Lethal Code

CHAPTER 15

The back of Ruhi’s head throbbed. Blood trickled down below his hairline. He’d been dragged by his feet across the concrete parking area into an elevator — or so he gathered by the grim evidence: His shirt was bunched up around his armpits, and his shoulder blades were scraped and burning, and bleeding as well.

“Get up!” yelled a man he didn’t recognize.

But Ruhi was so dazed the man’s face could have been Uncle Malik’s and he wouldn’t have known for sure. All the men in his blurred vision had beards.

He heard the elevator doors clank close behind him. Someone pushed a button. Each movement, each sound, registered slowly. The elevator jerked and started upward.

“Now get up!” the same man yelled.

Ruhi could tell it was the same man, more by his voice than his shifting features.

Before he could try to stand, two other men jerked him upright. With his ankles still cuffed, he was wobbly on his legs and spilled into a fourth man, who shoved him away. Then he was pushed from one to the other like a 160-pound hacky sack. That was when he realized that his abasement also was planned. Just as he wondered when all the pushing and shoving and snarling would end, a punch plowed into his stomach. It came with the hardness of an anvil and left him doubled over, unable to take a breath.

He sank to his knees, then onto his side, the men watching as he curled protectively into a fetal position and tried to gulp air.

The elevator shuddered as it stopped. The doors clanked open, and he was once again dragged to his feet. He could not straighten up.

Someone behind him reached down between his ankles and cut apart the Flex-Cuf binding his feet together. He was able to walk, though not well, still doubled over in pain. A man on each side of him supported most of his weight, effortlessly, it seemed. Ruhi noticed for the first time that they all wore dark pants and short-sleeved white shirts. Odd attire for thugs, he thought.

They hauled him into a room the size of a basketball court, with an assortment of cables hanging from pulleys cinched to the ceiling at the far end. That’s where he was headed.

As they drew closer, he saw that the end of each cable held a shackle. But rather than string him up, the men forced him onto one of several white vinyl chairs with shiny metal legs. A heavy-looking wooden cabinet, the approximate length and width of a man’s body, lay on the floor a few feet away. He wondered if it was a coffin — or simply another means of providing slow death. His eyes returned to the other chairs, each of which had bloodstains. He thought it likely that white had been chosen to better expose the streaks and splatters. It amped up his anxiety, which had been redlining since he’d been roused from Uncle Malik’s guest room.

Only two of the men remained with him. He heard retreating footsteps very clearly, and he couldn’t help but envy those who made them.

One of the men standing in front of him wore round glasses, reminding him of John Lennon, of all people. The other, who had facial scruff much like Ruhi’s, circled behind him. Then he bent Ruhi forward, yanked up his cuffed hands, and jammed his arms over the back of the seat. A sharp pain wracked Ruhi’s shoulders.

His heart pounded. As a long-distance runner, he was acutely aware of his pulse and savvy enough to know that it wasn’t only his anxiety that was redlining; he estimated his heart was beating in the 180s, astoundingly high for a man in his fit condition. The man in the Lennon glasses picked up a chair and held it by two legs, like a bat. He appeared to be weighing the pros and cons of whacking Ruhi’s head off.

Ruhi felt himself flinching, or maybe he’d developed a tic. He wasn’t sure, and felt strangely aloof, almost clinically detached. But he wasn’t kidding himself: Any sense of distance from his circumstances would surely end with the first strong hint of pain.

Lennon, as Ruhi now thought of him, was large, but it wasn’t his broad chest or thick neck that drew his attention. It was the man’s forearms. They were bigger than Ruhi’s biceps, and each thick vein rose in relief and appeared shrink-wrapped in skin.

Lennon flipped the chair, catching the opening in the back with his index finger. With what had to have been a well-practiced twirl, he brought it upright and set it down in front of Ruhi. He stepped over the back and perched on it, less than a foot from him, so close that his boulder-like knees pressed against Ruhi’s considerably narrower ones.

