Quest for Honor (29 page)

“I don’t mean to intrude, sir.” Mark saw him glance at the computer screen. “Begging the colonel’s pardon, but if I might ask, bad news from home?”

Mark couldn’t bring himself to look his captain in the eye, afraid that his self-discipline would break. Sometimes it was hard, very hard, to lead these men, to deal with the isolation and the privation, the constant danger. But he had to do it. The men needed him, and even more, he knew he needed them. “My brother,” Mark said.

“Damn, I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Is he all right?”

Mark sighed. “He’s got himself in a bit of a jam. It’s touch and go at the moment.” He shot a quick look at the younger man. “Nothing illegal,” he said, forcing a small smile.

“I didn’t think so, sir. He’s your brother, after all.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mark said, a little too sternly.

Richards didn’t flinch, though. “In a positive sense, sir. I would find it hard to believe that any brother of yours would get into that kind of trouble.”

“Well, if my folks were still alive and heard that, I’m sure they’d consider it a compliment.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Mark took a sip of milk from the cup. He was hungry, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat right now.

Richards cleared his throat. “Well, sir, I’ll leave you to your sandwich. And I’ll say a prayer for your brother tonight.”

Mark looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t know you were a praying man, Bill.”

Richards looked slightly embarrassed. “I guess you could say I wasn’t, until I came here.”

“How’s that?”

The captain sat up a little straighter. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Certainly.”

“I noticed that you attend the Sunday services regularly. I decided to check them out. A lot of people here told me they did the same thing after they got here. Because of you.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Bill.”

“Colonel, I might be speaking out of turn here, but everybody here has a great deal of respect for you. It’s not just how you go out on patrol with the men, or check on the little things like how things are going at the gym or in the chow hall, or when you ask guys how things are back home. It’s the way you carry yourself, the way you…well, sir, dammit, you’re one helluva fine commanding officer and it’s an honor to serve with you.”

Mark felt his eyes get a little wet. “The honor is mine, sir.”

Richards nodded at the computer. “I’d heard you had a brother. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be interested in hearing more about him. What kind of man is he?”

Mark looked back at the screen, into the past, at a picture of two boys. “You know, Bill, right about now I’m thinking that my brother is the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Somalia

J
udging by the
light starting to filter in around the shutters of the window, dawn was breaking. Jim wondered if it would be last daybreak of his life. He automatically looked at his wrist for the time, but the watch wasn’t there. They’d taken it from him, along with his passport, before shoving him into this room sometime in the middle of the night. He had no idea where Denise and Joe had been taken but he had heard their voices, briefly, just before they had cut the rope binding his wrists and pushed him inside.

He took off the filthy blindfold slowly, only to find himself in near-total darkness.

He forced himself to breathe steadily, and gradually the terror began to subside. After a few minutes he’d been able to search his surroundings. Hard dirt floor, walls of some type of masonry, a wooden door—locked, of course, but he’d forced himself to test it anyway—and the one window on the wall opposite the door. Thank God for small favors, there was a straw mattress of sorts on the floor, covered by a couple of rough blankets. In one corner was a metal pot for waste, although unfortunately there was no cover.

He leaned against the wall, collected himself, and went over everything that happened in the hotel, in fact everything since they’d landed at the airstrip. Maybe he shouldn’t have reacted to that bastard beating the woman; that had drawn unwanted attention to the presence of the Westerners in the hotel. But surely they wouldn’t have started an artillery bombardment over that, would they? Well, everything he’d seen and read about these people had led him to believe many of them were seriously out of whack, and certainly nothing he’d seen in the last day or so changed that impression, so who could say?

Okay. He was being held by people who were terrorists, of course, but exactly who were they, and did it make any difference? Yes, it did, it had to. There were all kinds of terror factions and rebel groups over here, with different motivations and goals, strengths and weaknesses. None of them could make the United States military work up a good sweat, one on one, but they didn’t operate like that, did they? No, they fought Americans by going after their weaknesses, chief of which was the desire to preserve innocent life.

