Kuraymah Barkal
Sudan
March 17, 6:00 p.m.
United States Secretary of State Frank Malone lay, cramped and still, in his black box tomb sweating and occasionally moaning.
He had no idea how long it had been since he’d been taken, and that sure as hell wasn’t because he’d slept and lost track of time. He’d have paid in blood to sleep. In this protracted agony, time had mutated from a predictable metronome into an amorphous and abstract thing—losing its meaning. Hours had passed since his taking—that much he was certain of—but had it been days? Probably not. That was as precise as he could be.
He knew—from the motion, vibrations, and sounds around him—that he’d been driven by truck to an airfield where his box had been transferred to a plane. Despite his delirium, he knew it had been an airplane, as this was the only time that his box had been opened. They’d opened the lid and forcibly straightened his legs—an act that had made him scream in agony as his wrecked joints and spasming muscles were worked roughly about, perhaps to restore blood flow or perhaps just as a form of torture. Despite the abuse, he’d noted the turbulence and heard the whine of turboprop engines. He’d begged them for water, which they provided—jerking his head up by his hair and pouring it down his throat. He’d gulped it down eagerly, like an animal. But after, instead of letting him out, they’d folded his legs back in on top of him and slammed the lid shut as he screamed.
More time passed, long enough for him to piss himself again.
Not long after the plane landed, they loaded him onto another truck and drove him somewhere on much rougher roads—every pothole a fresh agony for his spine. He was deep in the third world now. Upon arrival, at what he assumed was his final destination, they’d roughly unloaded his box and set him on the ground.
For a long while, the box remained still and he was left alone.
Time passed.
He could no longer feel his arms or legs. His thirst became all-encompassing. He let out a shuddering breath and reminded himself of his mantra: Everything in life was a test. Every twist of fate was an opportunity to rise or fall, gain or cede—that was what he had always believed.
But he’d never fallen so far or so hard as this before.
“Is this my final test?” he muttered. “Where my willpower will decide if I live or die?”
The rattle of the lock and chains outside his box sent his heart rate surging. He realized, stifling an involuntary sob, that the only thing worse than being inside this damn freezer chest might be getting out of it. Images of videos he’d seen of captives brutally beheaded in front of Islamic terrorism flags flooded his mind’s eye—like those streamed live on the internet to the cheers of believers and anguish of the rest of the planet. Tears ran down his cheeks.
This is not what I signed up for . . . why is this happening to me?
But Malone knew why.
He knew full and well that he represented a new generation of pseudo-politician who served as much for himself as for his country, but he saw no conflict in that. He’d spent a lifetime building his global construction business in nations ravaged by war and poverty. He’d always believed that this brought more prosperity to these regions, even if with that prosperity came a certain element of inequity. He was a capitalist—and capitalism worked, at all levels. Prosperity always trickled down, creating jobs, bringing infrastructure, and infusing capital to lift even the poorest peoples in the most impoverished countries to a higher standard of living. But as a CEO, this was not his mission. He answered to his shareholders, not his workers—and certainly not his foreign workers.
At Ohio State, where he’d led his team to back-to-back championship seasons as the starting quarterback, he’d learned that winning was what mattered. Winners inspired. Winners thrived. Winners moved the needle. He was a proven winner, and that’s why Natalie Cohen had tapped him as her secretary of state. For a President committed to rebuilding wealth and jobs across the globe through American innovation, who better suited for the job than a man who’d spent his career building things. He’d built a dynasty at Ohio State football, and he’d built a dynasty at Malone Construction Ltd. And as secretary of state, he would rebuild America’s reputation overseas. At the end of four years he fully expected to step down, pass the baton, and cash in on the fruit of those labors when he returned once again to take the helm at his company.
But this—this was never part of the deal.
The lid opened and bright light streamed in, painful to his dark-acclimated eyes. He heard talking—perhaps in Arabic, he wasn’t sure—then three silhouettes broke the light from above, as men peered into the box at him. He couldn’t make out their features, his vision blurred by his dry, light-blind eyes. He tried to speak, but his throat was impossibly raw, and his tongue was swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Another voice called out from behind the men. An image flashed of the angry man with the onyx beard and missing ear. He didn’t want to see him again—the man with murder in his eyes.
“ ‘Akhrajah min alealbati. Kun hadhrana. Wahdir la alma wanazafah,” the voice said.