“Bring it in,” Lennon shouted.

Two men entered. One carried a plywood board about six and a half feet long and two feet wide. A two-by-four had been secured by its narrow side on one end of the plywood, creating a tilt when the man laid the board on the floor.

Ruhi had a sick feeling about this. Lennon stared at him as he watched the second man set down a large white plastic bucket of water and a roll of plastic wrap, the kind usually reserved for food preservation. But Ruhi knew he was about to be waterboarded, and the only thing the plastic wrap would preserve was the extraordinary pain he was about to endure.

“So tell me, Mr. Ruhi Mancur,” Lennon said, speaking in accented English, “whom do you work for?”

“Work for?” Ruhi managed.

“I will tell you, Mr. Ruhi Mancur, that when I engage in dialogue with one of our distinguished clients, when I practice the art of conversation with him or, on those rare occasions, her, I expect an answer, not a question. So that’s the one break you’re ever going to get from me.” He nodded, as if this were fully agreed upon. “We know the games you play. We know they held you in the States, ‘questioned’ you. Tortured you. Yes, we know that, too.” He patted Ruhi’s face. “And we know they said that they were sorry and let you go. They said you were innocent.”

“It’s true,” Ruhi volunteered. “I was innocent. I am.”

Lennon sat back, shaking his head at Ruhi. “Yes, innocent. But then you jumped on a plane to Riyadh, like you could not get to your homeland soon enough. And we welcomed you, didn’t we? We didn’t stop you at the airport. We didn’t humiliate you with a full-body search. We didn’t drag you into a van and crack your head on concrete. No, we didn’t do anything but show you respect. We said, ‘Welcome to Saudi Arabia.’ Those very words. We thought, ‘Mr. Ruhi Mancur is coming home. He knows who his real friends are.’”

As Lennon spoke, he cast an occasional glance at the board. And that made Ruhi look at it, despite his fear that even a glimpse would encourage Lennon to begin the infamous torture. The two other men stood by, as if awaiting Lennon’s next instruction.

“But we did watch you, Mr. Ruhi Mancur. Just to be sure. And what did we see? Ahmed Mancur going to his father’s house on your very first night to talk to you.” He leaned into Ruhi’s face. “We heard every word. We could scarcely believe our ears. A good son of Saudi Arabia, who has every reason to hate America, comes to his homeland to support the worst elements in the kingdom.” He shook his head in what might have passed for sorrow under different circumstances. “Every word.”

Lennon nodded at the larger of the two men. “Get the straps.” Then he turned back to Ruhi. “So I’m going to ask you again, and if you are smart, Mr. Ruhi Mancur, and we think you are very, very smart, you will not ask another question. You will give only answers. So, whom do you work for?”

Ruhi looked up as the large men returned with black leather straps at least two inches wide.

“I’m not working for anyone,” Ruhi said, sickened by the sound of his own lies, for all they would soon mean.

Emma was grabbed by a man who smelled like old sweat and stale deodorant and shoved onto a bench seat near the middle of the blue bus.

“What’s your name?” another man yelled.

“Emma.”

“Emma what?”

“Emma Elkins.”

He looked at a small notebook. “You’re new.” It sounded like an accusation.

She nodded.

“Spell it.”

She did. The man wrote it down.

A girl sat next to Emma by the window, staring straight ahead. Her lip quivered. She was older and looked just as scared, which frightened Emma even more.

The man who shoved her onto the seat waved a gun in her face and shouted, “Don’t move!” with such a heavy accent that she guessed right away that the command was probably among the few words of English that he actually knew. The man with the notebook now demanded Tanesa’s name. He appeared to check it off on a list. Then he headed to the back of the bus, putting away his pen and taking out a gun.

Emma looked around as much as she dared without shifting her head. All the kids were at least fifteen or sixteen, and some looked older than that. The girl across the aisle caught her eye and held it. Emma noticed that her hands were folded in prayer, then saw that the girl right next to her also had her hands clasped. Maybe that was a prayer on her lips, not fear. Or both.

