A Cold Day In Mosul (13 page)

Despite the calm, orderly setting, the sheik himself was not so serene.

"Your interrogations were useless!" Abu Muhsin was saying. Or rather, yelling. "You promised me this Dmitri was skilled at extracting confessions. That he would do a better job than my own men." Though the sheik was pushing sixty, he had impeccable posture for his age, and sat tall in his chair. The entire right side of his leathery face was pocked with ugly, star-shaped shrapnel scars. He wore the hood of his robe low over his head to hide his thinning hair, which had the effect of drawing the eye to the long gray beard that reached to the middle of his chest.

Victor knew him from the days when he was a member of Saddam's Baathist party. Back then, the sheik had kept an office uncannily similar to the current one, though instead of a framed letter from Al Baghdadi a portrait of Saddam Hussein had decorated the wall instead.

Gorbatogo mogila ispravit
, as they said in Victor's homeland. Only the grave would cure the hunchback.

Victor spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Dmitri broke the operatives, didn't he? The strongest among them held out what, three days?"

"Yes, he broke them," the sheik said sarcastically. "To the point that they told us anything we asked, agreeing to everything. Goat fucker!" The swear word seemed incongruent, coming from a man as old as the sheik. "Their information is useless!" He angrily grabbed the stack of papers from the desk and began shuffling through them. "They are operatives of the Mossad. No, here they are Quds Force. And here they are MI6. So which is it?"

"But Dmitri has given you the identity and affiliation of the woman," Victor argued. "She is DIA without question. It seems likely that the others—"

"The
woman?
" the sheik spat. "She is the one I care about the least! One of the
men
is obviously the leader. Oh, and look at this." He pulled out a particular sheet. "Their mission is to assassinate our hallowed leader. No wait, this one says their mission is to assassinate the leader of the resistance. And this one here says they intended to assassinate
me
. None of their stories corroborate. None!" He tossed the papers to the far side of his desk.

"Well, they did give us the names of three local agents."

"Ah yes, three local Iraqis who are part of the resistance. A barber, a street vendor, and a shoe shiner.
Very
valuable."

Victor was used to dealing with the likes of Abu Muhsin. Victor specialized in the black market business, after all. Slaves, arms, oil: you wanted it, he could get it. He traded with some very unsavory characters, and Abu Muhsin was no different than most of them—truculent, spoiled, and quick to lay blame.

Victor thought back to when the Islamic State had first contacted him, requesting assistance in forming a Special Forces division among the mujahadeen. He had jumped at the opportunity—these were men rich in stolen oil and they paid very, very well.

But when Abu Muhsin had called him a few months later to help supervise the interrogation of the DIA operative, Victor couldn't believe his luck. He sent Dmitri to handle the interrogations immediately, and the man had done his job very well, hiding almost everything of value he had obtained from the operative and her team.

Only two Iraqis had been present during the interrogations. The doctor was only required during the injections and between sessions. That left the Islamic State observer. Fortunately, he was in Victor's employ, recruited by Dmitri months ago. They paid the man very well, and he would keep his mouth shut.

The rest were Dmitri's men, including the cameraman, who edited the audio and video to remove the sections of value; he proved a devious editor, hiding the video cuts under a moment of pixelation so as to mimic an HD feed momentarily losing signal. The IS transcribers they handed the videos off to were none the wiser.

The subjects had given up many secrets, but perhaps the most valuable intelligence was that retrieved from the cellphones. The Widow had tried to format her own phone when she was captured, but the militants who took her wisely removed the battery before she could finish. The data was mangled, but Victor's tech team managed to restore much of it. It was encrypted, but Dmitri had worked the Widow hard, and finally she had revealed the passcode.

The contents were a goldmine. Phone numbers, email accounts and sometimes street addresses of all her contacts throughout the Middle East. The smartphones of the other operatives proved equally lucrative. Of course, Victor had told Abu Muhsin that the data from the phones had been irrecoverable. He wasn't sure what was more amusing: the fact that the man believed him, or that Victor was going to make a killing selling all of it. When the time came to dump the data onto the black market, Abu Muhsin and his ilk were welcome to bid on it like the common rabble, of course.

