SANCTION: A Thriller (7 page)

“Excuse me,” he said politely. He placed his suitcase down and fished a paper cup out of a plastic sleeve next to a water cooler in front of the window.
He filled the six ounce cup and placed it to his lips to hide the fact that he was watching the Tarmac. The last passenger was just starting to de-board. A very familiar face emerged at the top of the aircraft’s steps. A chill ran down his back. He needed to get to a phone.

“Professor?” Matt whispered quietly.

His cheek was flat against the floor, where a small circular spot of blood had transferred from the edge of his mouth to a cracked tile.

“Yeah, Matt I’m here.” Rhinefeld said as he raised his head. He saw that Matt’s left eye was swollen completely shut. Blood had pooled over the eyelid, changing the skin’s pigment to a dark blue.

Matt and the professor had been separated from the group after the incident with the canteen and brought to a small open bay shower next door. The room was a perfect square with rusted shower heads protruding from dull green tiles every three feet. The cold, hard floor was canted slightly toward a drain in the center of the room where a single, lifeless light bulb hung from a mangled housing above them.

They were each covered in blood, some dry, some fresh.

Throughout the night, Saleem’s men had taken turns beating them, sometimes until they lost consciousness, sometimes just until they were dizzy and vomiting. Then, in the morning, Saleem himself had appeared. A man had followed quickly on his heels toting a small camcorder.

The video had taken only a few minutes to make. Saleem had talked about Israel’s unworthy status in Palestine and America’s shameful partnership with the Jewish state. He spoke over his hostages trembling shoulders and into the camera. At no point did he broach the subject of ransom. The Palestinian didn’t speak about money, or releasing political prisoners or any of the other ordinary demands placed on the heads of the captured. In fact, no requests were made at all.

Saleem had left as soon as the video was complete and the beatings had stopped.

“Do you think they’re okay?” Matt asked. There was a tenderness in his tone though his voice was weary and strained.

“Yeah Matthew, I think they are. I haven’t heard anything from their room all night.”

Rhinefeld was exhausted. He’d not eaten in more than two days and his body had been too sore to sleep.

A fear he had never known before welled in his heart each time he heard a footstep outside their door. He wasn’t afraid for his own safety but that of the students. Every new sound made his stomach flutter, as he waited for the moment when their captors lost control of their emotions and monitoring gave way to rage.

Rhinefeld worked against the pain in his body to slide across the floor to where Matt lay. He had to stop more than once to catch his breath. In a fatherly gesture the professor gently placed his hand atop Matt’s shoulder. The younger man winced and recoiled at the light touch. The professor guessed there were probably broken bones in his body, which complicated their situation considerably.

Matt attempted to lift himself off the floor but couldn’t. His whole body responded with sharp stabbing pains. It felt like pins being shoved into his muscles.

Rhinefeld became aware of a faint drumming noise. He looked up to see one of their captors standing at the door. The drumming was the sound of the man gently tapping a shell casing against the front grip of his assault rifle. The man stared back with intense, lifeless eyes.

“Can we have some water?” He asked. He needed the water as well as Matt but he also wanted to see if the man understood English.

“Wait here.” Came his reply.

It was a rather absurd idea, Rhinefeld thought. Where would they go? They had no clue where they were, were locked in a room and they could barely move as a result of their wounds.

The man returned with three canteens that were identical to the one they had drank from the day before. Rhinefeld struggled to stand. His legs were weak and stiff. Each movement produced a dull throbbing in his muscles and tendons.

The Arab reached out and handed the professor one of the canteens. The round metal canister was a few degrees cooler than the room, it felt good in his hands.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. Rhinefeld resisted the anger that rose in him as he thought of how basic a need for water was. The fact that he even had to ask for it, showcased their ruthlessness.

After several excruciating attempts, Matt was able to get his torso up off the ground. His legs felt pretty much useless. Rhinefeld unscrewed the cap on the canteen and held the jug up to his friend’s mouth. Matt gulped in a huge slug of water; most of which shot out of the sides of his lips and soaked his shirt’s neckline.

