American Operator, page 18
part #4 of Tier One Series
Jarvis exhaled slowly, trying to control his anger. He got it; he really did. Baker was not a career politician, nor was he former military. He was a CEO of a Fortune 500 company whom Warner had drafted in an attempt to bring “fresh blood” and a “fresh perspective” to international relations. Before two weeks ago, Baker had never held a security clearance. Before two weeks ago, the only special operations the man had ever witnessed were those he’d watched in movies. He was a man whose publicly stated mission was to negotiate America back to greatness. He wanted to reimagine political relationships as business relationships. Secret CIA compounds and dead protestors in the streets of Turkey did not fit his mold.
“No, Mr. Secretary,” he said, his voice measured and even. “Another Benghazi would have meant that we abandoned our people and let the bad guys win, neither of which happened tonight.”
“Enough,” Warner said.
Everyone followed the President’s gaze to the small screen that still showed black smoke billowing above the burning remnants of the CIA operations center. There were a few men now on the roof of the remaining building, rifles in the air in triumph at having “captured” the American CIA compound, while the dead bodies of their terrorist brothers littered the street below. After a long solemn pause, he addressed the room: “All right, people, let’s get back to the broader discussion of Incirlik and this nightmare in Turkey. We need to find out who hit us, why they hit us, and then we need to start planning our response. And if that wasn’t enough, we need to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say to President Erodan before this thing spirals completely out of control . . .”
CHAPTER 21
In an SUV
Somewhere . . .
Amanda jerked awake with a gasp.
Her first thought was that she’d gone blind, but then she remembered the black hood. She felt its fabric against her nose and forehead. She sat up. A hand immediately grabbed her, fingers fully encapsulating her biceps and triceps muscles with a grip so strong, it felt like her arm could be yanked from the socket with ease.
“Don’t fight” came the gruff instruction in heavily accented English.
The man with the broken tooth.
As her brain ramped up to full consciousness, status reports from her body flooded in. She was seated inside a moving vehicle. Her hands had been bound while she was unconscious, and tightly so. From the way her inner wrists were pressed together and the way the strap dug into her flesh, she identified the binding as a heavy-duty plastic zip tie. Unlike handcuffs, plastic ties could be cut, but not easily. She moved her legs and was relieved to confirm her ankles had not been lashed together. The top of her right ear throbbed, and her skull ached where she had been struck. Her throat was dry, and she had trouble mustering any saliva to swallow. She needed water. She needed sleep. She hurt in so, so many places . . .
She slumped back into the seat.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing assertive, anyway.
She closed her eyes; inside the hood, it didn’t matter. She devoted all her mental resources to her other senses. She was sitting in the middle seat of the passenger compartment. The man with the broken tooth was sitting on her right, the outside of his muscled thigh pressed against hers. Someone was sitting on her left, confirmed by occasional shoulder contact when the SUV jostled over bumps and potholes. Probably the woman terrorist.
They drove in silence for a while. Then the vehicle slowed and made a left turn. Not long after, ambient noise picked up. She heard a car horn blare in the distance and a motor scooter zip past. She thought, perhaps, they’d been driving on a highway at first, but now they seemed clearly to be in a town or city. To her relief, she didn’t hear any gunfire or artillery shells exploding. She tried to memorize each turn and count the seconds between maneuvers by inventing a mnemonic, but it proved to be a pointless exercise. The mnemonic was awkward and too long. Her mind was so sluggish, she felt like she was wading through molten wax. Periodically, the wax would cool—coagulating and trapping her impotently in the moment. She needed to restoke her fire, burn bright, melt the wax so she could move. So she could escape.
But she ached, and she was so tired.
And thirsty.
The SUV jerked to a halt, and a flurry of conversation erupted in Turkish. No, not Turkish . . . Kurdish? Kurdish had three dialects, and Amanda didn’t speak any of them. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had started. The left passenger door opened, and Amanda was shoved toward it by the man with the broken tooth. She complied, scooting over to the opening. She smelled body odor and urine and, with horror, realized it was her. Blinded by the hood and hands still bound, she tried to cautiously exit the vehicle, but a second shove from behind sent her pitching forward out the door. She stumbled and fell headfirst into the dirt.
She yelped with pain, then struggled to get to her knees.
Another flurry of conversation erupted above her, this time a heated back-and-forth between the man with the broken tooth and another man. Someone helped her to her feet, two hands gripping her under her armpits.
“It’s okay,” a male voice said in accented English. “I help you.”
She stood.
A little sprite of courage sparked inside, and she pulled her slumping shoulders back and stood up straight—a subtle recalcitrance. Then she tightened her stomach and readied her core muscles for a punch to the gut. The man with the broken tooth would put her in her place for this, she knew.
But the punch never came.
“I guide you,” said the voice belonging to the man who’d helped her up, and he linked his right arm with her left.
As she let him lead her, Amanda wondered if this was to be her final destination. Was she being handed over to the man they had called Malik? When her captors had been arguing, this was the name they had mentioned. This was the man they both feared and respected.