Malone was unsure what the first part meant, but he thought they were being told to give him water. Hands reached in and grabbed him roughly by the arms and his twisted legs, and he screamed in pain as they lifted him out of the ice chest.
“Ah . . . shit. Stop! You’re hurting me!”
“Qult hun hadhara!” a man he could not see shouted, clearly in charge. It must have meant to be gentle because the three men lowered him carefully to the ground.
“Jarhah wasayudhik baed dhik,” the voice growled.
Malone was on a dirty blanket now, still twisted up, on the floor. The blanket stunk of mold and body odor, but felt like a feather bed after the hours spent in the freezer. Malone tried to move, but the effort brought pain and muscle cramps that took his breath away, so he instead tried something simple—just wiggling his fingers and trying to feel his toes. Pins and needles danced across almost the entirety of his body as circulation grudgingly returned to his limbs.
The commanding voice barked something else in what he now felt certain was Arabic, then he heard footsteps fading away. He wanted to peek, to see who it was, but the light hurt his eyes so bad he had no choice but to keep them shut. A moment later, a water bottle was held to his lips.
“Ashrb . . . ashrb bed alma,” a softer—and much younger voice—said from beside him.
The water was not only clean, it was cold. He began to chug it down, feeling the cool water now running down his neck and onto his burning chest.
“Min fadlak bi bat,” another voice said gently.
He thought they meant for him to drink slowly, but he simply couldn’t slow himself down and in seconds the water bottle was empty.
“More,” he managed to whisper, his voice sandpaper on wood. “Please.”
“Akthar!”
And another bottle was held to his lips and a pillow—or perhaps just a bunched-up blanket or tarp—was pressed beneath his head so he could raise it to drink more easily.
Then they left.
Minutes passed and he was finally able to open his eyes, finding himself in a large, unfurnished room. Slowly, he stretched his legs out, each inch bringing screaming pain until, at last, his legs lay straight, or nearly so, as he lay on his side. He opened and closed his hands, and the tingling became a thousand bees stinging his fingers and forearms, but finally his angry, blood-deprived nerves stopped their grumbling and feeling slowly returned to his hands.
Time passed, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.
Three men returned, he thought them to be the same three as before, and now he could see clearly that they were young—maybe mid- to late teens at the most—and thin. Two of the boys were African, the third an Arab, and only one carried a rifle, standing off to the side with the weapon clutched nervously in front of him as the others worked.
They first helped him, with some difficulty, to his feet. Then they unceremoniously stripped him naked. He wanted to protest, but had neither the energy nor the desire as they peeled the disgusting clothes, covered in blood, urine, and feces, from his sweat-stained body. They splashed cool water on him from a bucket and handed him a large cloth, which he used to wipe himself down. Then he was given a coarse towel with which he dried himself and finally they handed him a pair of underwear and an orange jumpsuit.
Malone’s throat tightened as he slipped into the fresh but stiff coveralls, mental images of orange-jumpsuit-clad Christians kneeling on a beach in front of their executioners filling his head. But he shrugged it on anyway, the glaring eyes of the young man with the rifle suggesting to not do so would be a mistake.
A chair was brought to the center of the room by a fourth terrorist who gestured with his hand for Malone to take a seat. With great effort, Malone took a seat in the metal folding chair. His back and legs still ached, but the very act of sitting suddenly felt luxurious. The three terrorist guards retreated behind their armed partner and stood, all the while fixing him with their stares. The deep hatred in their eyes was unmistakable.
And he hated them back even more deeply.
Together, simmering in their hate, they waited for something . . . or someone.
The sound of a heavy door screeching open on rusty hinges made Malone jump. Footsteps echoed on the cement floor—a man walking with confidence, feet clad in western-style shoes. Malone blinked as the new arrival came to a stop in front of him, the man’s hands clasped behind his back. The secretary of state swallowed hard and tried to stop his lower lip from trembling. He looked up, expecting to see the man with the missing ear, but this man was new to him. Despite his fear about what was coming next, Malone held the man’s dark eyes.
The terrorist smiled at him, his well-trimmed beard splitting to show white teeth.
“It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Secretary,” the man said in English, a thick accent lending an ominous weight to the words, which from the look of the man was perhaps meant to mock him.
He looked at Malone as if expecting an answer, but seemed equally unsurprised to not receive one. Malone thought of all the manly quips he could fire back, most of them movie lines he’d heard over the years, but decided such stupidity should be left for the movies.
The man looked over his shoulder and snapped his fingers.
