Pandora's Legion

19

To SSI’s operators — and all others in the world — everything was a contest. Except perhaps running. Daily jogging inevitably turned into a race for second place because nobody could keep up with J. J. Johnson. The ex-legionnaire had spent five years running everywhere: to and from meals; uphill and downhill; through sand; through water; on the obstacle course. The only time La Legion did not run was when it marched to the slow, patient cadence of Le Boudin.

It was a point of pride with Jeffrey Malten that he usually finished second to Johnson. But today Breezy was in fine form. He beat the ex-SEAL to the last corner by eight strides, then slowed. When Breezy overtook him again, he noticed that Malten was barely loping, turning his head left and right.

“What’s wrong, dude? Lose somethin?”

Breezy stopped, leaning forward with hands on his hips. He inhaled and exhaled twice, then straightened. “It’s weird, man. Where’s J. J.?”

“We have one of the Crusaders.”

Ali sat bolt upright on his cot. It took him a few pulses to absorb the implications of Kassim’s announcement.

The Syrian stepped farther into the room, almost apologetic for the unprecedented intrusion. Few people had ever seen the interior of The Blessed Doctor’s lodging. It was much like its owner: spare, clean, functional. The only adornment was an Islamic tapestry on one wall beside a bookcase.

Ali swung his feet onto the floor and picked his robe off the hook. “Tell me.”

“One of my agents noticed that many of the Crusaders run for exercise around the perimeter every day. I told him to track their activities in his intelligence reports. One in particular seemed stronger than the others and usually finished one hundred meters or more ahead of them. For a brief time he was often out of sight of the others.” Kassim shrugged eloquently. “It was simple.”

“Where is he?”

Kassim’s face showed a rare expression. It was a wolf’s smile. “He is on the way here.”

Jeremy Johnson, late of the French Foreign Legion, blinked at the sudden light. He had been bound and gagged for three hours, bouncing painfully in the Toyota’s trunk. When the sedan lurched to a stop, the trunk was opened and the blanket pulled off him. Three men lifted him out and unbound his bare feet. The manacles and tape over his mouth remained.

Kassim met the group, displaying obvious pleasure. One of the kidnappers handed him the American’s identification, which Kassim took inside the building. He knew that Ali would want to acquaint himself with the captive’s particulars before the interrogation began.

Minutes later Kassim beckoned to the escorts who shoved their prize through the door. Johnson saw the grinning bastard who had taken his dog tags plus one other man. That’s the boss, Johnson told himself. This one was somewhat older than the others; cleaner, more composed. He beckoned to a chair. More polite. More dangerous.

Johnson sat down, pointedly leaning forward to accommodate his hands behind his back. Ali took the hint and gestured to one of the acolytes. The man handed his Makarov pistol to a partner and released the manacles. “Thanks,” Johnson said, rubbing his wrists.

Ali set a bottled water on the desk and Johnson drained almost half. He realized that he was getting dehydrated after hours in the trunk.

“Now then,” Ali began. “Mr… Johnson.” He gave the American a smile intended to cause more fear than confidence. “I will do you the honor of being direct. If you tell me what I wish to know, I will release you tomorrow. You may tell your friends whatever you wish — perhaps that you were the victim of a ransom attempt. It does not matter.”

Johnson nodded, keeping a straight face. Lying bastard. You’re going to snuff me. He had already judged the situation and decided to cooperate in hope of living long enough to escape. But that would be difficult without his shoes.

“Why are you here?” Ali asked.

From experience in La Legion and extensive reading, Jeremy Johnson knew that good interrogators seldom began by asking for information they did not already possess. “I’m hired by a security firm. But I think you know that, Mr…”

Ali waved a dismissive hand. “My name is unimportant. But yes, Mr. Johnson, I know that you belong to Strategic Solutions.” He paused long enough to gauge the captive’s reaction. Seeing none, he proceeded. “I know that you are a bought dog. You sell yourself to the highest bidder like a common harlot.”

Johnson shrugged. “Girl’s gotta make a living.”

Ali barked a harsh phrase. The guard behind the chair responded instantly, bringing a frayed fan belt down in an overhand strike. It split the skin of the American’s neck, searing exquisite pain through his upper torso. Johnson’s composure melted in the hot rush of shock, blood, and rage. He cried out despite himself, sagging in the chair.

“One,” Ali said, holding up a linger. “From this moment, every time I dislike your response, you shall receive an additional stroke.”

Johnson pressed his left hand against the right side of his neck, felt the blood, and realized that he had few reserves. He knew that he could not tolerate many blows.

Ali read the signs. “Now, Mr. Johnson. I see in your face that you wish to kill me. You are free to try. But you will be shot in both legs and beaten more severely. In that case, before we allow you to die, you will tell us all we need.” He leaned back, pointedly casual. “Or… you may walk out of here in your own shoes in a few days.” Ali thought: Always give them some hope.

The legionnaire’s glare contained equal portions of hate and resignation. Ali recognized the signs and knew he was winning.

“To repeat, Johnson: what is your mission here?” Ali waited for a slow five count. Then he held up two fingers.

The blows came in rapid, vicious succession: a stroke from the right, a quick reversal, and one from the left. Johnson screamed in pain and fury, leaping to his feet and turned to face his tormenter.

Something hard smashed into his right knee. He went down, groveling on the board floor, holding his patella. The other guard recovered to a ready stance, pointedly tapping the police baton against the palm of one hand.

