Fatal Conceit (7 page)

“Please,” Huff screamed, “I'm here on a—”

“Yes, yes, a ‘peaceful trade mission,' is that not what you told the Russians?” the hooded man said in perfect boarding-school English. “But I know what you are doing here. Tsk tsk . . . always conniving and plotting for others to do your dirty work, you Americans. But I cannot allow you to arm my enemies in Chechnya, those ignorant peasants who claim to be followers of the one true faith but in fact by their actions are apostate. Unfortunately, Daudov was not here to share your fates, but at least this infidel plan has been . . . how do you say . . . nipped in the bud.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Huff asked, his voice trembling.

“Do?” the hooded man asked. “Well, I MIGHT KILL YOU NOW!” he shouted and stuck the gun out at the diplomat, who cried out in terror. The man laughed derisively. “Or I think for now, I will keep you and see what you are worth to the American government. If not so much, then I will shoot you with pleasure.”

The hooded man stepped over to Lucy. The eyes beneath the mask narrowed. “You look vaguely familiar,” he said. “Do I know you?”

Lucy's eyes hardened but she said nothing. It had taken her a moment to recognize his voice, because she had not expected the hunted to become the hunter, but she knew then that the hooded man was Amir Al-Sistani.

He reached out to grab her chin and turn her face toward the light from one of the fires. Then he laughed. “Allah be praised! What sort of miracle is this! I did not recognize you in the dark, but I see now—the narrow face, the large nose, the pretty lips and eyes,” he said, then snorted as he looked her over. “The boyish body. You're the little interpreter I met many years ago in New York City before you and your friends ruined my beautiful plan to destroy your country. What a surprise we should meet in Chechnya, eh! I guess there is more to you than languages.” He let go of her chin and his voice hissed like a snake's. “But we'll have more time to talk about that later.”

Al-Sistani then stepped over to Jason, who was still on his knees and laboring from the beating he'd taken and his wounds. The terrorist pointed his weapon. “Accept Allah as the one true God and me as his representative on Earth and I may spare you,” he demanded.

Jason looked up at his captor and the barrel of the gun. Neither his eyes nor his voice wavered. “Fuck you and the camel you rode in on, asshole.”

Al-Sistani's gun barked once and Jason pitched over to the side.
“I guess he did not want to convert,”
he said, and laughed again. He then looked back up into the night sky in the direction of the drone. “Quick,” he shouted to his men in his native Arabic. “The Americans may not be content to just watch for much longer, put the prisoners in one of the trucks, then split up. We'll meet again later at our camp.” He hesitated and pointed at Lucy. “And be careful what you say in front of this one, she speaks the language of the Prophet and others as well.”

The prisoners were quickly bound and heavy cloth hoods yanked down over their heads before they were thrown into the bed of a small truck and covered with a tarp. The vehicle sped away from the compound, the sound of the drone disappearing behind them.

They rode in the bed of the truck for many hours, bouncing over rough roads, stopping only once so that—by the sounds of it—their captors could relieve themselves on the road, then fill up the truck's gas tank from jerry cans before climbing back in to resume the drive. The captives were given no such consideration and eventually Lucy gave in to the call of nature.

Bruised, damp, and in shock, Lucy fell into a stupor as the miles passed. She tried not to think about Ned but couldn't help it.
He's dead or badly wounded
, she thought,
or he would have never stopped fighting or trying to save me.
She hoped that somehow he had survived. But just before the truck left the compound, she heard several shots ring out and the sound of men laughing and talking in Arabic about “putting the infidels out of their misery,” and she cried for her man.

When they at last arrived at what was apparently the terrorists' base, Lucy was separated from Huff and dragged, still hooded, into a building and down several flights of stairs to the room where she was tied to a hard wooden chair. Then she was left alone without food or water. The lightbulb had been kept on, and indigenous music played incessantly from the hallway where her guards apparently passed the time, to deprive her of sleep. If she tried to nod off, one of her unseen captors would enter the room and slap her until she cried out and blood ran from her split lips. But no one spoke to her, or asked her any questions.