Like his.

But how innocent would they think him to be, anyway, and why would they care? He had been with the CIA people. They might very well refuse to believe he wasn’t CIA himself. They would know he had been there to help Shalita defect. No, come to think about it, there would be precious little reason for them to release him. Yet they hadn’t killed him outright. There had to be some reason for that.

They would know, or would find out, that Denise was CIA. With a shudder, Jim realized that meant her treatment was not likely to be gentle, even if she was a woman. And they didn’t
think much of women over here anyway. No, they weren’t going to cut Denise much slack. As for Joe, they certainly weren’t going to cut him any slack at all. He was a traitor to the cause, so Jim was pretty sure his old African friend wasn’t going to live very long, and what time he had left wouldn’t be pleasant.

After Jim had spent a couple hours in the darkness, it began to sink in: he was quite probably never going to see his home again. The thought sent a long, cold shiver down his spine, and he couldn’t stifle a sob. Why had he ever allowed himself to get talked into this?

The grief and fear caused him to slump onto his side, and after a few minutes the fatigue took over, pulling him down into sleep.

Later, watching the light begin to seep under the shutter over the window, he still felt the fear and sadness pulling him back down. This time he resisted. He pushed back with the power of prayer, not the panicky, quick pleas he’d muttered during the long, bumpy ride here in the back of a truck, but a serious prayer for strength.

He’d fallen away from his family’s Lutheran faith during his high school and college days, found it again after marrying Suzy, then allowed it to wane once more over the past few years. But there was still something there, and he wanted to find that spark now, fan it into a flame. There are no atheists in foxholes, he’d always heard, and he was finding out now that was for damn sure true.

He sat in the hot, dingy room, closed his eyes and let his thoughts coalesce into three words:
Please help me.

Time had no meaning anymore. He blocked out the sounds from outside, kept his focus, relaxing his body as he opened his mind. He could hear his own heart beating now, his slow breathing. A calmness seeped into him. The fear was almost a visible thing, slowly receding, something was pushing it away.

It was a broom. The fear became water, swishing underneath the bristles of the broom, moving toward a light. His vision pulled back, and he saw shoes, old brogans that seemed familiar, cuffed gray pants, and there were hands on the broom, workingman’s hands.

His father’s hands.

Jim saw Ed Hayes as plain as day, just as Ed was back when Jim was a boy. Pushing the water out of the garage, as he did every spring after washing the floor. Jim looked down, saw something beneath him. His first bicycle. It was the day he would take his first ride without training wheels.

Ed swept the last of the water outside and faced his son.
It’s time now, Jimmy.

I don’t think I can do it, Dad. I’m scared.

No need for that, son. I’ll be there with you.
His father smiled at him, reached out, and his face shimmered just a bit, changing into someone else’s, familiar yet not, kind, reassuring.
Touch my hand, son.

Jim reached out, his little hand trembling, and touched…

The vision dissolved like mist. Jim was still in the cell, and he was awake and alert, holding out his hand, and it was not trembling now.

He felt calm, at peace, and as he breathed it seemed as if every breath brought him a little more confidence. He might never again see his house again, train in his beloved dojo or pet his cat. He might never again hug his daughter, or cradle a grandchild, or feel Gina’s touch, but he would not surrender to his fate. He would shape it, as he suddenly realized he had been shaping it for the past six years.

A warrior does not give up without a fight, and somehow, by God, he would fight.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Somalia

T
hey came for
him sometime mid-morning, the same two men who had brought him breakfast a few hours ago, some sort of broth with a few vegetables, hard dark bread and a bottle of water with an Arabic label. They were Middle Eastern in appearance, early twenties, dressed in nondescript shirts and fatigue pants, with one guy incongruously wearing a Boston Red Sox cap. Jim got to his feet and stood with his hands raised. The Red Sox fan came in first, leveling his AK-47 at Jim. Another armed man appeared behind the first in the doorway. The first guy said something to Jim, motioning with the gun to the door. Jim took some cautious steps toward the doorway, keeping his hands visible. He forced himself to smile, and the second guy’s eyes narrowed.

