Rodgers said nothing. The man waited only a few seconds.
“I understand you withstood a cigarette lighter in the desert,” the man said. “Very good. So that you will know what to expect this time, we will burn the flesh from your arms and chest. Then we will remove your trousers and continue down to the bottom of your legs. You will scream until your throat bleeds. Are you sure you don’t wish to speak?”
Rodgers said nothing. The commander sighed, then nodded to the man with the blowtorch. He stepped forward, turned it toward Rodgers’s left armpit, and brought it forward slowly.
The general’s jaw went rigid, his eyes widened, and his feet jumped from the floor. Within seconds, the smell of burned hair and flesh made the thick air fouler. Sondra had to breathe through her mouth to keep from retching.
The commander turned toward Sondra. He covered her mouth to force her to breathe through her pose. He was simultaneously pushing up on her jaw so that she couldn’t bite him.
“It has been my experience,” said the man, “that one member of a party always tells us what we wish to know. If you talk now you can save them all. Including this man.Your people were oppressed. They are oppressed still.” He removed his hand. “Can you not sympathize with our plight?”
Sondra knew she wasn’t supposed to speak to her captors. But he’d given her an opening and she had to try reason with him. “Your plight, yes. Not this.”
“Then put a stop to it,” the commander said. “You’re not an archaeologist. You’re a soldier.” He nodded toward Rodgers. “This man has been trained. I can see that. I feel it.” He stepped closer to Sondra. “I don’t enjoy doing this. Talk to me. Help me and you help him. You help my people. You will save lives.”
Sondra said nothing.
“I understand,” the commander said. “But I won’t let dozens of women and children die every day because others do not approve of our culture, our language, our form of Islam. Hundreds of my people are in Syrian prisons where they’re tortured by the Mukhabarat, the secret police. Surely you can understand my desire to help them.”
“I understand,” she replied, “and I sympathize. But the cruelty of others doesn’t justify your own.”
“This is not cruelty,” he said. “I would like to stop. I have been tortured. I have suffered for hours with electric wires threaded inside my body so there would be no bruises. A dead animal hung around your neck in a steaming-hot cell leaves no marks. Nor do the flies it attracts or the vomiting it induces. My wife was raped to death by an entire Turkish unit. I found her body in the hills. She was violated in ways which I hope are worse than you can imagine.” He looked back at Rodgers. “Other nations have made halfhearted efforts to help us. The United States special envoy tried to bring together the feuding Talabani and Barzani factions in Iraq. He had no budget, no arms for them. He failed. The United States Air Force tried to prevent the Iraqis from bombing Kurds in the north. They succeeded, so the Iraqis simply poisoned their water supply. The Air Force could not prevent that. It is time for us to help ourselves. For one of us to lead all of us.”
This is why we aren’t supposed to talk to them, Sondra thought. The man was making perfect sense. And the Kurd was right about one thing. Someone would probably talk. But it couldn’t be her. She had taken an oath of allegiance, and part of that oath was to obey orders. Rodgers did not want her to speak. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Living with that shame would be worse than dying.
She continued to look at the commander as Rodgers’s handcuffs rattled against the iron ring. After a minute, the torch was moved to Rodgers other side. He jumped this time, and so did she, as the flame was applied. The jaw was no longer so strong. His mouth fell open, his eyes rolled, and his entire body trembled. The tips of his feet kicked up and down vigorously. But he didn’t scream.
The commander watched with a relaxed, confident expression as the flame was moved to Rodgers’s back. Rodgers arched and shook and shut his eyes. His mouth went wide and there was a gurgling deep in his throat. As soon as Rodgers became aware of the sound he forced his mouth shut.
Though tears formed in her eyes and fear dried her mouth, Sondra refused to say a word.
Suddenly, the commander said something in Arabic. The torturer stepped away from Rodgers and shut off the burner. The commander turned to Sondra.
I will give you a few minutes to think without having to see your friend suffer.” He smiled at her. “Your friend… or your superior officer? No matter. Think about the people you can help. Yours as well as mine. I ask you to think about the German people during the Second World War. Were the patriots those who did the bidding of Hitler, or those who did what was right?”
The commander waited a moment. When Sondra said nothing, he walked away. The torturer left with him.
As their footsteps died, Sondra looked at Rodgers. He raised his head slowly.
“Say… nothing,” he ordered.
“I know,” she said.
“We are not Nazi Germany,” Rodgers gasped. “These people… are terrorists. They’ll use the ROC to kill. Do you… understand?”
“I do,” she said.
Rodgers’s head dropped again. Through tears, Sondra looked at the dark, raw burns under his upraised arms. Rodgers was right. These men had killed thousands of people by blowing up the dam. They’d kill even more if they were able to use the ROC to watch troop movements or listen to communications. The Kurds were oppressed, but would they be any better under a warlord like this? He was a man who had suffered, yet he was willing to burn hostages alive and keep them in pits to get his way. If he were Syrian, would he tolerate the Turkish Kurds? If he were Turkish, would he tolerate the Iraqi Kurds?
She didn’t know. But if Mike Rodgers was prepared to die to say no to him, she was too.
And then she heard the footsteps returning. Sondra saw Mike Rodgers breathe deeply to bring up his courage and resolve and felt her own legs weaken. She pulled on the handcuffs and wished she could at least die fighting their captors.
The torturer reappeared without the commander. After lighting the burner, he moved toward Mike Rodgers again. And impassively, as though he were igniting a barbecue pit, he turned the flame on Rodgers’s breastbone.
And after his head rolled back and he fought for a long moment to keep his teeth clenched, the general finally screamed.
THIRTY-SIX
Tuesday, 1:00 p.m.,
Damascus, Syria
Over the past twenty years, Paul Hood had been to dozens of crowded airports in many cities. Tokyo had been big but orderly, packed with businesspeople and tourists on a scale he’d never imagined. Vera Cruz, Mexico, had been small, jammed, outdated, and humid beyond imagining. The locals were too hot to fan themselves as they waited for departures and arrivals to be written on the blackboard.
But Hood had never seen anything like the sight which greeted him as he entered he terminal of the Damascus International Airport. Every foot of the terminal had people in it. Most of them were well dressed and well behaved. They held baggage on their heads because there wasn’t room to keep it at their sides. Armed police stood at the gates of arriving aircraft to keep people out if necessary and help passengers get off planes and into the terminals. After the passengers deplaned, the doors of the gate were shut and they were on their own.
“Are all of these people coming or going?” Hood asked Nasr. He had to shout to be heard over persons who were crying for family members or yelling instructions to friends or assistants.
“They all appear to be going!” Nasr shouted back. “But I’ve never seen it like this! Something must have happened—”
Hood elbowed sideways through the mob at the gate entrance. He thought he felt a hand reach for his inside jacket pocket. He stepped back against Nasr. His passport or wallet would both be valuable if people were trying to leave Syria. His arms tight at his sides, he got on his tiptoes. A white piece of cardboard with his name written in black was bobbing above heads about five yards away.
“Come on!” Hood shouted at Nasr and Bicking.
The men literally pushed their way to the black-suited young man who was holding the sign.
“I’m Paul Hood,” he said to the man. He wormed his arm behind him. “This is Dr. Nasr and Mr. Bicking.”