Victor was slightly worried that Dmitri would steal the intel and attempt to sell it by himself. If that happened, Victor would be the first to place a bounty on his head.

"Let Dmitri try again," Victor said, trying to feign further interest in the prisoners, knowing that it would push the sheik in the opposite direction. "We will move more slowly this time, maybe force them to rape each other if they will not answer our questions truthfully. Then we can make a video, showing how foreign intelligence agents are all homosexuals." He had a hard time keeping a straight face as he said it. He could imagine the fun Dmitri would have if the sheik actually allowed such a thing.

The sheik didn't bat an eye. "That is wonderful. It truly is. But I grow impatient. When your precious Dmitri finished with them, the operatives were almost dead. I've had my men nursing them back to health all week. I know you don't care, these men are nothing to you, but I don't want them dying in a cell. Their capture is a propaganda coup—theirs must be a very public death. It is time we let them fulfill their ultimate purpose for me." His eyes shone with a fervent light, one that Victor had seen on the faces of many jihadists. That look always made him feel uncomfortable. It was the gaze of a madman, as far as he was concerned.

"I can already visualize the production in my mind," the sheik continued, stroking his beard. "The camera angles, the cuts, the music. It will be incredible." He seemed about ready to tear up with emotion. "I will perform the execution myself, of course. I will denounce them all as American agents, and when the video is released, I will inspire holy warriors worldwide. Muslims will flock to our cause, if not physically, then financially. It is going to be amazing. Our ranks will swell tenfold."

And you will gain much power in the Shura council
, Victor thought sarcastically.
So selfless of you.

"At the very least try to interrogate them on your own," Victor said. "If you don't trust my men."

"I don't trust
any
man to interrogate them further," the sheik roared. "As I said, I do not want them dying in a cell!"

Victor had expected the sheik to say no, but not that vociferously. He did his best to appear unhappy. "Then I am afraid, great sheik, that we are done."

"Then go."

Victor gathered his handbag and stood.

"The execution will be this Friday, in Kaffir Square," the sheik said. "Come, if you wish. It will be the mother of all executions."

Victor didn't say a word; as he turned around, he couldn't help the feral smile that upturned his lips.

fourteen

E
than awoke to the rude clanging of a tin cup against the bars. It was the Brit, leaving the morning's water.

Ethan crawled, somewhat listlessly, to the front of the cell. He reached through the bars, grabbed the cup, and drank.

There was a sharp, unusual tang to the water that morning. Though he was maddeningly thirsty, he forced himself to stop, spitting out all that he could.

"Don't drink the water," William announced from the cell opposite him.

"Yeah." Ethan poured the remainder of the cup down the floor drain. The moment he set down the container, he felt a wave of nausea. His vision fractured in half and he found himself staring at two cups. The metal containers slowly rotated along with the rest of the dungeon.

Ethan blinked hard, but the double vision and vertigo persisted, followed by an overwhelming sense of drowsiness. He could only imagine what the effects would have been had he finished the cup. It was all he could do to crawl back to the far corner of the cell and slump against the stone. The general malaise he felt wasn't entirely due to the poisoned water—the past week he had endured a terribly low caloric intake.

Five muj approached his cell: thickly-bearded Arabs toting AKs. While one of the militants oversaw, two men each entered Ethan and William's cells. He had been hoping for someone to open his cell all week, and now that the time had come, he doubted he had the strength to defy these men.

Rough hands grabbed Ethan. He feebly resisted, but the sip of drugged water had drained all the fight out of him and the men quickly hauled him to his feet. They tugged a bright, Guantanamo-inspired orange jumpsuit over his T-shirt and cargo pants, and slid used, grubby runners over his bare feet—they didn't bother to bandage his toes beforehand, and the inside of the shoes scraped against his raw nail beds, sending a wave of distant agony through his feet.