Malik . . . There is something familiar about that name, she thought again. Where have I heard that before?
She was led inside a building, but with the hood still on, she couldn’t tell what type of structure it was. She felt the surface underfoot change from tile, to carpet, then tile again. Probably a house. Her escort stopped and released her arm. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and another scent she couldn’t identify.
“You wait here,” he instructed. “Don’t move, just wait.”
She heard him step away and a door shut behind her. Her respiration rate picked up, and her pulse quickened. Despite the quiet, she knew she wasn’t alone. The hood suddenly felt thick and heavy, making it difficult to get enough air. Not being able to see where she was, who was with her, and what was about to happen was terrifying. She had been released from the plywood holding cell, but now she wore her prison—standing blind, bound, and clueless, she felt more vulnerable than ever.
She heard a sharp crack, reminiscent of the sound of kindling snapping underfoot. The sound came from inside the room, seemingly in front of her. A beat later, she heard another crack, this one more muted but still emanating from the same direction. Then someone exhaled a long tired sigh.
Her body tensed.
“Amanda Allen,” a man said, his English flavored with an indiscernible accent. “At last we finally meet.”
Not Turkish, not Arab, not German . . . maybe Armenian? Croatian?
She didn’t answer.
She heard another sharp crack.
Whatever happens next, she decided, steeling herself, whatever torture is about to be done to me, I cannot confess I work for the CIA. I cannot make myself any more valuable to them than they already think I am, or they will disappear me down a hole so deep and dark, I’ll never escape.
“How have you been treated?” he asked with a note of legitimate concern.
“Poorly,” she said, surprised at the confidence she heard in her voice.
“Hmmm, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “But I suppose it is to be expected . . . To my colleagues, you are a prisoner of war.”
“A prisoner of war?” she repeated, her voice ripe with sarcasm. “For me to be a prisoner of war would require two things. First, I would need to be a soldier, which I am not. And second, I would need to be fighting in a war, which I also am not.”
Another crack echoed, this one a tad duller than the previous one.
“That’s where you are mistaken. There are many types of soldiers and many types of wars. You are a spy in the world’s greatest war—the war for American global hegemony.”
“I’m not a spy,” she said with conviction. “I’m a diplomat. I work for the US Ambassador to Turkey . . . Well, I did work for him, before your people executed him in cold blood.”
“That’s your official cover. We know you work for the CIA,” he said, and the next crack made her flinch. “And I’m going to be honest with you now. In dying on the street for all the world to see, the Ambassador fulfilled his purpose. Now that we know who you are, you will be afforded the same opportunity.”
“And what opportunity is that—to die in captivity with a black bag over my head?” She laughed, an involuntary reaction she found to be both absurd and liberating. “You’ve gone to such great lengths to kidnap me and bring me here, but you have it backward. You should’ve killed me on the streets of Ankara and taken Ambassador Bailey. I’m nothing but a glorified personal assistant. He was the one with the information, the connections. I’ve only been in Ankara for a few months.”
“In that case, it appears we have a mutual problem,” he said.
“And what’s that?”
“You spelled it out yourself. If you do not work for the CIA, as you say, then you are of no value to me. And if you are of no value to me, I have no use for you. And if I have no use for you, then, well . . . We both know how that story ends.”
His words were like a punch to the gut. Had she just made a grave tactical error? By denying her CIA pedigree, had she diminished her value to the point where she wasn’t worth the trouble of keeping alive? No, she thought. I can’t break cover. She knew the case studies; things did not end well for agents who broke cover. There were worse fates than a bullet to the head. She’d seen pictures at the Farm of the alternative—nauseating pictures, inhuman pictures. But I have to give him something . . . something to drag this out. Yes, that’s the strategy. I need to buy myself more time. The SEALs tried to come for me once. They’ll try again.
Maybe it was time to pivot and play the ransom card.
Until now, she had successfully compartmentalized all thoughts of her father, keeping them locked away from her captors but also from herself. The bond she had with him was the strongest and most important relationship in her life. The death of her mother when Amanda was a child had dealt a blow so unexpected and devastating, it had almost destroyed her father, but he had emerged from the darkness and become the rock in her life. His accession to Chief Justice of the Supreme Court had surprised many people, but not Amanda. There was no man more honorable, no man more stalwart. She missed her father. She needed him now . . . desperately so.
She jumped at the sound of the man’s voice behind her now.
“So that’s it? You have nothing to offer me?” he said.
“Are you Malik?” she asked boldly, ignoring his question.
“Where did you hear that name?”
She detected a new undercurrent in his voice. Irritation? Concern?
“I heard them arguing about you. The woman and the man with the broken tooth,” she said, straightening her back defiantly. “They were in a disagreement about whether they could trust you. Whether this mission was worth the risk and money you paid them.”
