By the time daylight broke on Friday morning, the nervous tic in his right eye had progressed and gotten worse. His stomach and chest were still sore, and the pain in his lower extremities seemed amplified.
All night long Blair had relived the various stages in his daughter’s life: Proudly displaying what she’d crayoned. Dancing to whatever song was on the radio. Singing to him.
How could he live without her?
Getting out of bed, his body felt like it belonged to someone else. The lump on his shoulders that could have been his head was floating a thousand miles away.
He responded to the knock on his door and accepted the breakfast tray. Then he waited for the woman to leave before closing the door behind her.
Getting ready, Blair was unable to reason logically. Sacrificing his daughter was out of the question, as was sealing the fate of thousands of other children.
A sound escaped his lips, part sigh, part protest. He opened the door and moved into the hallway, where he found a smartly dressed Khalid Yassin standing there to greet him. Gone was his djellaba, replaced by a dark-brown suit and matching tie. “I hope you had a peaceful night,” he said as if addressing an honored guest.
Blair tried to move past him.
“Where are you going?” Yassin asked.
“To my office.”
“No you’re not. We have plans for you, my friend. Have you forgotten what day this is?”
He ignored him.
“Mr. Mulligan?” Yassin took hold of his arm.
Blair thought of taking his shot. Right then. Pouncing on him, despite his depleted strength.
Yassin’s look became hard, unfriendly, as if he could read what was on Blair’s mind.
They insisted he sit in the very metal chair he dreaded. A man began to trim his hair with a comb and scissors. Then he shaved off his mustache and beard.
“We want you to be presentable,” Yassin said, once it was done. He handed him a mirror.
Blair disbelieved the face was his own. Sunken cheeks, ultra-pale skin, swollen pockets under his eyes.
“You look wonderful,” a smiling Yassin said.
Not only a bastard but a liar, Blair thought. “Where is Sandra?” he asked.
“Your daughter is busy.”
“We had a deal: I head off to approve the shipment of Cyber-tech and you release her.”
“Not until you return. But I may have a compromise for you…”
Yassin stepped up to the computer. He turned it on and pressed something on the keyboard. “I taped this earlier today,” he said.
Sandra was sitting in a chair that was far too big for her, her feet dangling over the front. She was wearing a simple pink dress. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Hello, Daddy,” she said, obviously following a script. “Today is Friday, August seventeenth. I have been treated good…”
Blair felt a chill go up his spine. He had never seen her look so lost.
“I can hardly wait to see you,” she continued, her tone reticent and dull. “I’ve missed you. But the man said that today… Um—he said that today is the day you’ll be taking me home.”
Blair didn’t want the video to end. Sandra muttered something about being anxious. And then she said, “I love you, Daddy.”
He wouldn’t have known there were tears if not for Yassin handing him a tissue. Blair dabbed at his eyes and watched as the monitor screen went blank.