One of the militants pulled his hands forward and tied his wrists with a coarse, thick rope. The scratchy fibers dug into his skin.

Another man—a Tunisian if Ethan had to hazard a guess—came into his cell and set up a tripod and Canon EOS 70D digital camera. The British jailor brought two stools and forced Ethan onto one of them while the Tunisian perched on the other. The latter retrieved a powder brush and began applying makeup to Ethan's face.

Ethan teetered drunkenly during the application, and the Tunisian soon ordered one of the others to brace him. Ethan gazed blankly at the double image of the man's face.

"Today you have a great opportunity," the fighter said as he brushed the powder over Ethan's bruises. "To address the allegations made against you."

Sometimes the bristled cosmetic brush induced a stab of pain in his bruised tissues, but Ethan was too out of it to care.

"You have a chance to defend your case," the fighter continued. "To explain your side of the story to the world. And perhaps, if your arguments are compelling, we may even let you go."

Ethan smiled grimly. He knew the Islamic State had no intention of letting him go. All the man really wanted was an interview for Ethan's death video.

The Tunisian sat back to admire his work, and then he put the makeup away. He pressed a button on the camera, and the red recording indicator activated on the front.

"Tell us how you came to Dawla," the man said.

Ethan smiled, saying nothing.

"Tell us why you believe you were arrested," the Tunisian tried again.

Ethan let his smile widen.

The Tunisian pursed his lips. "I cannot help you if you do not answer. I ask again, how did you come to Dawla?"

When Ethan still refused to say a word, the exasperated Tunisian finally turned toward the others. "How much of the drug did you give him?"

The nearest militant shrugged.

"
Kess Ikhtak!
" the Tunisian cursed.
Your sister's vagina!

He turned back toward Ethan and abruptly slapped him in the face. "How did you come to Dawla?" He slapped him again. "Answer me!"

Ethan kept that dead smile on his face.

The Tunisian rose in frustration and had the stools transferred to William's cell. He didn't bother applying makeup, and instead attempted to interview William straightaway. He received only a similarly vacant stare in return.

"You've given them too much of the drug," the Tunisian announced. "And ruined my video. The sheik will hear of this." The fighter dismantled his equipment and left.

A part of Ethan hoped that would be the end of it: that their binds would be cut and their cells closed, and that the fighters would abandon them once again to the peace and tranquility of confinement.

But their ordeal was only beginning.

The remaining mujahadeen led Ethan and William from their respective cells. One of the militants propped up Ethan while another braced William. Ethan drunkenly shuffled his feet, feeling very weary, glad for the support. His toes hurt at first, as the raw nail beds repeatedly scraped against the inside of his runners, but thankfully the pain quickly numbed.

His vision had returned to some level of normalcy by then, and he no longer saw double. It was probably wise that he hadn't finished the cup.

The guards made Ethan and William wait until Doug and Sam were retrieved from somewhere deeper in the building, then the militants escorted the lot of them through the dye house.

Ethan looked at Doug and Sam. Their hands were tied like his and William's, and they moved sluggishly, their backs hunched and their heads down. Had they finished their cups of water or had they resisted? Probably the former. And maybe that wasn't a bad thing. The bruises were obvious on their faces—if the Tunisian had tried to interview them, he hadn't bothered with makeup.

Sam seemed in the worst condition out of all of them. Like the others, a bright orange jumpsuit covered her body. She wore no headgear or veils—her bruised face was probably deemed too ugly to arouse any watching man. One eye was nearly swollen shut. Bloody marks on her hairless scalp showed where a crude blade had nicked her during the shaving process.

Seeing her like that, Ethan felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, a feeling that quickly transformed into hatred, and then seething rage. He didn't care what they did to him, but Sam, a woman who was like a big sister to him, a woman who had brought him back from the abyss and forged him into the man he was today, that they did this to her, he could not forgive. He could scarcely see through the red-hot haze of rage he felt.