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To show him off. A CIA agent would be one hell of a prize exhibit.
He took a breath. He didn’t panic. It wasn’t in his makeup.
He made his way to the small, dusty office in back. There was an old iron safe where he kept his briefcase. The case held his passport and identity papers. There was also a substantial amount of U.S. dollars. He took the case and placed it on his desk. Next to it was his CIA-issue laptop, a powerful machine. Lang powered it up and logged on the local internet. He tapped in the code that would link him to Langley through a series of remote servers that fed into a satellite system. Once he had his connection, Lang downloaded the hard drive’s content to the CIA master databank. The data listed his latest reports and observations. When the download was complete Lang sent an email to his department chief, letting him know what had happened and requesting a retrieval operation. The email was answered within a couple of minutes. There was also a link to a CIA procedure that would, when initiated, strip out the laptop’s contents. It would wipe the hard drive and then enter a virus to virtually kill the machine. Lang hit the key and saw the program start to work.
He took out his phone, deleted all call logs and numbers. He opened the phone and took out the chip card, snapping it in two and crushing it under foot. He had a clean cell phone in his desk. He kept it charged, though he had never used it. It was single-use burn phone. Untraceable. Right now it was his connection to Langley if he tapped in the number carried in his head.
He wasn’t sure what made him pause, turning his head to pick up the noise from the yard at the rear of the warehouse.
Then it hit him.
There was no noise.
It had been the absence of sound that had drawn his attention.
Lang made his way through the shadowed warehouse and out the rickety rear door.
When Lang stepped outside, the utter silence struck him as odd. There should have been a labor crew noisily filling the rear yard.
But the yard was deserted. Only a faint misting of dust hung in the air, showing where the crew had hastily departed. To his right was the crude metal brazier where the crew hung their large tea kettles. Lang could smell the brewing tea. Saw the enamel mugs scattered across the dusty ground, spilled liquid soaking into the parched earth.
He slid his right hand under his jacket, reaching for his holstered pistol. It was then he heard a faint whisper of sound behind him and felt the undeniable pressure of a weapon’s muzzle grind against his spine.
“Not a wise thing to do, Mr. Lang.”
Lang took his hand away from his pistol. He held both hands away from his body, offering no resistance.
“I know you.”
“Yes. Ariq Taj, Mr. Lang. To be precise, Inspector Ariq Taj, Yemeni police.”
Taj moved around to face Lang. As he did another weapon was pressed against the American’s spine.
“What has happened to Samir?” Lang asked.
Taj shifted from one foot to the other, shrugging his skinny shoulders. He was overly thin, his clothes hanging loosely from his bony frame.
“He has joined all the other traitors who betray our cause,” he said.
“Son of a bitch,” Lang said. “You call him a traitor.”
Taj actually smirked, like a schoolboy in on a joke.
“Of course. He worked for you, Mr. Lang of the CIA.” He saw the recognition in the American’s eyes. “Oh, yes, we knew. Do you think we of Hand of Allah are just ignorant Muslims? That we know nothing?”
For a moment Lang forgot about the gun pressed to his spine. He lunged forward, toward Taj, but the man was faster. His right hand swept up from where it was partially hidden. He was holding a large stainless-steel .357 Magnum Desert Eagle. The weapon looked too large for his slim hand. He slammed the heavy pistol across the side of Lang’s face, flaying the cheek open to the bone. The blow was brutal, dropping Lang to his knees. Blood welled up from the deep gash, streaming down Lang’s cheek and dripping from his chin. With a soft, almost gleeful exclamation, Taj lashed out with his booted foot, crushing Lang’s nose and causing more blood to gush.
Taj turned and swept his arm to draw in more of his team, who had been waiting at the far side of the yard. They descended on the dazed American. Rough hands hauled his arms behind him and his wrists were lashed together with coarse rope. He was seized by the arms and dragged out of the yard to one of a pair of waiting SUVs. Lang was manhandled to the lead vehicle and flung inside. A black cloth hood was yanked down over Lang’s head.