She took several studied breaths, like her mom had always told her to do before Emma lost her temper. It kind of worked. She didn’t feel so shaky.

The bus rumbled down the end of her street. The big guy in a head scarf with his gun to William Sr.’s head forced the pastor to sit while he remained upright in the aisle.

“Now that we have all of you aboard, give me your attention.”

He spoke impeccable English without any accent. Emma thought he was one of those terrorists who grew up in the U.S. and then went crazy. But there was a silly, cunning quality to the way he talked, as if he’d patterned his speech after some old movie character, like Dr. Evil, whom she’d seen on cable. Not that ridiculous, but kind of. He drew out his words as if he enjoyed their torment as much as she and the others feared their intent.

“A week ago you tried to defy our plans. You saved people from the train crash on the first day of our jihad. So many Americans think you are heroes.” He smiled, shook his head. “You probably think so too because you had your pictures in the newspapers and on the Internet. Now people will see what happens to their ‘heroes’ when they defy us, because we are taking you on a long trip.” He glanced at his three compatriots, then back at them. “Some of you will make the journey alive.” He paused, as if to let the implication sink in. “And some of you will die because you will do things to try to show that you are brave, or that your Jesus will protect you. But he won’t, and we will kill you.”

He looked them over, making eye contact with Emma, the only white kid on the bus. Maybe he just realized that. Duh! She stared back, thinking over and over, I hate your guts. I hate your guts, hoping to burn his brain with her anger. He didn’t even flinch.

The man’s dark eyes moved from child to child as he talked until they settled on Tanesa. “I should also tell you that our patience is very thin, and that the first person who tries to stop us will get to see something very special before dying.” He thrust his pistol in William Sr.’s face. “You make a mistake, and you will make us shoot him. That’s why he’s right here in the front of the bus, so we can kick his body off. Then”—he smiled, displaying perfectly straight white teeth—“we’ll shoot the offender and kick him — or her — off, too. Two for the price of one. That’s how we’ll get started.”

Emma looked over at Tanesa, who was seated in the row ahead on the other side of the aisle. She was staring at the man. Emma realized that she liked Tanesa a lot. No, it was more than just liking. She admired her. Tanesa was strong, the way she looked right at that guy. Maybe, Emma realized, she wanted to be like Tanesa.

Emma moved her head just enough to look at the thug who’d forced her onto the seat. He crouched in the aisle three rows ahead, so his leader could stare down all the kids. He held an assault rifle, like the model used every week or so in a massacre. But he also had a handgun jammed into his waist. One of the old-fashioned ones, as Emma thought of it, with a cylinder for the bullets that spun around.

When she was six, Emma got an Annie Oakley outfit for Christmas, fringe skirt and vest, with a pair of six-shooters and a holster for each hip.

Emma sure had killed a lot of bad guys back then.

The leader’s glare now returned to Tanesa. Emma could tell by the tension in the caregiver’s jaw that she was seriously pissed off. And then Emma thought Tanesa was exactly the kind of person who would stand up to those guys.

Don’t do it, Tanesa. Whatever you’re thinking.

The jihadists surrounded Candace, raising their Kalashnikovs and semiautomatic handguns in the air. One even wielded a scimitar, which made her fear a public beheading. It didn’t escape her notice that the cameraman kept focusing on the sword-bearer.

They were chanting in Arabic. Something about the Great Satan. She rued her woeful language skills, then felt spittle on her face as they pressed closer, jostling and groping her.

Not the truck, she thought. Don’t put me in there with them.

The men appeared to have claimed her. But a commander of some sort — he wore the semblance of a uniform — bulled his way through the teeming crowd. The cameraman instantly turned his lens on him. The commander, wider than any two of the malnourished-looking mujahedeen, grabbed her arm, wrapping it in his meaty grip. At almost the same moment, a man who could have been his brother came up on her blind side and took her left arm. They pushed her through the shouting mob.