There was a hallway with two more doors on the right, the same side as Jim’s cell, and three on the left. At the end was a larger door. When they opened it the sun blazed in. He shaded his eyes with his left hand, making sure to keep the right held shoulder high, palm facing outward.

They were facing what appeared to be a central square, with low, one-story buildings around the perimeter. Behind them was a wall about ten feet high, looking like it had been built with the same material as the buildings, probably some kind of bricks made out of mud. There were men walking here and there, some standing and watching them. Every one of them had an AK, some held casually, others loosely from the shoulder by a strap. They didn’t look nearly as tough as the troops Jim had seen at Camp Lemonnier, but Jim knew it would be dangerous to make that assumption.

Everyone in motion stopped when they got sight of the tall American, and they stared. Some looked curious, most hostile. There were a few dark-skinned Africans, but most were Middle Eastern, all with beards. Some looked to still be in their teens, while a few showed some gray. How to deal with those stares? Show no fear, Jim told himself, but that wasn’t easy, because he was starting to feel the first tendrils of something stark and cold reaching into him. It was worse than what he’d felt the night before in Mogadishu while being hustled at gunpoint through rubble-strewn buildings with artillery shells crashing nearby, then shoved roughly into the back of a truck, blindfolded and tied to his seat.

He was led to a long building and pushed inside. It appeared to be some sort of conference room, maybe a chow hall, as it had some rickety-looking metal tables and chairs, now moved to the sides along the walls. At one end hung a black flag featuring a yellow circle in the middle and Arabic writing above it. Jim recognized it from news broadcasts: the banner of al-Qaeda. The writing was the
shahada,
referring to Allah as the only God and Muhammad as his prophet. Beneath it were three men, sitting in chairs. A dozen feet away were three empty chairs facing them. Jim was shoved roughly down into the chair at the right end.

There were open windows on the long sides of the building, and between the sunlight coming in and the naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling Jim got a good look at the three men. The one in the middle was clearly in charge. Middle Eastern, with a thin black mustache, he wore olive drab military fatigues bare of any insignia, his pants bloused above combat boots. The man to his left was dressed similarly, but the one on the other end looked like most of the men Jim had seen outside, who’d been wearing any number of clothing combinations, mostly fatigue pants but shirts that ranged from long-sleeved tees to caftan-style tops that reached down to the knees.

Two armed fighters took up station at either end of the seated men, and Jim sensed the presence of more behind him. He was surprised his wrists weren’t bound, but that didn’t make him feel much better. There was a slight commotion behind him, and he saw the seated men look past him. The middle one smiled and gestured to the two empty chairs. Jim turned his head just enough to get a glance backward. It was Joe. He’d been roughed up. Two men in fatigues similar the two in front dumped him hard into the middle chair.

“One more,” the man in the middle said in English, and a few seconds later Jim heard murmurs coming from behind. Denise Allenson was shoved down into the empty chair. Her hair was askew, there was a bruise on her right jawline, and she was clutching the front of her shirt, holding it together with her left hand. Jim could see a few limp threads hanging from the upper buttonholes.

The man in the middle smiled and said, “Well. What am I going to do with you now?” Jim couldn’t place the accent, could’ve been from anywhere in the region. He wasn’t experienced enough to know a Palestinian from an Egyptian or anyone else.

Jim swallowed, fighting the fear, but he had to say something, had to show these bastards that they hadn’t beaten him. With an effort, he said, “Who are you?”

“Ah. You are…” The man pulled Jim’s passport out of a thigh pocket of his pants. “James Hayes. American. Why are you in Somalia, Mr. Hayes?”

“I had some vacation time coming and decided to see the sights.”

“Not a wise choice,” the man said. “I am Major Heydar. This gentleman to my left is Captain Khorsandi. And to my right, Amir, who is now the commanding officer of this camp.”