One of Taj’s men held up Lang’s laptop. Taj nodded.
“I am sure he has wiped the memory. Bring it anyway. Anything else in the office?”
“His safe was open. It was empty. His briefcase has money and papers in it.”
“Then let us go. Lang wanted to find our camp. We will show him.”
The crew piled into the SUVs and they moved off.
A few minutes later the warehouse was demolished by an explosion. Flames engulfed the wrecked building, thick smoke rising above the surrounding rooftops.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lang had no idea how long they had been traveling. The foul-smelling hood over his head left him in total darkness. His injuries had caused him considerable pain, and in addition to those, his captors had punched and kicked him into near unconsciousness. He lay now on the floor of the SUV, aware of his predicament. Taj and his Islamic thugs were in full control. They could do what they wanted to him. Beat him senseless. Even kill him if they decided to.
Lying there, he reasoned that if they had wanted him dead they could have done it in the warehouse yard. Taj’s remark about him seeing the camp gave him some hope. Yet even that had a double ring to it. Taking him to the camp could simply end in him becoming one of those videotaped victims of torture. His head hacked off for the benefit of the Hand of Allah rank and file. Broadcast on some obscure Islamic TV channel for the world to see, while a ranting proclamation denounced him and the U.S.A. as an enemy of the peace-loving Muslim world. The other side of the coin had Lang as a simple pawn in the global game of one-upmanship. A challenge to the American administration as he was paraded around by gloating radicals.
Either way, Lang decided, he was well and truly screwed.
The inside of the SUV was musty with the sweat and body odors of his captors. He had ceased moving some time back, because each time he did move a hard boot would slam into his body, adding more pain. The Hand of Allah boys were enjoying themselves. What would he give for a GPS unit upload, so he could ask for an armed drone to unleash an HE missile on the SUV. He managed a smile at the thought of the white-hot blast that would reduce them all to minuscule fragments in a second.
The ride became rougher, the SUV leaving reasonably smooth terrain to start traveling across hard, uneven ground. Despite the vehicle’s excellent suspension the SUV rocked and bounced over some unforgiving surfaces.
Lang’s Arabic was reasonable and when his captors started a conversation he concentrated on what they were saying. The talk was about an upcoming mission that was being prepared. Chosen brothers were being trained to travel to America, where they would bring down Allah’s vengeance on the streets of the Great Satan. The infidel pigs would be slaughtered by the martyrs of Hand of Allah.
Lang heard references to the Prophet and Shaia Kerim. The two top guys in the group. Maybe he would get to meet them when he reached the camp. Ironic that after all the time he had been trying to get a lead on them it could happen now. Not that he was going to be able to do much about it. Unless he got his hands on a weapon and took them out in a blaze of glory.
Some time later, again after a long, uncomfortable stretch, Lang felt the SUV rolling across a softer, smooth surface. He felt it swing around and come to a stop. Doors were opened, fierce desert heat sweeping into the SUV. Lang was dragged out and thrown to the ground. He felt baking sand beneath him.
Around him was the babble of many voices. Arabic greetings were passed between the men. Lang lay still, not wanting to draw any unwarranted attention to himself. The heat was brutal. Sand filtered through the hood over his head and, despite being careful, he breathed the grit into his mouth and nose. The sand irritated his crushed nose and caused him more pain.
A voice in English silenced the others. The tone was hard. Commanding.
Lang was hoisted to his feet. The hood was dragged from his head. He screwed up his eyes against the savage glare of the sun. He felt unsteady and might have fallen if hands hadn’t kept him upright. Lang blinked away the tears and the world settled down and came back into focus.
“See what we have, brothers,” the English voice said. “See what, by his mercy, Allah has delivered into our hands. Here is our enemy. An infidel. But not just an ordinary infidel. This one is an American spy. An agent of the CIA. Look on him well, my brothers. This American pig kills for his masters. He seeks out the innocent and has them kidnapped and taken to hidden places where they are tortured and debased.”
