“It is our intention to drive this bus to Syria,” Hasan said. His brow was wrinkled as he concentrated on expressing Mahmoud’s wishes in English. “However, there are things which we do not understand about the driving of your bus. There are battery cells in the back and unusual meters in the front. Mahmoud wishes you to explain them.”
“Tell Mahmoud that these things are used to find buried foundations, ancient tools, and other artifacts,” Rodgers said. “You can also tell Mahmoud that I won’t discuss the matter unless he unties my two associates and sits them in those chairs.” Rodgers turned when he spoke, and said it loud enough for Pupshaw and DeVonne to hear.
The creases in Hasan’s brow deepened. “Do I understand? You wish them to be freed?”
“I insist that they be treated with respect,” Rodgers replied.
“Insist?” Hasan said. “Does that mean demand?”
Rodgers turned around and looked at the men standing by the front window. “It means,” he said, “that if you don’t treat us like people, you can sit in the desert until the Turkish Army finds you. Which will be by daybreak if not sooner.”
Hasan regarded Rodgers for a moment, then turned to Mahmoud. He translated hurriedly. When Hasan finished, Mahmoud pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled. Ibrahim was sitting in the driver’s seat. He didn’t laugh. He was watching Mahmoud closely. After a moment, Mahmoud withdrew his hunting knife. Then he spoke to Hasan, who turned back to Rodgers.
Rodgers knew what was coming now. The terrorists realized that they couldn’t pressure him directly. Mahmoud also saw that he couldn’t pressure the Strikers. Threatening to harm them would only ennoble the pair, and they’d welcome that. The terrorists also couldn’t afford to kill any of the civilians. The victim might know something useful.
The Syrians needed the team’s cooperation, but Rodgers had made a demand they refused to honor. So now they would have to test his military asset: his skin. They had to discover how thick it was. How far he would let his civilian crew be tortured, physically or psychologically or both? While finding that out, they would also attempt to discover who was the weakest link and why, and how that individual might be manipulated.
Hasan faced Rodgers. “In two minutes,” he said, “Mahmoud will slice off one of the lady’s fingers. He will then amputate one finger every minute until you decide to cooperate.”
“Blood won’t make the van run,” Rodgers said. He was still looking at the front of the ROC. Coffey and Mary Rose were nearly awake now, and Phil Katzen was coming around. Colonel Seden was still unconscious.
Hasan translated for Mahmoud, who turned around in a huff. He walked to the front of the van and cut Mary Rose’s left wrist free. Then he straddled her arm and held it against his thigh. He put the knife blade-down in the space between her pinky and ring finger. He pressed down ever so slightly to draw blood and make her jump. Then he looked down at his watch.
Mary Rose was now fully alert. She looked up. “What’s going on?” she asked as she tried to pull her hand free.
Mahmoud held on tightly, and he never took his eyes off his watch.
Coffey had also recovered. He was sitting to the left of Mary Rose, and appeared startled when he saw Mahmoud. “What is this?” he demanded, his face puffing with lawyerly indignation. “And who are you?”
“Sit still,” Rodgers said, his voice soft but firm.
Mary Rose and Coffey both looked at him for the first time.
“Just stay calm, the two of you,” Rodgers said. His brow was thickly knit and his voice was a monotone. Implicit in his stern, even manner was the fact that they were in some difficulty and were going to have to trust him.
Mary Rose seemed confused, but did as she was told. Coffey’s chest began to heave, and blossoming horror had replaced the indignation in his expression. Rodgers could just imagine what he was thinking.
“What are you doing, Mike? You know the rules for situations like this….”
Rodgers did indeed know the rules and they were simple. Military personnel were permitted to provide name, rank, and serial number. Nothing more. However, the only mandate for what Op-Center euphemistically called “civilian detainees” was to survive. That meant if the captors wanted information, the hostages were free to provide it. After they were released, the burden was on Op-Center or the military to apprehend the terrorists or else to protect, evacuate, or destroy the newly exposed assets. It was part of the government’s characteristic underperform-and-then-overreact syndrome.
