. She needed sleep and would get some, as Jianguo was wheeled out for his latest round of interrogation and no doubt senseless beating. The sight of Elizabeth being brought back into the room, rousing him from a little sleep he’d been able to grab, disturbed him deeply. She was anything but the bright, intelligent looking and the very beautiful woman he’d seen photos of at headquarters. Then, Elizabeth possessed an air of sophistication and authority. She always turned heads. Now she carried death around with her, her spirit broken as much as her body was ripped and torn. There was bruising on her face this time, apparently taking a few beatings to the head during the ordeal. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was going through, though the truth was he was going through something equally nightmarish, even if he’d not wholly given up all hope.
She’d asked him to kill her, yet he knew he couldn’t.
He had ordered many such killings, but always had others to do it. To end someone’s life with his own hands––and someone of the calibre of Elizabeth, a comrade––he just couldn’t. And yet where was the peace for her in that? Where was the closure? He would be condemning her to a fate worse than his. True, his body was broken. He wasn’t a doctor but didn’t need to be to know he would never walk again, might even lose his leg from the way it was looking. What future did he have and yet to be subjected to what she had before her, a sexual slave as much as a prisoner of some war, what future was that?
As the door closed on the cell, Jianguo was left unsure what he would do. She looked at peace, even if she was no doubt unconscious through sheer exhaustion.
Awaiting him today was a room full of people. He had no idea who they were or from where they’d come. Unknown to Jianguo, the Commander of the base had invited some of the guests to come and help them, a bonding session of sorts using torture, to entertain and maybe ascertain the information they wanted to know.
The wheelchair was pulled away from him, and he was lowered onto another metal chair, the seat cut out. His trousers were taken off. A generator sat to the side of the chair, two cables coming from it, currently held by a man in a turban. Jianguo had not seen him before, and his appearance terrified him.
“Over to you,” the Commander had said, apparently initiating proceedings. The turban-wearing soldier, a chief interrogator for the Taliban, came over to the disabled Chinese man sitting helplessly in the chair and bent down underneath. Each wire was attached to one of his testicles. The man stood up, and there was a noted murmur in the room, half interest, half fear.
The Taliban tormentor went over to the generator and switched it on. A hum resonated, silencing the room. Jianguo looked over, pleading with him with his eyes.
“I don’t have what you want!” he screamed, as the power turned on, sheets of fire burning at the most sensitive parts of his body. The shot threw his body up and onto the floor, the chair falling over, his legs unable to take the weight, his broken leg twisted horribly before them all. There was a silence for a moment, the men visibly disgusted by what they were seeing, the only noise being the low hum of the machine which was still charging. The smell of burning flesh filled the room. Finally going over to Jianguo, who lay barely conscious on the concrete floor still attached to the wires, two men picked him up and put him back on the chair. The shock got repeated, and it felt as if his very testicles would explode.
The wires were unattached after the second time, pain like he hadn’t known in days causing wave after wave of nausea to flow through his body, fear rising, too. He understood the violation Elizabeth must have felt––he also understood her desire to have it ended, now.
Still the circle of men continued to surround him, the lead tormentor gathering something from a bag that sat on a table at the side of the room. He came back to face the broken Chinese man, a rope held in front of him, with a large knot tied to one end. The cord looked heavy and very thick. The man allowed about three feet of rope hang loose, before spinning it around in a circle in the air a little, getting some momentum. Twisting his arm suddenly so that the rope flipped under Jianguo, it caught the front of the chair, the large knot slamming up and into the base of the chair from underneath, connecting with Jianguo’s exposed groin. He passed out. Some of the men standing watching had to turn around at the latest beating––some left the room altogether.
By seven in the evening, everyone Boko Haram had been expecting to arrive had now done so. The mood in the camp changed noticeably when the five-man team from Daesh came, flying their black flag like a group of football fans travelling to watch their favourite team. They set up camp away from all the others as if to be too close would be beneath them. It instantly affected the rest, taking each group back into their tents, conversations started. The newcomers had undoubtedly shaken things up a bit.
The Commander of the Boko Haram forces, the man who’d made the invitation in the first place, could read the situation well. No one present was used to being subservient to anyone else. A pecking order would no doubt form, one group seeking to press their authority on the rest. However, it was his meeting, his camp, his initiative. Keeping a level of order, where each guest party had an equal voice, and none of them had more power than their hosts, was going to be tricky.