“You don’t want to lose any of this,” Rhinefeld warned.

“Who knows when we’ll get it again,” he added as he looked up at the guard.

“Thanks professor,” Matt said holding himself up off of the floor with his hands. He pushed against the ground and slid himself up to the closest wall. He could still see out of his right eye, though it too retained some swelling from the beatings. He looked at the guard.

He was thin, like the rest of his comrades but shorter. He didn’t look to be older than twenty. Matt tried to piece together in his head why someone would choose the life this young man had. He imagined that he’d probably come from an Islamic family, perhaps from one of the infamous Palestinian refugee camps. He had probably gotten ahold of some ‘radical fundamentalist’ teaching from one or more of the plentiful clerics that preached violence as a means to convert the world. The more he guessed at how the man had come to be whom and where he was, the more Matt questioned his own survival.

Camp David sat on one hundred and eighty acres of dense Maryland woodlands in Fredrick County. The grounds for the Presidential retreat were meticulously maintained with gardens that sprouted an eye catching array of tulips, geraniums, and impatiens, as well as a magnificent kidney shaped pool and a cluster of rustic but tastefully decorated cabins. A stable of horses stood some distance away from the main house, along with a recreation center that boasted a tennis court, pool table and fireplace lounge.

The President enjoyed walking the property in the cool of the day whenever he was up there. Today he traversed a mile long wooded path with his closest friend and political advisor, Kenneth Paine.

Paine had no official capacity within the administration. President Vanderbilt had wanted to give him some illustrious post to compensate him for all of the hard work he had done over the years. But Kenneth had been adamantly opposed to the idea. He preferred to stay in the shadows of Washington’s elite and powerful, turning his advice into invaluable favors.

The President never knew how Kenneth had become such an expert in navigating the precarious path of American politics but it had come in handy on more than one occasion. They had grown up together, gone to the same schools, even had many of the same classes, but somewhere along the way, despite the different road his career would take, Kenneth had developed an uncanny sense for discerning what the fickle and ever changing public wanted. This was a sense that, despite rising to the highest levels of government, Graham had not honed. Kenneth’s advice had always come at just the right moment.

“Have you seen the tape?” Kenneth asked as they walked.

Vanderbilt had his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained on the pavement in front of them. The four foot wide path curved gracefully as it snaked through a mix of Maple, Green Ash and American Beech trees.

“An hour ago,” he said. Paine detected a solemnness in his tone.

“My people are analyzing the internet source now but I don’t think anything will come of it. These guys were professionals.”

They rounded a corner of the house and took a stone path that led to a separate garden.

“Let the press have it. Eventually, like everything else, it will fade into the background between re-runs of Magnum P.I., the PTA and soccer practice.”

“But what about the hostages? What if they get killed?”

The President stopped for a minute to look up at the lush green canopy above them.

“What if they get killed and all I did to stop it was talk Kenneth?”

Vanderbilt looked down at his friend who stood a good five inches shorter than him and waited for his answer.

“First of all Mr. President, there almost certainly is no ‘what if’. They are definitely going to be killed. These guys aren’t going to let them go. They are waiting for the media to hit their emotional crescendo to make an example of them”. Kenneth’s voice never faltered as he spoke. Graham wondered if he’d had his feelings surgically removed.

“What about the Israelis?” The President asked.

“What about them? You mean, what if they respond and we don’t? They won’t. They’re not going to stick their necks out to do us a favor that we haven’t asked for.” Kenneth was so sure of himself, he spoke as if everything he predicted had already occurred.

Even though they were friends, President Vanderbilt disliked many things about Kenneth Paine. Vanderbilt felt that his little buddy had failed to recognize what the rest of the world had upon his inauguration. He felt that Kenneth could stand to be a little more respectful. He did hold the highest office in the free world.

