Tom Avitabile - The Hammer of God

“I pushed Greely into this post, sir. He wanted out and I personally strong-armed him to take another tour. He is a close personal friend of Saudi Prince Ramalli; they were roommates at Choate. I needed him in that post as part of my mid-east initiative.”

“God damn it, Charles, then get your head out of your ass. We send people to dangerous places and into jeopardy all the time. It may be a first for you, but, trust me, the bad news is you have to live with it.”

Brooke took a deep breath as her hand rested on the latch to the Sheik’s cell. She hoped this would be the last time she’d have to do this. She hated it. But it was working. The last time, he wet himself as she approached. She wanted to let up on him a little because of it, but that would signal that she was weak. She had double-checked and made sure that she wasn’t hitting him in the same spots. That could result in real injury and cause internal bleeding. She wanted him healthy.

Her hand pushed the door open. “What do you know about this?”

She held up the front page of the N.Y. Post . On it was a frame grab from the Al Jazeera video showing the ambassador blindfolded, the jihad flag and AK 47’s around him, as a knife was near his throat.

“Hey, shit for brains, what do you know about this?”

“Nothing,” the Sheik said as he retreated to the corner.

“Oh yeah? Well they want us to release you in trade for him.”

“I know nothing of this. Except that Allah’s will be served. If it is his way that I will be saved, then so be it.” He half closed his eyes in a now rare, cocky gesture.

It was too much for Brooke. For the first time, she wanted to wallop him in the jaw with the sock sending him reeling backwards and out cold.

Instead, she grabbed her gun, turned, and fired at the men coming through the door. They returned fire, sending her spinning back and crumbling onto the floor, lifeless. The Sheik heard more gunshots in the hallway and the sound of men yelling and groaning filled the room. A man in a ski mask grabbed and held down Aliz as another jabbed a needle into his arm. The last thing he saw was Brooke crumpled on the floor.

?§?

The Sheik awoke with a light shining brightly in his eyes. He was on his knees; his hands were tied behind his back. There were other people in the room. He turned and behind him was a banner with the words, “But One Answer.” There were two tall torches on each side. Two hooded men stood with M4 carbines across their chests. Everyone around him was hooded and in ski masks. One grabbed his face and turned it toward the light again. As the Sheik’s eyes adjusted, he saw that the light was atop a camera. He was being videotaped.

Someone held his head back and a bayonet was drawn across his throat without cutting the skin. A man unfurled a scroll and read from it.

“You are no longer a prisoner of the United States nor subject to its protection. The Scared Brotherhood of the Shores of Tripoli, in accordance with the traditions set forth by our founders, has captured and taken custody of you and has declared you as a Practical Prisoner of War. You are hereby sentenced to endure the same life, conditions, and final status as the one that has been kidnapped in trade for your life. Those who have murdered, kidnapped, and extorted so that you might be set free are now warned; your fate and that of Ambassador Greely’s are now inexorably one”

Aliz squeezed his eyes at what seemed the conclusion of the speech. Surely that was when they’d cut his throat. He started praying to Allah aloud.

It made for dramatic video. But instead of the knife separating his head from his torso, the man continued speaking.

“To the abductors of our Sacred Ambassador Extraordinary amp; Plenipotentiary, his Excellency, Wallace Greely: every hardship, every discomfort, every trauma, and, ultimately, the fate of our ambassador, will be inflicted upon, and suffered by your Sheik. Therefore, the Sheik’s destiny and the ambassador’s are one, and in your hands.”

The man released the grip on the Sheik’s head. The light went out and he was quickly dragged out of the room and thrown onto a cot in a small dark room.

?§?

Back in the makeshift studio, the ski masks and hoods came off. Brooke’s smile matched others in the room. They went up to their mentor, Dr. Robert Fusco of the Psy-Ops division of the new FBI. He critiqued their performances.

“Bob, the guy with the knife in the videos we referenced, always stays close to the captive. You veered away.”

“Got it.” Bob nodded.

“Brooke, you still have a trace of perfume. That could’ve sent a false signal and compromised the whole ploy.”

“Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Chet, a little more passion when you speak of the Brotherhood. Zealots whip up their emotions, almost to rapture, a torrent of devotion to the cause. They are almost overcome with their own sense of self-importance. Let it flow more in your voice!”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I love the banner,” the doctor said.

“It was Brooke’s idea,” Bob noted.

“It’s from Thomas Jefferson’s speech to Congress in 1801 when he sent our naval armada on its first-ever mission of war across the seas to fight the Muslim Pirates. He told Congress their demands for money and their call to jihad had left America with ‘ but one answer. ’”

“To sail over to Tripoli and kill them all, sir!” Chet said.

“Nice touch, Brooke.”

“It’s a shame no one will ever see it, sir.”

“Well, if this works, it will have all been worth it. Ready for the next stage?”

“Yes, sir. Achmed is already in position. Poor schlub, worked out for eight hours, didn’t shower, and cracked an egg into his hair. He smells and looks awful.”

The Sheik stirred and rolled over on the cot. He came awake and quickly scanned his surroundings. It was dark but not pitch. He was chained to his bed. His mouth was dry and his back ached from the springs in the cot. He lifted his head and saw a shape in the corner of the room. It was a man, naked to his briefs, a manacle around his ankle. He was not moving.

“Are you dead?” the Sheik asked the lump on the floor. There was no response. He lay back down.

The door opened. Two men in masks entered. One held a bowl of hummus with an ant crawling on top of it. “We have learned that your brothers, the scum who are holding his Excellency, are feeding him one bowl of this crap a day. So here’s yours. Choke on it, you son of a bitch.” He threw the bowl down on the cot.

“Who are you?” The Sheik hazarded to ask.

“We have been fighting your kind since America was born. We’ll show the American government that they can’t fight you guys like you were criminals — that the only way to beat you is to kill you, eliminate the infestation of our culture by your kind. We are not afraid to die to keep America pure of Islamic zealots like you.”

“You killed the FBI girl?”

“Many more than her in busting you out. In war, some die. They were going to make sure you lived a long comfortable life. The idiots. Then your people took our ambassador. That is as insulting as it gets. So we took you. Now what happens to him happens to you. What he eats you eat. When they beat him, we beat you.”

“You will kill me?”

“Why? Is that what your guys will do to the ambassador?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know your kind. If you have any information that will save him, it will also save you. Can you get that into your 7th century head, raghead?” He pushed two fingers into the Sheik’s temple with enough force to turn his head. It was the perfect glimpse of concealed rage and hatred he had rehearsed with Doctor Fusco.