As darkness fell around them all, a large campfire was set up. Instruments were brought out. The interrogation of Jianguo had broken some ice, for sure, even if it hadn’t got them the information they needed. A few of the men noted that it was clear he didn’t know anything, sure that this weak man would have given them the blueprints if he had them or even had access to them. He’d most certainly come to his useful end. The Commander had pondered the situation for some time but had not yet reached the same conclusion, and he was frustrated that these visitors should presume to read the position that quickly, having just met the man. But maybe fresh eyes had been needed? Perhaps they’d been too close to him, having gained something, and just assuming eventually he’d give up the rest of the information? Maybe that had been his mistake?
The woman, too, had brought the groups together, a welcome gift for all but the final guests to arrive. He didn’t know if he would let those separatists from Daesh know about her or not. With them distancing themselves from the others, it wasn’t as if they would be told about her, most probably. He would reserve judgement on that one and planned to start the convention, of sorts, at daybreak the following morning. He hoped that would focus them all, unite them in a way to a common cause and maybe a standard course of action in their fight against the great Satan––the West.
31
Northern Nigeria
Gudu had travelled throughout the day, arriving at the part he’d found on the map which loosely translated to the coordinates he’d been sent. He would now let his intuition do the rest. It was already dark by the time he arrived, which helped. The landscape had grown increasingly barren and rugged over the previous fift
y kilometres. He could see why the terrorists would choose such a location, with so little other civilisation around, and they could come and go as they pleased in a variety of directions before anyone would know they were on their way. It made the prospect of rescuing Elizabeth, and if possible Jianguo, that little bit more complicated. He had faced similar levels of a challenge before, maybe even harder, though until he got to the camp, he couldn’t be sure.
He thought of some of his early days in China when he’d grown into the man he was today. The impossible situations and places he’d been asked to access. Escape was always the highest thought on his mind. He recalled his recent missions in Cuba and London. The first was an assassination and then escape, the decoy working to buy him the time he needed to get the job done, though he’d been in the camp thirty minutes already by the time the plane came over. Not that they would ever know that. He was already long gone before the base went into lockdown, his preferred way of working.
In London, he’d created the decoy, again the process working as smoothly as that. The best magicians were the ones who could merely fool the eye, make you look one way when they were doing the trick somewhere else. He’d always admired that approach. Far less chance of catching a stray bullet, or getting into a situation where sheer firepower alone would be enough to bring anyone down, even him. No one could escape masses of shots being fired in their direction, no matter what Hollywood might otherwise portray.
He had avoided any such situation up to now and hoped to live through at least one more encounter. He’d determined this would probably now be his last. He knew that Elizabeth had money. He knew where it was as well, the only person with whom she’d ever shared such valuable information. She knew she could trust him.
And how had he repaid that trust? By insisting they separate back in Amsterdam, having already ordered two aircraft to take them wherever they wanted to go––but alone. He’d made that call, he’d told her it was for the best. He’d left her in Morocco to start a new life. He couldn’t help feel partly responsible for whatever she was going through at that moment. He had a good idea of what that would be, well aware of militant tactics and exploits when it came to captured enemy women. It wasn’t a good thought.
He left his vehicle, picking up his bag, a knife in his waistband should he encounter a hostile fighter or animal. Both were highly likely before the night was out.
It was the smell of smoke and tobacco that gave him the first indication he was drawing near to the target area. Climbing a tree, he had a good view of the camp that sprang up before him, about a dozen tents erected randomly, and at least three concrete buildings, though there could be more. He couldn’t see if there was anything behind the buildings.
He counted at least fifteen vehicles, and even if they’d housed a conservative two people in each to bring them to this gathering, he was considerably outnumbered, but then again he expected that. He didn’t know the strength that Boko Haram had themselves in the area, but it wasn’t too far-fetched to suggest that there were over one hundred men in the camp in front of him, many visibly warming themselves around a giant campfire. There were far more he couldn’t see, and somewhere, probably in the brick buildings, because that’s where he’d have kept her, was one woman, maybe the only woman present––his woman.
Through the doors at that moment there came a group of men, at least five leaving the front of the brick building, everyone around the fire looking up, watching, waiting, expecting something to take place. Gudu dreaded it having anything to do with Elizabeth.
Jianguo had been brought back into the cell an hour before, his groin in agony, on a par with what was happening in his leg at that moment. His days of being able to create a child were over––had been for a long time, anyway.
Elizabeth lay asleep on the floor, or what remained of her. She was a different person now, a much lesser version of the once elegant lady she’d always been. The last few days had been terrible for her. His were fast becoming that.