Ali stood up, leaning on the desk. “Mr. Johnson? I am waiting. If you ever want to walk again…”

J. J. Johnson tried hard to choke off the sob rising from his core. He tasted a salty warmth and realized that he had bitten into his lip. He thought: Maybe I can stand three, even four. Not five. Not ten. They have all day.

“Bugs.”

“What?” Ali gestured and his men set Johnson in the chair again. “What’s that?”

“Germs.” Johnson inhaled deeply, trying to keep his wits in the game.

“Go on, Johnson.”

“Water.” It came as a croak as he crawled onto the chair.

Ali shoved the bottle across the desk again. Johnson took his time sipping the water, then rubbed some on his stinging neck. Gotta have time to think.

“One… two…”

No time, man. No time. “Germ warfare,” Johnson blurted. The Korean War phrase leapt to his mind from a long-ago book called Honest John. It was written by an Air Force pilot, a kickass fighter ace who was tortured into saying he dropped bugs on gooks.

Ali sat down again. “What kind of germs, Johnson? Do not test me!”

Johnson looked up, his vision blurring from the tears of pain. “I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know about the germs!” Nice touch, he congratulated himself. Not too specific. He shuddered visibly. Not yet.

Ali allowed himself to slouch in his chair. He wanted to appear calm, in control. He thought for a moment. He had to admire the American’s fortitude. Many men would have spilled all they knew by now. He had seen it before. Then he played his trump. “Tell me about Doctor Carolyn Padgett-Smith.”

Johnson’s eyes betrayed him. They widened in astonished recognition. Then he recovered. “Who?”

Ali turned his head, showing the wolfish smile again. Slowly, almost elegantly, he raised a hand. Five fingers.

Then he raised the other hand.

Johnson was on the floor after the fourth blow. He felt his back flayed open, then more strikes whipped across his buttocks and upper legs. He rolled in hopeless desperation, shrieking in pain. The two tormenters boxed him in, taking turns and leaning into their work, imparting every ounce of energy to each lash.

When he was able to stop sobbing, Johnson stretched out a hand. “Water.”

Ali was on his feet, taking long strides toward the wretch on the floor. Grasping Johnson’s hair in one hand, he flicked open a knife and held it against the victim’s cheek. “You get water when I have my answer. Or I take your eyes one at a time.”

Jeremy Johnson levitated. He was seeing himself from above, as if hanging from the rafters. His alter ego called to him. J. J., he means it, man. He’ll do you.

He heard himself say, “She’s a British doctor.”

Ali shook Johnson’s head, pulling some hair out. “I know that! Why is she here?”

Johnson told him.

Ali was washing his feet in preparation for evening prayers when Kassim reappeared. The doctor beckoned him in.

“He is secure, Doctor. He cannot escape, and I doubt that he could walk far.”

Ali looked up from the basin at his feet. “Has he eaten?”

Kassim was taken aback. The alien was a shredded figure of bloody tatters who limped along on one leg. What did it matter if he had eaten? “He has been fed. I do not know if he partakes.”

“What did you give him?”

Kassim shook his head ever so slightly. “Rice with some mutton. And a cup of tea, as you ordered. Why do you ask?”

“Merely because he is our prisoner does not mean he should be starved. The Prophet requires it.”

“With respect… the man has been sliced to ribbons. He lies in the dirt trying not to cry out. I doubt if he has much appetite.”

“He will eat if he desires.” Ali turned back to his ablution.

Kassim nodded, then turned to go. The doctor’s voice brought him up short. “I must leave with my men. Meanwhile, remember this: no one is to approach the infidel alone. There must always be at least two guards, both armed.”

The Syrian furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “Truly? You believe he is such a threat in his condition?”

“He is an elite soldier. Regardless of his cause or greed, we must not underestimate him. If he escapes, he will tell the others of this place. That in turn could lead — elsewhere.”

Kassim did not share his colleague’s respect for the whipped dog in the pen, but the doctor’s judgment was seldom wrong. “I shall tell the others.” He shifted his weight to his good leg. “Will you question him tomorrow?”

“I do not believe he has much more to tell us. But I shall tend his wounds tonight. I have some veterinary cephalhexin to prevent infection.”

“Then… what shall we do with him?”

Ali raised his hands from the basin, palms up. “God will decide.”

“Well, he’s just not here. That’s all we know.”

Leopole slumped against the table in the briefing room, tacitly conceding the obvious to a roomful of operators. Omar Mohammed remained seated but appeared no less subdued.

Leopole continued, “We’ve tried every source we know: police, military, embassy. Even some back-channel contacts.” He decided not to mention that an attractive sum had been offered in certain quarters for any information leading to the missing American, no questions asked. “We have to notify headquarters. Maybe they can try something in Washington.”

Malten spoke the question on everyone’s mind. “Colonel, do you think that al Qaeda got him?”

“I don’t know how else to explain it,” Leopole replied. “You and Brezyinski were closest to him, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Like I said, he disappeared around the corner and when I got there maybe twenty seconds later, he was gone.”

Mohammed had a theory. “This was almost certainly a kidnapping. We suspected that the opposition had observers on the base, and they saw a pattern and took advantage of it.” He stopped long enough to visualize the scene. “It wouldn’t have been very hard: drive alongside him, point a gun at his head and tell him to get in.”

Breezy would not admit it, but he began feeling pangs of regret for the way he had ribbed the former legionnaire so often. “So what do we do, now? Looks like all we can do is wait.”

Leopole eased off the table and stood with his arms akimbo. He realized that he needed to demonstrate some leadership, even if he lacked confidence in the case of Jeremy Johnson. “We keep planning and training, gentlemen. Same schedule: training starts again at 0700.”