Casting one last look at her sleeping form, I get up as quietly as I can and head into the shower, forcing my thoughts away from my obsession. I will see Nora again this evening, but first, there is an overnight delivery that requires my attention. As my mind turns to the upcoming task, I smile with grim anticipation.
My Al-Quadar prisoners are waiting.
* * *
Lucas had them brought to a storage shed on the far edge of the property. The first thing I notice as I walk in is the stench. It’s an acrid combination of sweat, blood, urine, and desperation. It tells me that Peter has already been hard at work this morning.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light inside the shed, I see that two of the men are tied to metal chairs, while the third is hanging from a hook in the ceiling, strung up by a rope binding his wrists above his head. All three of them are covered in dirt and blood, making it difficult to tell their age or nationality.
I approach one of the seated ones first. His left eye is swollen shut, and his lips are puffy and encrusted with blood. His right eye, though, is glaring at me with fury and defiance. A young man, I decide, studying him closer. Early twenties or late teens, with a straggly attempt at a beard and close-trimmed black hair. I doubt he’s anything more than a foot soldier, but I still intend to question him. Even small fish can occasionally swallow useful bits of information—and then regurgitate them if prompted properly.
“His name is Ahmed,” a deep, faintly accented voice says behind me. Turning, I see Peter standing there, his face as expressionless as always. The fact that I didn’t spot him right away doesn’t surprise me; Peter Sokolov excels at lurking in the shadows. “He was recruited six months ago in Pakistan.”
An even smaller fish than I expected, then. I’m disappointed, but not surprised.
“What about this one?” I ask, walking to the other man in a chair. He appears a bit older, closer to thirty, his thin face clean-shaven. Like Ahmed, he’s been roughed up a bit, but there is no fury in his gaze as he looks at me. There is only icy hatred.
“John, also known as Yusuf. Born in America to Palestinian immigrants, recruited by Al-Quadar five years ago. That’s all I got out of that one thus far,” Peter says, pointing at the man hanging on the hook. “John himself hasn’t talked to me yet.”
“Of course.” I stare at John, inwardly pleased by this development. If he’s trained to withstand a significant amount of pain and torture, then he’s at least a mid-level operative. If we manage to crack him, I’m certain we’ll be able to get some valuable insights.
“And this one is Abdul.” Peter gestures toward the hanging man. “He’s Ahmed’s cousin. Supposedly, he joined Al-Quadar last week.”
Last week? If that’s true, the man is all but useless. Frowning, I walk up to him to take a closer look. At my approach, he tenses, and I see that his face is one massive, swollen bruise. He also reeks of urine. As I pause in front of him, he begins to babble in Arabic, his voice filled with fear and desperation.
“He says he told us all he knows.” Peter comes to stand next to me. “Claims he only joined his cousin because they promised to give his family two goats. Swears he’s not a terrorist, never wanted to hurt anyone in his life, has nothing against America, et cetera, et cetera.”
I nod, having gathered that much myself. I don’t speak Arabic, but I understand some of it. A cold smile stretches my lips as I take a Swiss army knife out of my back pocket and pull out a small blade. At the sight of the knife, Abdul yanks frantically at the ropes holding him up, and his pleas grow in volume. He’s clearly as green as they come—which makes me inclined to believe that he’s telling the truth about not knowing anything.
It doesn’t matter, though. All I need from him is information, and if he can’t provide it, he’s a dead man. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else?” I ask him, slowly twirling the knife between my fingers. “Perhaps something you might’ve seen, heard, come across? Any names, faces, anything of that sort?”
Peter translates my question, and Abdul shakes his head, tears and snot running down his battered, bloodied face. He babbles some more, something about knowing only John, Ahmed, and the men who were killed during their capture yesterday. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ahmed glaring at him, no doubt wishing that his cousin would keep his mouth shut, but John doesn’t seem alarmed by Abdul’s verbal diarrhea. John’s lack of concern only confirms what my instincts are telling me: that Abdul is telling the truth about not knowing anything else.
As though reading my mind, Peter steps next to me. “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?” His tone is casual, like he’s offering me a cup of coffee.
“I’ll do it,” I reply in the same manner. There is no room for softness in my business, no place for sentimentality. Abdul’s guilt or innocence doesn’t matter; he allied himself with my enemies and, by doing so, signed his own death warrant. The only mercy I will grant him is that of a swift end to the misery of his existence.
Ignoring the man’s terrified pleas, I slice my blade across Abdul’s throat, then step back, watching as he bleeds out. When it’s over, I wipe the knife on the dead man’s shirt and turn to the two remaining prisoners.
“All right,” I say, giving them a placid smile. “Who’s next?”
* * *
To my annoyance, it takes most of the morning to break Ahmed. For a new recruit, he’s surprisingly resilient. He ultimately gives in, of course—they all do—and I learn the name of the man who acts as an intermediary between their cell and another one that’s run by a more senior leader. I also learn of a plan to blow up a tour bus in Tel-Aviv—information that my contacts in the Israeli government will find quite useful.