Rodgers found the idea repugnant. Civilian or soldier, one’s first loyalty was to the country, not to survival. Yet it wasn’t his own fierce patriotism that refused to let him capitulate. It was his own little PSYOP, his “psychological operation.” He had to be tougher than that. If they didn’t win some respect from their captors, this imprisonment—whether it lasted for hours, days, weeks, or months—would be one of abuse and contempt.
“Sifr dahiya,” Mahmoud said.
“You have one minute,” Hasan informed Rodgers. The young Syrian turned to Mary Rose. “Perhaps the lady is not so stubborn as her leader. Perhaps she would care to show us how some of the driving apparatus operates? That is, while she still can handle it.”
“She would not,” Rodgers said.
Mary Rose’s eyes grew wider with fear. She pressed her lips together and continued to look at Rodgers. He stood straight and strong, her touchstone.
Hasan continued to stare at Mary Rose. “Does this man speak for you?” he asked. “Is it he who will lose his fingers painfully one at a time? Perhaps you want to talk to me. Perhaps you do not wish to be mutilated.”
“The knives are in your hands, not ours,” Rodgers pointed out.
“Truly,” said Hasan, casting a look at Rodgers. “But the farmer who whips his stubborn mule is not cruel. He is doing his work. We are merely doing ours.”
“Without imagination,” Rodgers charged. “And certainly without courage.”
“We do what we must, all of us,” Hasan replied.
“Talateen,” said Mahmoud.
“Thirty seconds,” Hasan said. He gazed at Coffey and Katzen. “Does someone else wish to help? If any of you cooperate with us now, you will save not just the lady, but also yourself unthinkable suffering.”
“Ishreen!” Mahmoud barked.
“Twenty seconds,” Hasan said. He looked at Coffey. “You, perhaps? Will you be the hero, the one who saves her?”
The attorney regarded Rodgers. Rodgers’s gaze was fixed on the windshield.
Coffey took a calming breath. “If the young lady wants my help,” he said, “I will give it.”
Mary Rose blinked out tears. Then she smiled weakly and shook her head with little jerks.
“Ashara…” said Mahmoud.
“Ten seconds,” said Hasan. He bent close to Mary Rose. “You indicate no, yet I do not believe that is what you mean. Think, young woman. There is not very much time.”
“Tisa…”
“Nine seconds,” Hasan said to her. “Soon you will be wet with your own blood.”
“Tamanya…”
“Eight seconds,” said Hasan. “Then you will scream piteously to cooperate.”
“Saba…”
“Seven seconds,” Hasan said. “And with every finger that is removed, there will be more unendurable pain.”
Mary Rose was breathing heavily. There was terror in her eyes.
“She’s got more courage than you do,” Rodgers said proudly.
“Sitta… khamsa…”
“We will see,” Hasan said. “You have five seconds, my young woman. Then you will beg to speak.”
Hasan had been smirking slightly during the countdown. But now Rodgers noticed that his mouth had turned down. Had the insult touched him, or was he concerned that they wouldn’t get the information after all? Or could it be that Hasan had no stomach for bloodshed, despite his vivid commentary?
“Arba…”
“Four,” warned Hasan.
Part of Rodgers—a very large part of him—wanted to gamble that Mahmoud wasn’t going to go through with this. The Syrians had had nearly two minutes to think about their predicament and also to see what the American team was made of. By capturing the ROC, the Syrians had lost whatever head start they had on the Turks. If they had to leave now, patrols would be everywhere. The Syrians needed the ROC and its crew, and might well be wondering if they hadn’t underestimated their captives. If maybe they should have done what Rodgers had asked.
“Talehta…”
“Three seconds,” Hasan said. “Think of the knife cutting through bone and muscle. Over and over, ten times over.”
Rodgers could hear Mary Rose panting. But she wasn’t talking, Clod bless her. He’d never been prouder of his own soldiers than he was of her.
“Itneyn…”
“Two seconds.”
“Monster!” Coffey screamed, and began to struggle against his bonds. The Syrians paid no attention to him. Katzen was awake now and clearly trying to take everything in.
“Wehid!”
“The time is up,” Hasan said. He looked at Mary Rose.