•  •  •

Her mind seemed lost in a fog so she wasn't quite sure what to make of it when she sensed another presence in the room. She had not heard the door open or the sound of footsteps. But then she felt enveloped as though in a warm blanket and a sense of calm descended on her. Even though her eyes were covered and her brain addled by lack of sleep, dehydration, and grief she knew who it was. “St. Teresa,” she whispered.

Ever since she was a child, in times of stress or danger Lucy had experienced what, for lack of a better word, were “visitations” from a woman dressed in a blue hooded robe, St. Teresa of Avila, a sixteenth-century martyr. The apparition had a kind face, and she was pretty and Spanish and full of grace, and would appear to warn Lucy of impending menaces, or counsel her through perilous events, or simply comfort her in times of great need. As a child, Lucy had simply accepted the presence as her guardian spirit. As a young woman, she wondered if the psychologists she talked to were right and that the manifestation was simply a psychological coping mechanism. But in her heart she knew that St. Teresa was as real as sunlight, if just as difficult to hold.

It had been years since the saint had appeared, even though Lucy had certainly experienced stressful, dangerous times. She wondered if that was because she'd outgrown the need for such help. But now she appeared again and Lucy realized that the last time she'd seen her, Al-Sistani had been in New York to set into motion his evil plan.

“Shhhh, child,” whispered the familiar voice in her ear. “Don't let them hear you.”

“I'm afraid.”

“Though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, fear no evil: for He is with you.”

“I'm heartbroken.”

“ ‘Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall.' Now you must put your fear and grief aside. Are you ready? Have you prepared yourself for what's ahead?”

“Ned,” Lucy croaked. “What happened to Ned?”

“He's in the hands of God now, and no longer your concern.”

“No . . . please.”

“Lucy! Focus! It's important that you listen, remember, and survive what's to come.”

“Please forgive me, St. Teresa, but I don't want to survive. If he's gone, there's no point.”

“Where there's life there's hope, child. There is not much time, HE is coming. Listen, what do you hear?”

“Nothing. I hear nothing, only the sound of my wounded heart.”

“You must listen beyond yourself. Someday it will be important. What do you hear?”

Lucy stopped talking and was still. At first she didn't know what she was listening for, but then she heard a voice somewhere far above her. “I hear the muezzin calling the faithful to evening prayers,” she said. “I'm in a mosque! The basement of a mosque!”

“Excellent, my child. Do you hear the guards praying outside your door?”

Again Lucy grew still, and what had been an indistinguishable
mumbling became words. “They are from Dagestan. And seagulls! I hear seagulls! We're near the Caspian Sea. The music they were playing included a linginka, a Dagestani folk song. We are in Dagestan!”

“Keep listening, child, remember, and then be prepared when the moment comes.” Lucy felt a light touch on her cheek as though the apparition had brushed her with her lips. “Be strong. He will neither fail nor abandon you,” the saint said just as the door opened.

A hand grabbed the top of the hood and roughly yanked it off. Lucy blinked in the harsh glare of the lightbulb, and it took her eyes a moment to focus on the face of the man who stood in front of her. His features were all Saudi and reminded her of a predatory bird, with his large hooked nose and black intense eyes set close together in a dark face; his black mustache and beard were kept closely cropped, framing his gleaming white teeth that now showed as he smiled at her.

“Ah, my little bird,” Amir Al-Sistani said. “At last we come to you. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, but I had some errands to run. I trust your accommodations have been to your liking. No? Oh, well, I will have to speak to management about that. It's so hard to get good help these days.” He leaned down so that his face was only a few inches from hers. “Tell me, what brings you to Chechnya?”

Lucy said nothing, so Al-Sistani continued. “I know you were not with the deputy chief of mission's party. You were smart not to tell him anything, by the way, he started squealing as soon as he got a look at my friend Raad here,” he said, nodding over his shoulder to where a very large, bare-chested man stood holding two large ten-gallon containers, “and his knife, and he hasn't stopped talking yet. Not exactly a paragon of that famous American courage. So I know all about this plan to meddle in the affairs of Syria and at the same time arm my enemy, Lom Daudov. But why are you here?”