“ ‘Ahdir li kursii,” he commanded, and one of the young fighters hustled off. Malone thought he remembered from his rushed consumption of the Pimsleur Arabic language tapes the last few weeks that kursii meant chair. Sure enough, the tall teenager returned with an oversized leather chair, his thin frame struggling under the weight.
“Shukran,” the man said to the young fighter, who beamed at the praise.
The boss terrorist sat, legs crossed and strong brown hands in his lap, across from Malone in his orange jumpsuit and simple folding chair. He gestured to the young man behind him.
The man stared at him hard a moment, eyes brimming with contempt, before saying, “Do not be fooled, Mr. Secretary, by my young fighters. Your American SEALs will never find us here, but if they did this compound is protected by an army of devout followers who will give their lives in service to the Prophet. The entire village surrounding this place is under my control. I have a legion of seasoned, blooded fighters ready to do my bidding.”
Malone nodded. Decades at the negotiation table had taught him a thing or two about posturing and intimidation, but he knew better than to provoke a volatile personality from a position of weakness.
The terrorist leaned in, forearms on his thighs. “I tell you this because it would be a mistake to try to escape. I’ve ordered that you be shot on sight if you leave this room without an escort. And there is no one who will help you in the village. You are alone, Mr. Malone. Alone and helpless.”
Again, Malone’s mind searched for the best response, but finding none, he remained quiet, but did his best to hold the man’s eyes. He was, after all, the secretary of state of the most powerful nation on the planet, which he reminded himself did give him leverage . . . even though right now it certainly didn’t feel that way.
“At least nod if you understand, Mr. Secretary.”
“I understand,” he said simply. As the strength returned to his arms and legs, he felt some strength of will slowly returning as well. Even here, he must represent his country. Especially here, perhaps.
“Hu yatahadath!” the leader said over his shoulder to the young fighters behind him, and they laughed. “I was beginning to worry you had lost your ability to speak, that perhaps we did not provide enough air on your journey, giving you brain damage. I’m pleased that is not the case, because you are of little use to me brain dead . . . at least for now.”
“Who are you, and what do you want?” Malone asked.
At the speed of lightning, the man smacked him with the back of his hand, snapping Malone’s head to the right so hard it hurt his neck. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
“You are not in power here, Mr. Malone. Allah has given me the power over you, so I shall be asking the questions.” The man crossed his arms, but held Malone’s eyes with malice. “In any case, your lies and other words are useless here. I have heard your blasphemy in your speeches to your fellow infidels. Worse, I have seen the damage of your lies here in my own country—lies for your profit and wealth—long before you became a spokesman for the devil.”
He turned and said something in Arabic, and the young men nodded enthusiastically, the fighter with the rifle pumping it up into the air.
“I asked them: Who is more unjust than one who invents lies about Allah and denies His verses? This is from the Quran, and it applies perfectly to you. You have lied about Allah on behalf of your country, and denied His verses when you raped African countries for money, causing suffering for many, and allowing evil men to rise to power. But no more!”
The man stood abruptly, and Malone cowered backward, afraid to be struck again.
Malone felt his lip quiver and cursed himself for showing such weakness. Who was this man? What did he want? Before becoming secretary of state, his multinational company had done business in scores of countries throughout North Africa and the Middle East, but never in Egypt.
He chose his words carefully.
“I promise you I want nothing but peace and prosperity throughout the region, sir,” he said, annoyed at the cracking of his voice. “As a businessman, I sought only to bring jobs, wealth, and develop infrastructure in this part of the world, I assure you.”
Again, the hand struck him so fast he could not prepare himself for the blow.
“These are more lies, and you should stop telling them so that I may keep control of my emotions,” he said without smiling. “You brought jobs only to those who served you and stole the wealth of our resources back to your own bank accounts, standing squarely on the backs of our people, desperate to believe your lies.” The man’s voice began to rise, and Malone braced himself for another blow, but instead the man placed a bottled water on the floor beside Malone’s chair. “Yet Allah, in His mercy, has seen fit to provide you now with the opportunity to make atonement for your many sins, and those of America. It is why He allowed you to be taken and delivered into my hands, so that with what is left of your life, you may serve His purpose.”
Malone’s mind raced. He had spent decades negotiating with people from all over the world, often taking from them things they believed they wished to give. He was a master at it—it was his true gift. Here and now, the stakes had never been higher. He had no doubt at all the joy this man would feel watching his young terrorists saw off his head as he filmed his execution.
