Gordon Ryan - Uncivil liberties

Wolff slowly nodded again.

Carlos struck the pistol barrel against the side of Wolff’s cheek, saying nothing.

“Yes, I understand,” Wolff responded.

“ Muy bien. Now, let us make this decision. Do you want to live, Senor Wolff? If I deliver you to the people who want you, it is their choice. But at least you will survive this night. Now, who were your two visitors?”

“Indonesians. Guerillas from the islands.”

“What did they want?”

“Just to make contact. They were leaving tomorrow.”

Carlos didn’t believe him, but stood quiet for a moment, considering his options. He glanced at his watch and then at Wolff again. Both men shared a knowing look. If Wolff was as experienced as Carlos had been led to believe by both British intelligence and General Connor’s summary, he knew that on many prior occasions, the roles had been reversed and it had been Wolff deciding whether or not someone would live.

Carlos reached in his pocket again and retrieved the small leather packet, withdrawing another syringe and vial. “You are going on a cruise, Senor Wolff. And you will live a while more.”

Once he had injected Wolff with a deeper sedative, he pressed his throat microphone and contacted his outside backup. “Coming out with one package. Meet me at the head of the south path.”

At the intersection of the paths heading toward the beach, Gunner took the inert body of Wolff from Carlos and carried him to the beach where he was placed in the Zodiac. Both SAS men nodded at Carlos and McIntosh and left without another word, heading inland to return home as tourists.

Sergeant Sean Macintosh cranked the small outboard to life, and the agile Zodiac gathered speed, climbed over the first few swells, and quickly disappeared into the darkness, headed directly off-shore toward Rainbow Blue.

In twenty minutes, they reached the yacht. Cameron tossed them a line and held the inflatable fast as they lifted the body onto the deck. Carlos unzipped the body bag to assure Wolff was still breathing. Pug and Cameron lifted the craft out of the water onto the aft deck, and Jenkins triggered the deflation device.

Cameron glanced at his watch. “Right, we’ve got about two hours till first light. We can be well over the horizon by dawn. Sean, you and Carlos get our guest below and secure him. I’ve got some canvas straps beneath the bunk. beneath?

“Too right, Captain,” Macintosh replied. Both men struggled to lower the immobile body through the small hatch into the cabin.

Cameron moved aft, toward the wheel, passing Pug who was helping Jenkins deflate the raft. “Let’s get underway. Pug, pull up the anchor, will you?”

Pug moved to the bow and began pulling on the nylon rope, retrieving the anchor. He stepped to the mast and loosened the halyard securing the mainsail, then joined Cameron at the helm. In a few seconds the sail unfurled, took the off-shore breeze, and Rainbow Blue came about, headed away from Timor.

“Pug, why don’t you and Carlos get your heads down for a couple of hours. I’ll take the helm and the lads will shift off on stag with Wolff.”

“Agreed. Carlos said he should sleep till about eight.”

“That’s fine. If he wakes earlier, Sean or Graham will call us.”

Pug nodded and stepped through the hatch, passing Sean Macintosh in the main cabin.

“He’s out like a light, General. I’ll call you when he comes around.”

“Fine, Sean. Thanks,” Pug replied, heading forward to the double bunk space where he’d left his gear. Carlos was already lying on the port bunk. Pug lifted his sea bag, dropped it to the floor, and sat on the rack.

“How’d it go?” Pug asked.

“No problems. I put two down, then I sedated Wolff. Drilled him for about ten minutes and decided he might have more information, so I brought him back. Got some documents and a laptop.”

“Good, we’ll go over them in the morning. Do you think he’ll talk?”

“Probably not if he’s as much a professional as we’ve been led to believe, but they should have more luck at Thomson,” he said, referring to the Thomson Correctional Facility in Illinois, where all Guantanamo terrorists had been transferred. “If we still had Guantanamo, we’d have more options. With luck, the computer will tell us a lot. It never fails to amaze me how much these guys keep on their laptops, thinking they’re secure. But we’ll try to get him to open up in the morning. I’ll keep him lightly drugged once he wakes up. I spoke English with a thick Spanish accent. Probably should continue using that tomorrow, keep everyone else quiet, and Wolff blindfolded.”

“Agreed. Now let’s get a few hours’ rest.” Pug lay back on the bunk, fully clothed, instantly falling sound asleep.

The first sensation Pug felt was Cameron shaking him awake. He sat up on the bunk, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“What time is it?”

“Just after seven,” Cameron replied, speaking in a whisper since the below decks cabin was so close to where they held their captive. “Wolff’s not awake, but he’s moving around a bit, so he should be up shortly. Carlos is with him. I brought you some coffee.”

Pug reached for the cup. “Thanks.”

“What’s the plan?” Cameron asked.

“Is he still blindfolded and cuffed?”

“Yeah. The lads taped his eyes shut. Carlos told us to remain quiet in his presence. He won’t even know for sure where he is, other than the pitching of the yacht. The particular drug Carlos used leaves people woozy and a bit off balance, not completely alert.”

“Fine. You got the video cam set up?”

“Carlos has everything all ready.”

“Good, let’s get him up and see what we can get out of him while he’s disoriented. Carlos will do the talking, just to confuse him with a Mexican accent.”

They stepped aft to the main cabin area, which contained a small kitchen and a couple of bunks on either side of the room. Macintosh was reading a paperback novel and sat on the bunk directly across from Wolff. Carlos sat at the small table used for meals. The prisoner lay on his bunk, mumbling incoherently and beginning to shift about.

Pug put his finger to his lips, reminding everyone to be quiet. He motioned to Macintosh to get Wolff up and put him on the small bench in front of the table across from Carlos. Sean lifted Wolff almost bodily, setting him down hard on the bench. Pug took a place on the bunk, just behind the camera, which had been set up to film Wolff over Carlos’s shoulder. Cameron sat on the bunk where Wolff had been restrained.

“ Senor Wolff!” Carlos shouted. “Wake up!”

The confused man mumbled incoherently.

“Shut up and listen, you stay alive. You on ship, near Algeria. I want information. You talk, you live.”

Tilting his head toward the sound of the voice, Wolff replied, his speech mumbled. “Algeria? No,… Timor.”

“I say Algeria,” Carlos shouted. You answer or stay here forever. Interpol want you too.”

“What do you want? Who are you?” Wolff asked, appearing a bit more rational as the questioning continued.

“I ask questions. You answer. What’s your name?”

Wolff paused for a moment, cocking his head to listen to the sounds, adjusting his shoulders to the tautness of his hands cuffed behind his back.

Carlos reached across and slapped Wolff hard across the left cheek, the blow stunning the blindfolded man. “What’s your name?”

Wolff struggled against his bonds and shouted an expletive.

Carlos glanced at Pug and shook his head, acknowledging that Wolff appeared as tough as they expected and likely unwilling to talk without more abusive persuasion. “Maybe we loosen your tongue, Wolff, with pliers. We don’t care you live or die, you piece of shit. Algerians pay good money for you. Maybe Israelis, Egyptians, but they, how you say, harsh with prisoners. Who we sell you to, Wolff? You talk first, you choose.”