“Go to hell,” Lucy said.

Al-Sistani smiled, but then as fast as a cobra he slapped her hard
across the side of her face. “I guess we will have to do this the hard way,” he said apologetically. “Bula, will you come in here, please?”

Lucy turned to look as the door opened again. Umarov stepped into the room. “I sensed that you were evil,” she said in Chechen.

Umarov smiled and shrugged. “I suppose that would depend on your point of view.”

Al-Sistani laughed. “I see you have met my spy,” he said. “But please, let us speak in Arabic or English, my Chechen is rudimentary at best. . . . As I was saying, Umarov helped set up this little ambush, though I must say I am disappointed that one of my intended victims was not present.” He turned to glare at Umarov when he spoke.

Umarov stopped smiling and fear crossed his eyes. “Daudov told me himself that he would be there. I had no other word or way of letting you know before the fighting began.”

“You are forgiven, Bula,” Al-Sistani said. “It still turned out well. And now you will have the privilege of assisting me.” He nodded to the large man, who walked around behind Lucy and placed the containers next to the chair as Al-Sistani replaced the hood. Raad then tilted the chair backward until her feet were above her and her head was down near the floor.

“Bula, if you would do the honors,” Lucy heard Al-Sistani say. The next thing she knew, water was being poured over the cloth in front of her face and she couldn't breathe. Every time she tried to inhale, it felt as if she was drowning. She kicked her feet and struggled against her bonds until she felt the ropes cutting into her skin.

Then suddenly the chair was set back upright and the hood pulled from her face. She gasped for air.

“Now will you answer my question?” Al-Sistani asked lightly.

When Lucy didn't reply, he put the hood back on and she was tilted back again. This time they drowned her until she was on the verge of passing out, her desperate struggles growing weaker, then suddenly she was sitting up again and gulping in lungfuls of air.

Al-Sistani patted her cheek. “Catch your breath, little bird, it is time to chirp, or would you care for another bath?” he said with his face pressed close to hers.

“Would you mind backing up, you have foul breath,” Lucy croaked.

This time Al-Sistani snarled and the water torture was resumed. As Lucy felt herself start to lose consciousness, she suddenly felt the serene presence of St. Teresa again. “Tell him, child,” the saint said. “It's okay, the important thing is that you survive. Tell him.”

Lucy screamed as best she could through the water that filled her mouth and throat. The chair was placed back on all four feet. But this time the hood was not removed and she still had to fight to get any air.

“What was that, little bird?” Al-Sistani asked. “Did I hear you try to speak?”

Lucy coughed and nodded her head. The hood was removed and she sat for a moment panting.

“And what was it you wanted to tell me, little bird?”

Lucy looked up and into the evil man's eyes. She smiled. “We came here to kill or capture you, you son of a bitch.”

In the split second it takes to blink, doubt filled and left Al-Sistani's eyes. He sneered. “Apparently you're not very good at what you do. Instead, it's your friends who are feeding the crows, and Bula here tells me your boyfriend is among the carrion.”

Lucy tried to hide her reaction but knew by his smile that her grief was transparent. For a moment she wished that he'd drowned her. But then deep inside herself a voice urged her to live on so that if she got the chance, she could kill the man herself.

“Shall I slit her throat?” Raad asked his master.

Al-Sistani appeared to think about it for a moment, then shook his head as he turned to leave. “No, not yet. She and the other one may be useful. But I promise, when the moment is right, you may wash your blade in their blood.”

K
ARP WAS LOST IN THOUGHT
as he arrived at the Criminal Courts Building. So engrossed was he in looking down at the sidewalk that he nearly bowled over the small man in the dirty stocking cap with the pointy nose and Coke-bottle-bottom-lens glasses who'd stepped in front of him.

“Hey, what . . . piss shit . . . do I look like a . . . whoop oh boy . . . tackling dummy?” Dirty Warren Bennett exclaimed, as only a man with Tourette's syndrome could.