It was dangerous what she was doing, trying to sow seeds of dissension in the ranks. It might only serve to earn her another beating, but she had to try to exploit every crack. She desperately needed information, and stimulating dialogue was the only means she had left to that end. If she could get them to talk to her, any of them, she might coax some detail or tidbit she could leverage. So far, she didn’t know which group had taken her or where she was. She didn’t know what their ultimate objective was, nor had she discovered any clues about their next operation.
“Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention,” he said simply, and then she heard a click.
She tensed, wondering if this was it. Is this how I end? Is this how I leave the world, shot in the back of the skull with a bag over my head, never seeing the face of my murderer? Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, as fast as if she were running a race. She felt suddenly cold, and her knees began to shake.
Another click.
“I’m going to give you some time to think, Amanda. While I’m gone, I want you to contemplate the reality of your situation here. I want you to think about the advantages and disadvantages of cooperation so that when I return, we can have a productive discussion about the two paths available to you.”
He placed his hand gently on her shoulder, left it there for a beat, and then walked away. She heard door hinges creak on the open swing and then again on the closing arc as the door slammed shut. From the sound of that thud, she suspected that her present enclosure was significantly more robust than the plywood box she’d been kept in before. Just when she was about to sit down, the latch clicked again and the door swung open. Dread roiled her stomach—the man with the broken tooth. Despite the hood, she knew it was him. She could identify him by scent now.
She felt something cold and hard slip along the inside of her forearms.
A knife, oh shit, a knife.
The blade settled against the plastic tie binding her wrists, and he began to saw back and forth. When the binding popped free, a glimmer of hope welled up inside her, but that hope turned to dread a heartbeat later. His hands became an angry flurry—grabbing the lapels of her blouse and ripping it open down the front. Buttons sheared and stitches tore as he violently ripped the garment off her. She clutched her arms about her chest as he stalked behind her. His fingers slipped under the bra strap arcing over her left shoulder; he pulled it away from the skin and cut it. He did the same with the right shoulder strap. Then he pulled the center clasp apart and ripped the bra free from her chest and threw it on the floor.
She cowered, covering her breasts with crossed arms.
He stepped up behind her, pressing himself against her. She could feel him panting in her right ear, smell his rank breath despite the hood. One hand wormed under hers to cup her left breast while the other found her abdomen and slipped inside the waistband of her pants. Anger, fear, and adrenaline surged through her body.
“No!” she screamed and thrashed with all her strength to get free from his grip.
He laughed and said something in that language she didn’t understand.
She uttered a seething “Fuck you” and then slammed the back of her head into his face.
He grunted, but instead of letting her go, he picked her up and threw her. She hit the tile floor hard and let out a wail. The impact sent flares of pain up in too many places to count, but adrenaline was the best analgesic, and she scrambled to her knees despite the agony.
The door latch clicked and hinges creaked behind her.
What sounded like a reprimand was barked at the man with the broken tooth in a language she didn’t understand. That same Kurdish dialect, she thought, but she really didn’t care. The man with the broken tooth said something back, and the rebuke that followed was more vehement. Next, she heard the broken tooth man stomp out of the room, and a few moments later, other footsteps entered—lighter footsteps accompanied by a soft swishing sound.
She felt a presence beside her.
Ah yes—the female terrorist was back, playing nursemaid once again in the aftermath of her male counterpart’s bludgeoning. Amanda knelt, unmoving while feminine fingers deftly untied the knotted string of the hood and pulled it off her head. She squinted, the world reluctantly coming into focus. She fixed her gaze on the female terrorist.
“You’re a woman,” Amanda said, her voice half whisper, half croak. “And you would let him rape me?”
The woman stood and looked down at her with cold malice in her eyes. “I would have him rape you and watch it be done. Just as you have watched my people raped by your government. I will see Turkey returned to the people,” she said and then spat on Amanda. She gathered Amanda’s ruined clothes and underwear off the floor, balled them up in a heap under her arm, and walked out.
Amanda shut her eyes and concentrated on her breathing.
She understood what was happening. Stripping her naked was part of the process. Humiliation, deprivation, and sexual domination were tools to weaken her resolve and break her spirit. Nothing broke a hostage—man or woman—faster than such ultimate violation. Malik, if that was in fact his name, had stopped the rape this time . . . but make no mistake, rape was on the docket for later, should she require additional motivation.
She rolled onto her side and curled into the fetal position.
And as she began to shiver on the cold, hard tile of her new prison cell, she spied a little pile of something on the floor by the opposite corner. She squinted, trying to make out what she was seeing. Looks like a pile of walnut shells . . . with walnut pieces stacked in a little pyramid. So that’s what Malik was doing while he was talking to me, cracking walnuts . . . a little offering to build trust and endearment. Well, asshole, it won’t work.
As she stared at them, her mouth began to salivate.
Her empty stomach growled.
But she did not move.
I bet he’s watching me right now. He’s measuring my willpower. Waiting to see how long it takes before I crack under his pressure . . . crack just like one of those walnuts.
CHAPTER 22
CAG’s Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF)
USS Ronald Reagan
Mediterranean Sea, Seventy Miles North-Northwest of Lattakia, Syria
