Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

Before I could answer, another man entered. Older, and much more self-assured, with an eight-inch salt-and-pepper beard just like Osama bin Laden used to have.

The boss.

He said something in Arabic, and the tough said something back. The boss screamed at the man, and immediately he was ripping through my pockets. He found the cell phone and passed it over. They both left the room, and I prayed the phone stayed in the building. It was my last bit of hope.

I went through strategies for prolonging the inevitable, but my mind was having trouble staying focused. I felt a deep sense of fear, a pathological phobia of what was about to happen, and it was blotting out logical thought. I knew that sooner or later they were going to get rough, and I had seen what that entailed.

In 1984, the CIA chief of station in Beirut, William Buckley, was kidnapped by Hezbollah. Months later, an unmarked videotape arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Athens. In it, a nude William Buckley was being gruesomely tortured. Another tape arrived every few months, until one came simply showing him dead, the skin puckered throughout his naked body from repeated abuse.

The tapes were classified, but I had seen them. They had left a mark on my soul, grainy images branded in my brain and guttural screams haunting my dreams, made all the more visceral because they were real. The pain, shrieks, and agony weren’t from a screenplay, but a living man. The tapes had left a disquieting mark on my subconscious that had never gone away. I hadn’t ever told anyone, but Buckley’s fate was my singular fear. And now I was going to live it. Buckley had managed to survive for more than a year of inhumane captivity. If it came to it, I hoped my demise would be much, much quicker.

Rescue wasn’t going to happen. An enormous effort had been made to locate Buckley, using the entire powers of the Central Intelligence Agency, along with help from a multitude of Western intelligence agencies and Mossad. He was, after all, the Beirut chief of station. None of it had mattered.

I had no such luxury. Nobody even knew I was missing. There would be no grand struggle to locate and recover me.

All I had was Jennifer.

Jennifer fought with all of her might to prevent being thrown into the van, but it was wasted effort. With four men holding her writhing form, she made them work, but that was all. They heaved her through the sliding door hard enough to slam against the other side.

She sprang to her knees and turned to fight, striking the first man who tried to enter with two quick jabs. The back doors opened, and two men piled in. She lashed out with her feet, connecting with one and trying to slip past the other out the back, to freedom.

He slammed her above the ear with a straight right punch, causing stars. She continued to spin toward the rear, getting her hands outside the van. She pulled, and felt her legs grabbed. She was ripped inside and set upon by both men. They began to punch her all over, forcing her to curl to protect herself. She felt the van move and heard someone shouting in Arabic. The punching stopped, followed by the men simply holding her down.

She heard her name called over and over. She looked to the voice and saw Samir staring at her in concern, his lip split, nose bleeding, and the left side of his face swollen.

“Have you gone mad? What in the world happened?” he said.

She began to buck, trying to get out of the men’s grasp, spittle flying from her mouth.

“Jennifer, stop it! Look at me.”

She relaxed, her eyes on the ceiling of the van. “Looks like you got us both, you son of a bitch.”

“I had nothing to do with that bomb. I still don’t know what happened. Where’s Pike?”

She looked at him, trying to sense deception. “The computer you gave Pike didn’t only have a camera. It had a bomb.”

He said nothing, his mouth dropping open.

“I get that you have a vendetta. I heard you talk in your house, but why use us? Use Pike? He said you were his friend, and that means a lot to him. He doesn’t have many, and you used that against him.”

“I did no such thing. I would never do that. I’m not a terrorist. You are wrong about the computer.”

“Then let me go. Right now. I need to use my phone. Pike’s in real trouble.”

He turned to the men and said a sentence or two in Arabic. They released her. She pulled out her phone and called the Taskforce, knowing she was breaking every rule there was by using an open line.

A receptionist answered. “Blaisdell Consulting, how may I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Kurt Hale, please.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”

She mentally crossed her fingers and said, “Prairie Fire. I say again, Prairie Fire.”

The receptionist hesitated, then said, “Please hold.”

After a wait, a voice she recognized came on. “Whom am I speaking with?”

“Kurt, it’s Jennifer. I don’t have time to explain, but I need a lock on Pike’s phone. Right now.”

There was a pause, then, “Who is this? I’m not sure you have the right number. We’re a consulting firm.”

They’re going to blow me off. Even after the code word. They’re going to sacrifice Pike to protect the Taskforce.

“Kurt! Listen to me! Pike’s in serious trouble. Send me the grid. Please!”

“Good-bye. Please don’t call back.”

The line went dead. She was stunned. She couldn’t believe they would sacrifice one of their own to protect themselves. She noticed the men staring at her, waiting for her to talk. She said nothing, sagging against the metal of the van, her mind trying to find a solution that didn’t exist.

Her phone vibrated with a text message. When she looked at it, she saw a latitude and longitude displayed, along with the note “call secure immediately.”

Jesus Christ. Damn Taskforce subterfuge. Kurt’s going to pay for that.

Back in business, she barked, “Take me to the U.S. Embassy. Drop me off as fast as you can.”

“Why? The Embassy can’t help. We can. Tell me what you know.”

“Like I would trust you as far as I can throw you. Take me to the damn Embassy. Where’s my bag?”

One of the men tossed her knapsack to her. She pulled out a tablet PC and began working it.

Samir said, “I had nothing to do with that bomb. Maybe someone else sent it. This is Lebanon, you know.”

She didn’t look up, still working the tablet, saying, “And that’s why the security detail we saw before the explosion immediately singled out Pike, huh? They knew it was his computer because they saw him inside with it. They knew who put the bomb in there, and so do I.”

“Even if that’s true, it wasn’t me. I was used just like you were. Let me help. Where is Pike?”

She turned the tablet to him. “Here. Take me to the consulate right now. We’re running out of time.”

He looked at the map and said, “That’s the Palestinian refugee camp. Your consulate will be no help there. It’ll take forty-eight hours to even get permission to enter, and that permission will reach the men holding Pike long before you do. Let us help. The gates of the camp are guarded by Lebanese Armed Forces. I can get you in.”

“For what? So you can kill both Pike and me and prevent embarrassment to Hezbollah with our story? We wouldn’t want it to get out that they were behind the killing, would we?”

He said nothing for a moment, then turned and spoke in Arabic to the men in the van. The conversation lasted a couple of minutes.

In English, he said, “If you are correct, they used me just as they used you. I’m not convinced they did, but I know that Pike has been captured, and I will give my life to free him. My men as well. Is that enough?”