“If he’s the commander, how come you’re doing the talking?” Something told Jim he shouldn’t antagonize this man, but he figured they were way past that by now.

“Amir’s English is not very good, unfortunately. He has asked me to conduct these proceedings.”

Denise spoke, in a strong and defiant voice that Jim was pleased to hear. “You have no right to keep us here. We are citizens of the United States, and you have no legal authority to detain us. I insist that you allow us to contact our embassy in Djibouti.”

“Miss…Allenson, is it? Yes?” Heydar asked, still smiling. “You and Mr. Hayes are Americans, yes, but you are also spies and so will be tried on charges of espionage against the people of the Islamic Republic of Somalia. As for Mr. Shalita, here, he will be tried on a charge of treason.”

Joe had his hands bound behind him and his head was down, but he tried raising it now. Jim could see it was a real effort. They must’ve worked him over pretty good, judging from the swelling on this side of his face. “Treason…against whom?” he managed to say, with an effort.

“
Harakat al-Shabaab al-Mujahideen,”
Heydar said. Jim remembered that from the briefing in Djibouti. Al-Shabaab, a terror group affiliated with al-Qaida, had control of much of southern and western Somalia.

Jim didn’t have much hope that a trial over here would be anything close to a trial back home. Their only chance was to drag this out long enough for some sort of rescue mission to reach them. “Look, Major Heydar, we don’t know what’s going on here, but maybe—“

“Do not…waste your breath, James,” Joe said. “Heydar is—“ The man behind Joe whacked him with the butt of his rifle. Joe groaned and slumped to his left, nearly falling off the chair.

“My old friend Yusuf has become very cynical,” Heydar said. “Apparently he has lost faith in our cause. There could be only one reason he was in Mogadishu, talking to the American CIA. It is most fortunate for us that I saw the boy Ayan coming into your quarters that one evening, Yusuf. At first I thought it was because, well, perhaps you are a
khaneeth
.” Whatever that word meant, it caused some commotion in the men behind the prisoners. Heydar held up a hand for quiet. “It would have been better for you if that had been the case. Ayan did not want to tell me what you talked about, Yusuf, but eventually he did. So, I had a conversation with some colleagues of mine in the SVR. I was hoping that the woman would finish you in Eyl. That would have made things much more convenient. But, here we are.”

Joe groaned and shook his head. Jim read between the lines; whoever Ayan was, he must have given up Joe and somehow this Heydar character found out about Joe’s plans. They followed him to Mogadishu, using the diversion of the shelling to snatch them. Since they hadn’t shot them right then and there, they must have something else planned.

Heydar started talking again, some nonsense about their cause and the greatness of Allah and the inevitable triumph of their jihad. Jim started tuning him out, thinking past him, trying to come up with a way out of this. He hoped, prayed, Denise was doing the same. She had a lot more experience at this kind of thing, but her indignant demand to be allowed a phone call hadn’t gotten very far. Jim hoped that wasn’t the only idea she had.

If Simons had survived and gotten out of the hotel, maybe he was in Djibouti right now, planning a rescue. Surely most, hopefully all, of their backup team had made it back. Jim had to put his faith in those men, in the troops at Camp Lemonnier. Certainly they had a quick reaction force for just this type of situation.

But, it had only been fifteen hours or so since they’d left the hotel. The intelligence people weren’t magicians. They needed time to figure things out, find out where they were, put a mission together. Jim remembered reading that the bin Laden mission took months of planning and training. Well, they certainly didn’t have that long now. He couldn’t imagine spending more than a few days in this hellhole, much less months, waiting for a rescue that might never come. He suspected that this Heydar guy wouldn’t want them around that long, either.

