Chapter 4

Abu Al Khayr’s palm was sweating where it gripped the familiar texture of his light-weight Colt .45. The barrel, at the moment, was pressed firmly into the base of the driver’s skull as he maneuvered his car out of the prison’s parking lot and onto the open highway.

“I am going to take the gun away from your head,” Abu said in accented English, “but if I sense just a tremor of you taking a wrong turn, it’s back and you’re gone.” The driver nervously nodded his head in understanding and Abu pulled his arm back, resting the .45 on his lap. The blood from his leg was seeping through the old overalls, staining the fabric on the seat in the car. It was a small and insignificant wound, but it hurt. The agent had snuck in a shot at him from down a side corridor; Abu hadn’t even seen him fire his weapon. But Abu had won.

He had won!

“Where exactly am I going?” asked the CIA driver, who was at best incompetent in the eyes of the proud Arabian seated behind him. “I was never given a specific drop off point-

“I know you know where he is.” said Abu coldly, “I know you know, and I know you’ll tell me.”

“But I have no idea!” The man almost screeched.

“Be silent, you fool! Or you’ll end up like others I’ve run into….” Like the agent, Abu thought with satisfaction. He sighed in content before continuing. “In my country, I was given many courses in interrogation, part of the training exercises. I know how to create tremendous amounts of pain in others, old man.” It was not a lie.

“You mean your terrorist camps? I’ve heard of them, buddy. In my opinion, stickin’ a bunch of dynamite in your crotch isn’t brave. It’s just the opposite.”

Abu should have blown his head off right there, but it was an overreaction on his part that his superiors would not have appreciated. Besides, Abu himself would have been killed when the car swerved out of control, driverless. The CIA man in front of him was not a trained field man – believing Abu’s ridiculous threat was a direct indicator.

“Be silent! You think I am a mere suicide bomber? A pawn? You underestimate me, old man. Tell me what I need to know!”

“I already told you, I have no idea.” The CIA man said coolly. “They tell me where to pick em’ up, not where to take em’.” The man sounded sincere to Abu, but he knew human emotions could get in the way of great works. He would find out soon.

“Pull over to the side and get out.” He ordered harshly.

“Why?” asked the driver nervously.

“So I can begin a real interrogation.” The emphasis on the word was deliberate. Maybe he could scare this infidel into telling him. Abu wasn’t fond of the messy process of real interrogation, though the effects were enjoyable to witness. He just hated the time it took.

“What does that mean?” asked the man, genuine worry in his voice. His hands were shaking on the wheel.

“You’ll find out! Just pull over and get out!” The man obeyed; soon the car was idling on a dusty shoulder of the highway.

“Get out and walk over to those trees!” shouted Abu.

“People will notice-

“Pretend you’re pissing! Just get out there!” Abu screeched. The driver quickly undid his seatbelt and vacated the car, moving to the side not facing the road and relieving himself. He was shaking horribly, and Abu smiled to himself. The effects were already setting in.

Abu waited until the man had disappeared into the thicket before undoing his own seatbelt and climbing out of the car. He looked around briefly but saw only the tall grass going on for miles. On the highway were unconcerned drivers on their way to who knew where. He didn’t care to know. He had a mission.

Abu walked slowly toward the small grove of trees. He ducked under a branch to find the sweating driver standing on a small mound of leaves, trembling.

“Kneel down.” Said Abu coolly. The man began to object, but Abu silenced him with a wave of his .45. The man obeyed, and Abu holstered the pistol and unsheathed his knife. It was seven inches of stainless steel, one side naturally perforated - a razor blade.

Abu kneeled down beside the man, taking the driver’s hand in his.

“Tell me, friend,” Abu shifted the knife to get a cleaner cut, “where is Jacob Little?”

“I-I don’t know.” The man stammered. Sweat had begun pouring down his face, and his mouth twitched as he spoke the words.

“Strike one.” Abu said as the man began to scream.

-- -- -- --

“The director isn’t seeing anyone right now, doctor.” Said the polite and attractive secretary. She was wearing a red dress today; the one she knew had the air of sensuality. Her features were pointed and indeed very pretty, and she didn’t bother denying it. Instead she used it aptly to her advantage. “If you’d like, I can tell him you stopped by-

“This is urgent, mamm. Or, miss…” said Steven Cottle, nervously bouncing on his heels. He reached up to adjust his glasses, which had started to slip off. What remained of his pre-maturely balding hair was matted with perspiration from the race up several stairways leading to the director’s office. “I must give this data directly to him – it’s too sensitive.” Steven looked around worriedly before continuing. “If you could just let me in for a second-

“It’s my turn to interrupt, doctor. I cannot let you in. He’s very tired and he’s in a private meeting with a diplomat from Saudi Arabia-

“What? We’re meeting with them now?” asked the doctor before he could stop himself.