For his part, Paine knew how Vanderbilt felt. He didn’t care. The man wasn’t truly worthy of his respect. Kenneth had spoon fed him directions on what to take a stand on and what to back off of, through his entire two year campaign. He knew something the rest of the world didn’t, Graham Vanderbilt was a clown.

“If they do make a move, you’ll be fine. Condemn it immediately and offer peace talks to whoever the closest dictator to a camera is.”

“There is one more bit of business.” Kenneth said as they headed toward a series of sycamore trees and the turnaround point.

“What is that?” The President asked.

“My guy is going to get us that face to face with Imam Nazari. It’s the perfect opportunity to gain a foothold with the Palestinian people. If you can get Nazari on our side, the sky is the limit on what we can do in the Middle East. He is thinking sometime next week, but his schedule is tight. We’ll have to play it by ear.”

“Ok, but the Israelis can’t find out about this. They have been trying to meet with Nazari for months and he has refused them.” Vanderbilt was watching Paine’s face for a reaction. He hoped that this was a bit of information that the man had not previously had, something he had one upped him on. Kenneth never flinched. He was already aware of the Israeli Prime Minister’s failed attempts to sit down with Nazari.

“I know,” he said.

The President just smiled, it would be a long time before he would be scooping Kenneth Paine.

B
rad stared at a television monitor next to a kiosk that performed money exchanges. Saleem’s video of his brother had been uploaded to the internet while he’d been in the air. Al Jazeera had been playing it in an endless loop, off to the corner of the screen. Matt looked bad. Since the terrorists had not given the names of their captives, it had taken Brad a minute to realize that one of the severely battered men in the video was Matthew Ward.

“We traced it to a Syrian IP address. An internet café. The trail went cold from there.”

Brad turned to see Tom Kingsley standing next to him.

“Hey Tom.”

Brad placed his attention back on the TV screen. It had been the first time he had set eyes on his brother in three years. Nothing but tortuous anger rose in his blood. He was going to get these guys, if he had to sacrifice everything, he would find them.

As part of Brad’s training with the Defense Intelligence Agency, he spoke Arabic, Farsi and German. He could understand everything the talking heads on the network said.

“The United States does not yet know who is responsible. But some have suggested that the Mujahedeen could be involved.” the reporter said. He was a dark, handsome man with a thick mustache and black feathered hair.

“Well, of course they are saying it’s the Mujahedeen.” The network switched cameras and focused on a woman who sat next to him.

“That’s what they always say. It is one way that the politicians appease their constituents. If they don’t have any answers, people get scared. So the government produces a face to blame.” The news anchor seemed irritated that her co-anchor didn’t recognize that point earlier.

“Are you ready bud?” Tom asked.

Brad stood there for a bit longer staring at Matt’s badly bruised face as the talking heads spoke of the kidnapping with ease.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.”

The video was muted so that the reporters could overlay the footage with their own inane ideas about the situation. He watched as a young face boldly spoke into the camera while his brother and another hostage struggled to stay conscious in the background behind him. He slowly burned the image of the man’s face into his brain. He would see him; soon.

Brad turned toward Tom Kingsley and the two gave each other a quick half hug, before heading off to the baggage claim.

“How are you holding up buddy?” Tom asked.

“I just want to get my gear and get on the ground and get in this guy’s face.”

Brad knew that there were more men involved than just the one that had appeared on the video. But he also knew that the one on the digital message was the leader. He wanted to knock on his head more than anyone else’s.

“So we have a copy of the video?” He asked, as they came to a stop in front of the baggage carrousel.

“Yeah, I have a few of my best people analyzing it as we speak.”

Tom didn’t want to tell him that he’d spent the last day pumping his resources for information. He had contacts all over the Middle East. No one knew anything. Not a word had been leaked about the kidnappers identities, affiliations or what they planned to achieve, which was highly unusual. Typically, Kingsley could count on producing several pieces of reliable intelligence from a day spent beating the bushes. It worried him. These terrorist were not just professionals. There was something else about them. In all his years, he had never seen enemy combatants that were able to keep this tight a lid on every aspect of their operation.