What did they usually do with hostages like them? The Iranians had kept the embassy hostages for over a year back in ’79 and ’80. They eventually came home. But that was a long time ago, and now it was likely they had only days, not months. There would be some sort of show trial, maybe, and they’d put it on the internet, and then…

He knew what would happen then. There would be a guy behind him wearing a hood, holding a big knife. Jim would feel the blade against his neck, and then agony greater than anything he could imagine. And back home, people would see it: Gina, Mickey—

His breathing was shallow now as the dread began to envelop him. He had to fight it, had to fight them, he couldn’t let that horror happen. But what could he do?

He remembered something from the last time he’d heard a news story about a prisoner being executed by these bastards, a thought he had then. It was a long shot, probably the longest of long shots, but what did they have to lose? Especially now that Heydar was talking about a trial.

“The trial will be this evening,” the major said, “after evening prayers.”

Jim sat up straight, summoning his courage. “Why bother?”

Heydar looked at him, and Jim could sense Denise was as well, but he didn’t want to break eye contact with the terrorist. “What did you say, Mr. Hayes?”

“You heard me. Why bother with a trial? Everybody here knows we’ve already been convicted. Stop screwing around, Heydar, and let’s get down to business.”

Heydar’s eyes narrowed, but he looked intrigued, not angered. He thought he was holding all the cards. Well, maybe Jim had one or two to play yet. “What do you mean, Mr. Hayes? What possible business could you hope to transact with me?”

“I’m offering you a proposition.”

Khorsandi, who’d been silent so far, said something to Heydar in a language Mark couldn’t understand. Out of the corner of his eye, though, Jim saw Denise paying close attention. Heydar said something back to the captain, apparently mollifying him, because both men now looked back at Jim. He wondered if it was true that the guy they called Amir didn’t know much English. He didn’t look too comfortable up there, and Jim hit upon something else, maybe another card to play.

“What is your proposition, Mr. Hayes?”

“First, let’s stop pretending that Amir there is in charge. You’re running the show here and everybody knows it.”

Heydar stiffened a bit at that, but Jim was looking for Amir’s reaction, and he got what he hoped for. Amir sure as hell understood what was going on and didn’t like it. Whether that meant he wanted to deal with the prisoners more quickly, or he didn’t like being pushed aside by Heydar, Jim couldn’t know for sure, but he was gambling for the latter. It could be their only chance was to play these guys against each other.

“All right, Mr. Hayes,” Heydar said, sounding more serious now. Good. He had been directly challenged and he didn’t like it. Part of his little charade had fallen apart. “You are in no position to demand anything.”

“I’m not making any demands. I’m offering you a challenge. You and your people here.”

They didn’t expect that. “And that challenge is what?”

“Jim, don’t—“

“Shut up, Denise!” He glared at her, then turned back to Heydar. “Don’t pay any attention to the woman. She’s just along for the ride. The men will decide things.” That puffed them up a little. Jim knew from his reading that this was a macho, paternalistic culture, with little respect for women. They also had inflated opinions of their own prowess. “From what I have heard about your movement and your culture, your men consider themselves to be great warriors, isn’t that so?”

“That is true,” Khorsandi said, speaking in English for the first time.

“We’re kicking your ass in Iraq and Afghanistan because we have bigger guns than you do, and we’ve got planes and missiles and all the hardware money can buy. But one on one, man to man, you think you’re better than any American, isn’t that right?”

Behind him, he heard muttering. He didn’t know how many men were in the room right now, but there were more than a few, and obviously some of them knew some English. One of them shouted, “I keel American peeg!” Others shouted in what Jim presumed was Arabic.

Heydar held up a hand, and the yelling settled down into a few whispers, but Jim sensed a restless energy behind him. He’d struck a nerve. He sensed Heydar felt it, too, but he was doing a good job of holding his composure, better than his buddy the captain. But Heydar was in a bind now. He was obviously a military man, maybe Egyptian or Syrian or whatever, but he’d had training, probably real-world experience against Americans and maybe Israelis, so he would know how tough the Americans really were. But he couldn’t admit that to these men here. Jim knew from his reading that they had a twisted sense of honor. Defending their manhood was everything to them. Now it was being challenged.