A figure moved into Lang’s vision.
Tall, dark skinned, with a trimmed black beard, his thick hair well cut. He wore a white cotton shirt over loose combat pants, and his boots were of supple leather. This was a man who refused to give up his sartorial style even in the desert.
“Look around, Lang. This is what you have been searching for and never found. I have granted your wish. My name is Shaia Kerim. Welcome to the Hand of Allah camp. It is unfortunate for you that it will be a one-way visit. Understandably you may never leave alive.”
Lang stared around at the sprawl of tents. The pair of wood huts. A number of vehicles were parked on the site, and behind the tents he spotted a helicopter. The camp was home to at least a couple dozen men. Most of the ones not busy with chores had come to see their visitor. Every man was armed. Some wore traditional Muslim clothing. Others were in combat fatigues. Many wore kaffiyeh headdresses, while there were U.S.-style ball caps showing, too.
Lang detected an undercurrent of dissent among the men around him. It was pure hostility. As far as these men were concerned he was their mortal enemy. The representation of the Great Satan. Infidel scum in their obsessed thinking. Lang didn’t rate his chance of survival as being very high.
“Welcome our American guest,” Kerim said. “Show him how we respect him. But do not kill him yet.”
The mob closed in with a vengeance, screaming at him in shrill Arabic, using fists and feet to beat him. When he fell they dragged him upright. Two of them held him while others struck him. Blood spattered the attackers. Lang was awash with it. The blood soaked his clothing. One eye was already swollen shut. His mouth was puffy and torn.
“Enough,” Kerim shouted above the din. “Put him in the cage like the animal he is.”
The supporting hands were withdrawn. Lang collapsed, falling facedown in the sand. He struck the ground hard because his hands were still tethered. He lay motionless, numb against the pain that would hit him later. Nothing seemed real to him at that moment. He barely felt himself being dragged across the sand. He was not aware of being rolled inside the metal cage, the door slammed and locked.
* * *
KERIM SMILED. The episode had pleased his men. The CIA agent, the focus of their rage, would be a constant reminder of why they were here. He was the true enemy. Not just an American but an agent of the reviled secret agency that was dedicated to the killing of true Islamic warriors. He would play on that each time he spoke to his men. He would build on the anger already instilled in them so that when they were sent to America and unleashed, their fury would be that of a thousand devils.
“Tell me, Ibrahim,” he said, “how should we use this CIA murderer?”
Calvin James, who had been at Kerim’s side during the entire incident, considered his answer.
“We should benefit wisely. Be certain to gain the most we can from him. Use him to embarrass the American government. Seeing him captured and not being able to do anything to save him will leave them in an awkward position. Their opponents will use this against them, too. Washington will feel the backlash from all quarters.”
“Wisely said, my brother,” Kerim said. “I was right to choose you. Understanding the way the Americans think is half the battle. He smiled. “Like our CIA friend, I will use you wisely, as well, Ibrahim Hammid.”
James was glad his thoughts were not available to Kerim. The way he was feeling right then would have exposed his true hostility toward Hand of Allah and everyone associated with it. The way the terrorists had reacted filled James with revulsion, even though he knew this was the only way they could have reacted. Lang was a living example of what Kerim had been preaching to his men, so they had shown their contempt by savagely beating him while he was helpless to resist. The Phoenix Force commando was not so naive that he didn’t expect something like this to happen. Even so it was hard to take. Having to stand there and watch had been difficult. As James had decided earlier, this was not the time to act.
Not yet.
But it was coming.
He realized Kerim was speaking to him again.
“My brother, do you not hear me?”
James snapped out of his thought process.
“I hear you.”
“Is something wrong?” Kerim asked, staring at James.