He sat in his wheelchair, no other option than just to do that, though the pain it caused was keeping him on the edge of unconsciousness. There was no being comfortable anymore, not with the way they’d hurt him that last time. Some new group had arrived––whoever they were––and they’d taken his torture to a new low. There was no way of giving them what they were always demanding. He just didn’t have access to that information and nor would his country ever give that over. They’d risked nuclear war to recover the blueprints in the first place.
He understood now, in his mind, as beaten as his body was, that they’d given him up. His life compared to the value of the power plant designs just didn’t match up. He was a dead man. Except he wasn’t. They were being very careful not to kill him, a few times waking to find a doctor of some sorts treating him until he’d stop them. It was ironic. They were keeping him in as good a shape as possible, to subject him to torture.
Elizabeth stirred. She seemed dazed, but after a few moments, she came around, clutching her stomach before throwing up on the floor. There was very little to come out. She gathered herself, her face purple in places, one lip bleeding a little, another cut above her left eye. One of her ears looked like it had had a bite taken from it. In truth, she horrified him, though no doubt he was doing the same to her. It was like looking in a mirror, becoming aware of the actual terror taking place.
“Are you okay?” he said when she’d managed to sit up, a little colour coming to her face once more, a pleasant change from the bruising.
“I’ve been better.” The irony was too strong for it even to bear comment. “You could end this for me; you know you could. Right now. It would be over very quickly.”
“Okay,” he said, the involuntary response just slipping from his tongue. He’d mulled over what Elizabeth had asked him to do ever since she’d first suggested the idea. Through his gruesome beating, as his lifeblood was being demanded from him with each blow of that rope, he knew then he couldn’t leave her to them. He knew he couldn’t live out his last few days, last few hours even, knowing that he’d denied her this heartfelt request.
She looked up at him, acceptance sinking in, light at the end of an otherwise eternally dark tunnel.
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost too quiet to even hear. She moved slowly to get over to him, each action painful, but the determination was growing. She touched his arm, picking carefully a part that still looked relatively healthy, natural––untouched. She could see he was living through his own hellish experience as well.
She put her head under his arm, pulling his less battered arm around her neck, turning to allow room for him to squeeze down on her throat. “Just press firmly, it won’t hurt me. I’ll just drift unconsciously to sleep. But don’t relent. Don’t stop. Wait a full two minutes. Please do this for me.”
He understood; though it was painful, both emotionally and physically. His arms might have been mostly untouched, but his shoulders, back and the shift in the position needed to get any strength working through him, was taking everything he had. He started to draw his arm in, pressing down on her windpipe, stopping the air flow. She closed her eyes.
At that moment, the door flew open, two guards running in, suddenly aware of what was going on. Jianguo didn’t relent, able to hold on for another ten seconds before they pulled him off, a gun barrel smashed into his face, blood splashing the floor. She fell loose, weak but still alive, the second guard checking for a pulse and nodding in confirmation.
“Take the prisoner away!” the first man ordered, Jianguo being dragged from the room, his last strength giving out on him when he might have needed it most. One guard stayed in the room with Elizabeth, repulsed by the sight of her, gun trained on her.
Three men took Jianguo to the main doors, another two men opening them as they walked out. The Commander had been informed by that point what the prisoner had been trying to do to Elizabeth, and his mind now made up with what needed to follow. He met them all at the doors, instructing
them to bring the prisoner out and turned back towards the campfire, all eyes on the Commander now, the various groups keen to see what he would do––if the stories about his ruthless side were genuine.
“Gentleman, we have a little bit of fun, and I would like to invite you all to play a part. Guns at the ready.” There was a muted response, and several of the groups started to pick up their weapons, not yet knowing what was in store. Just then the man was dragged from the compound, and three men proceeded to pick him up and place him roughly on the dirty ground close to the edge of the fire.
“This man is the one who’s given us the information we’ll be discussing tomorrow. We had hoped he’d be able to provide something of even more value to us all, but that has proved impossible. He has, therefore, come to the end of his usefulness to us.”
He saw no sense in making any reference to what had just been attempted between him and Elizabeth, another prisoner about whom some around the fire had yet to be told. Better they saw him making an example of this man. These type of fighters responded to that kind of thing.
“Friends, find a part of this wretched man to aim at and we’ll all shoot him together on three.” He drew his weapon at that moment, a six-chambered handgun he’d carried with him for nearly fifteen years which was still going strong. “One, two, three…” he said, the air filling with multiple shots, a cacophony of sound robbing the night of silence.