“I’m sure I didn’t hear that, but the answer is yes.” Said the secretary. Steven found himself staring at her red lipstick, but shook himself from it and continued.

“Miss, or mamm, or whatever.” Steven took a breath, searching for the words that slept at the back of his memory just when he needed them. Ah! There they were! “How about dinner, just you and me sometime?” He almost wished the words weren’t just code, but his fantasies would have to wait.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the secretary, understanding coming finally to her eyes. Her hands reached for the intercom, the call button pressed in by her index finger.

“Lindsay, I’m in a meeting right now. Can it wait?” The secretary was right – the director did sound busy.

“Excuse me sir, but a young man says he has urgent information about SANDRA.” Of course she spoke in code – it was the way of the Central Intelligence Agency – but the words were more or less true. SANDRA was, for now at least, the CIA’s top priority.

The line went silent for a moment, but then the director’s voice came back on the line, “Send him in, then.”

Steven looked down at the pretty secretary, who nodded. The doctor turned on his heel and headed toward the door, opening it slowly and peering inside.

Director of Central Intelligence (CIA) Harold B. Jensen was sitting at his desk, twiddling his thumbs as if anxious. He was not a mighty man in appearance, but to listen to one of his scoldings was usually likened to a chastisement from God himself. Seated across the desk from him was an Arab with a large turban situated precariously on his head – his eyes were angry for the interrupted meeting, but the DCI could care less. Whatever the doctor had to say was more important then the time of a Saudi Arabian diplomat.

“What is it, Dr. Cottle?” he asked immediately after the Steven entered.

Steven gave the Arab a nervous glance and a wave. The gesture was not returned. Steven turned to the director. “It would be best if we discussed this matter in private, sir.”

Jensen turned his gaze to the diplomat seated angrily across from him. “Would you mind stepping outside for just a moment, Abdul? The doctor and I must discuss a matter of great importance.”

“More important then a continued supply of oil to your country?” asked the man heatedly, his speech heavily accented. “I think not.”

“As a matter of fact, it just may be. Would you please step outside?” the director’s gaze conveyed the annoyance present there, and the diplomat got up and started for the door.

Just as he was about to leave, he stopped and turned, “I hope this doesn’t affect my superior’s view on American policy, Mr. Director.” He turned and opened the door, shutting it softly behind him. Steven raised his eyebrows, and the director shrugged.

“Something about their pride.” Said Jensen, standing up and sticking out his hand. “How are you, you old rascal?”

“Could be better, Harry. Could be better.” He said, giving the director a firm handshake. “Is the room secure?”

“Nothing securer.” Said Jensen confidently. “We’re safe from infrared satellite, electronic surveillance, and definitely intrusion-

“Harry, this just might be the most important data the CIA’s gathered in a long time.” Steven’s interrupting tone was dead serious, and the director’s face turned stern.

“What is it?”

Steven lifted a large manila envelope and slapped it onto the DCI’s desk. “Cuba’s hot.”

“So you were right.” Said the director tiredly, sinking back down into his chair. “Man, this day has been hell. Abdul’s going off on foreign policies and I-

“Abdul’s one of the problems.” Said Steven. “The next bit of Intel is the scary part, Harry.”

“Well, what is it?” asked the director, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes communicating the exhaustion behind them.

Steven almost didn’t want to burden his boss – no, his friend - with it, but it was his job. “There’s a link between radical Islamic fascists and Cuba. The fascists I’m talking about are Saudi Arabians, and I don’t like the Intel I’m getting, sir.”

“Abdul’s dirty.” aid Jensen. It was a statement, not a question.

“As dirty as they get, and then some.” Agreed Steven. “The only problem is, we can’t tag him to anything. All we have are conjectures, but according to the men downstairs, they’re as accurate as can be.”

“Hell, he’s standing right outside my office!” For an instant the director’s eyes burned with a hatred that Steven had never seen in the man, but it soon passed. “And we can’t do anything about it.”

“Not openly, sir.” Steven said softly.

“What do you mean?” the director sighed, looking down at his desk, his head in his hands.

“I mean we won’t be able to accomplish our goals through routine courses of action. You know, things like diplomacy, foreign policy,” Steven stood and began pacing back and forth, counting the items off on his fingers, “legal jurisdictions, all that jazz. You know what I mean, Harry.”

“No Steve, I don’t.” the director sighed. “What are you proposing?” He looked up when he heard the thunk of another manila folder hitting his desk. On top was a black and white mug shot of a ragged looking man in a prison jumpsuit.

Steven sat back down and leaned forward, closer to the director.

“There’s this guy named Little.”