“My thoughts were elsewhere, Kerim. I ask your forgiveness. I was still marveling at Allah’s gift of the American. Delivered into our hands at His choosing. May His blessing be upon us all.”
Kerim nodded. “Our day is coming.”
“Inshallah,” James said.
Kerim began to walk away. He stopped and turned around.
“Do this one thing for me, Ibrahim. Take charge of the American. Look to his injuries. Minister to him. Feed him. If we are to follow Allah’s intentions, then we need to keep this pig alive. Our brothers have had their thirst quenched for now. I will give the order that Lang is under your protection and he must not be harmed until I give the order. Allah is a compassionate God, so we must abide by his example.”
“But he stays in the cage,” James said. “He must not be allowed the opportunity to escape.”
“Again, wise thinking, my brother,” Kerim said. He handed James the key to the metal cage’s lock. “I trust you, brother. I know you will not disappoint me.”
James watched Kerim cross to his hut and vanish inside. He hefted the key in his hand.
Believe what you want, Kerim, he thought. In the end I am going to disappoint you big-time.
CHAPTER NINE
One of Kerim’s followers was the camp’s medic. Through Kerim the man was ordered to tend the beaten American. The terrorist did as he was told with a sullen attitude. He was of the opinion that Lang should be left to die, but his allegiance to Hand of Allah dictated he obey whatever Shaia Kerim instructed.
James unlocked the cage and Lang was brought outside and propped against the bars. The binding cord was removed from his wrists. He was still barely conscious and the beating had left him slightly concussed. In the time since the assault his face and body had begun to show the extent of the attack’s brutality. When the blood and sand was cleaned from his face James was able to see how badly bruised the man was. Great blue-and-yellow swellings distorted his cheeks and eyes. His flesh had split in a number of places. When the medic opened his shirt Lang’s body showed similar discoloration. The way he winced when his ribs were checked suggested some were either badly bruised or possibly cracked.
As he worked on Lang the medic carried on a mumbling litany of Arabic. James was unable to understand what the man was saying. The vicious tone in the man’s voice told James it was nothing pleasant.
His work completed, the medic gathered his kit and left James with Lang. James had brought food and water for the CIA man. He raised a flask and tried to give Lang a drink. Most of the water dribbled down Lang’s chin, but some slid down his throat. When James leaned back he saw that Lang’s eyes were open and staring at him.
“What’s this for?” Lang asked. “Strengthening me up for round two?”
“No. I want you ready for when we get out of here,” James replied.
“You want me to run so you can shoot me in the back? What is it with you bastards? Not enough guts to kill a man face to face?”
“I can’t answer for Kerim’s men. I’m not one of them. Name’s Roy Landis. Undercover while I try to dig out information on Hand of Allah.”
The CIA agent offered a cynical smile that looked all the more grotesque because of his swollen face.
“Sure. And I should take your word for that?”
“They see through my cover we’ll be sharing this cage.”
Lang’s gaze flickered over James’s shoulder, and James picked up the sound of someone coming up behind him. He saw a shadow on the sand to his right.
“Is he still alive, my brother?” James recognized Kerim’s voice.
“By Allah’s good grace the infidel has not died. Praise be to Allah the merciful.”
Kerim made a sound in his throat and strode by.
“So why is everyone speaking English?” Lang asked. He stared at James through his good eye. “Is this some kind of psychological trick to get me on your side?
“They’re all speaking English to get familiar with the language. There’s a series of strikes being planned by these guys on American soil. I need to find out about them.”
James maneuvered Lang back into the cage. He placed food and water next to the CIA agent.
“One of us is crazy,” Lang muttered. “I’m still trying to figure out whether you’re screwing with my head.”
James managed a quick grin through the bars as he locked the door of the cage.
“The rest of my team is waiting for a call to bring them boiling in here. You want to see crazy? Wait until that happens.”
“What agency are you with?”
“Not one you’ll find on any list,” James said. “But we get the job done. Lang, be patient. This might take time.”