In seconds, she was in the Hummer, an air-conditioned vehicle more lushly appointed than any of the ones she’d driven during her Afghanistan service.

The two beefy men sat on either side of her. Neither had relinquished his grip. Next to the driver was a man in full head scarf. She could not see any of his features until he turned to look at her. Even then his eyes were hidden behind dark lenses. His face was skeletally thin with a beaky nose. His thin lips barely moved when he spoke:

“Agent Candace Anders.”

Although it wasn’t a question, he stared as if he expected a response. She did not answer.

He shook his head and turned back around.

The Hummer headed down the highway. So did the truck with the jihadists, their weapons still waving victoriously in the air, the scimitar catching blinding beams of sunlight.

They turned several miles later onto a desert road. She knew they weren’t going to Sana any longer. They were headed to hell.

Ruhi wished he would die, and he’d never before been that desperate. But he’d never known pain that could compare to waterboarding. Lennon’s men had strapped him down, cinching the leather so hard across his forehead that he thought they’d drive the back of his head through the lower part of the board. Then they bound his mouth with the plastic wrap and poured water down his nostrils. In less than fifteen seconds he was out of air from trying to expel the water. They let him gag for another twenty seconds before Lennon pulled the plastic wrap off his mouth.

Ruhi took four huge breaths, and then saw the big man scoop up another jarful of water. Lennon pulled the plastic back over Ruhi’s mouth and ordered the torturer to give the glass to him.

He took over, pouring it slowly, deliberately, into Ruhi’s nose. Worse this time, because he knew the deadly agony was imminent. As soon as his trachea and larynx filled with water, instinctive raging panic lit up his brain.

He passed out in the grip of horrific pain, certain that he was dying. When he awakened, he was still bound to the board. Lennon’s face hovered right over him. He had jerked the plastic wrap down to Ruhi’s chin.

“Are you here for Al Qaeda?”

“No. That’s Ahmed,” he pleaded. “Not me.”

“We don’t have Ahmed. We have you, Mr. Ruhi Mancur.”

They don’t have him. How the hell—

But Ruhi’s tormented thoughts stopped for yet another scream—“No, no, no”—as Lennon spread the wrap back over his lips.

“No? Did you say ‘no,’ Mr. Ruhi Mancur? But that’s not what we want to hear. We want to hear ‘Yes, I have names.’ We know about your cousin. We want to know more about you and your friends.”

Lennon leaned forward. Ruhi wished he could head-butt the bastard. He imagined Candace would do that. But the only thing he could move were his eyes, and all they saw was Lennon moving that jar of water from the bucket toward him once more. He tried to talk, but couldn’t with the plastic.

“What, Ruhi?” Lennon pulled the wrap down again.

“I don’t know anyone in Al Qaeda in Yemen or anywhere else. I swear I don’t. I just got here. I’d tell you. I hate those people.”

“And do you know who we hate, Mr. Ruhi Mancur? We hate liars, especially the ones who leave our country, and then come back and try to turn it into an American garbage pit. We really hate them.” He leaned even closer. “Names, Mancur.”

It was the first time he dropped the “Mr. Ruhi Mancur” business. Ruhi wondered if the sudden depersonalization was a prelude to the worst waterboarding could offer, a psychological distancing that would allow Lennon to actually kill him.

“Names, Mancur,” he repeated.

Ruhi had to give up someone. He yelled out the name of the one person he thought might be protected.

“Lana Elkins.”

“Who is she?”

Ruhi told him. “I don’t know anybody in Al Qaeda but Ahmed. But she’s CIA, I think.”

Slowly, the straps came off. Slowly, he was allowed to sit in the white vinyl chair again.

Lana Elkins’s name traveled quickly, however. Within minutes it was heard on a blue bus almost seven thousand miles away.