“Respectfully,” Malone said, bowing his head, “I feel you have misjudged me. If you knew me better, you would understand that everywhere I have gone in my life, always I have wished to leave things better than I found them. If you and your people have been unintentionally injured by my actions or those of my country, amends can be made. I can help you . . .”
“Oh, you will help me,” the terrorist said. “Your ransom will repay the millions American corporations have pilfered from our people. I will return that wealth to the people who have suffered from your actions and your country’s policies. And I will use this wealth to take power from the kufaar and infidels who wish to make us a secular country, bowing at the feet of the Great Satan—an unforgivable offense to Allah.”
“I can help you, but only if you will let me. Ransoming me to my government will not get you what you want. The United States government does not negotiate with terrorists, sir, but perhaps together we can find another way.”
Malone felt his hands begin to shake as a bead of sweat formed on his forehead and sprinted down the side of his face.
“Very good,” the man said, snapping his fingers and pointing at him. “I was worried that, as so often happens in your American politics, your assignment as secretary of state was payback for some financial support you had given for this new President, or perhaps an honor bestowed on you for being a winning quarterback from Ohio State. Or maybe you are even fucking her, yes?” He laughed and clapped his hands together at his joke. “But, despite your apparent lack of credentials for your job—other than decades of experience exploiting poor nations for profit—you show yourself able to identify our problem—how do you say it?—right out of the gate.”
Malone began to feel a new confidence—not just in himself, but also in his situation. This man did not strike him as a typical jihadist. He was a true believer, to be sure, but far more pragmatic than the brutal fanatics of ISIL. This man had done his homework; he knew Malone’s history all the way back to his Ohio State days. Maybe that pragmatism offered Malone a shadow of hope. If this terrorist’s goal was money, rather than sacrificing another infidel on the altar of jihad, then he had a chance. And even if Cohen refused to pay the ransom, Malone was certain he could personally cover the tab. His liquidated stake of Malone Construction Ltd. from the shares he’d been forced to divest before taking office was more than fifty million. Still, best to keep this as his trump card and wait to see what the President did first. If he could get rescued without becoming a pauper in the process, all the better.
“You say America does not negotiate with terrorists, but we know that is not true. America is negotiating with the Taliban in Afghanistan as we speak. As secretary of state, you know that there is public negotiation and private negotiation. As a businessman, you have negotiated many contracts. Now you will put those skills to work, not for profit but to save your own life. You will help me find a way to convince your government that we are legitimate leaders of our people, working on behalf of our true nation to right some terrible injustices and restore prosperity to our country. We demand a voice in our government and country, a voice stifled by the corruption brought here by America.”
So there it was . . . finally his adversary had tipped his hand. This was not just a ransom play—this was about legitimacy. About credibility. This man wanted what all men with a taste of power want: more power. Malone straightened up in the chair, ready now to begin the real negotiations. Now they were in his arena, but first, he had to establish himself as more than a cowering captive to be exploited.
“The problem, my friend, is that when you behave like a terrorist, the world will judge you like a terrorist,” Malone said, raising his chin. He watched as the man gestured to one of the young men, who approached and leaned in. As the man whispered, Malone continued. “By kidnapping me and treating me as you have—by threatening my life and attempting to blackmail my country—you have put me in a situation where helping you under duress will not legitimize your standing. If you want my help to gain a voice in the Egyptian government, then you must first treat me with respect. As secretary of state of the United States—”
With a nod from the leader, the young terrorist with the rifle smashed the butt into Malone’s face with a force far out of proportion to his lithe body. Malone’s head jerked back and blood exploded in his mouth. His head spun and he landed hard on the ground, his vision full of stars.
When his head cleared, he was looking up into the face of his captor, smiling at him while bent over at the waist to hold his eyes.
“It seems you have already forgotten. You are not in charge here. You will do what I say, when I say, or you will be punished. Maybe I was not clear enough on this point—I will kill you, unless you help me. And the manner of your death will depend on how you try. Serve me now, not the interests of the United States, and by doing so you may serve yourself. If, together, we cannot convince your government that I am to be taken seriously, then I will have no choice but to change tactics. I will give these young men what they want. And do you know what that is?”
“No . . .” Malone said, wincing and letting blood dribble from his mouth as he rolled onto his side.
“They wish to be people who are respected. They believe, from all they have seen in their lives, that such respect requires bloodshed. These men would consider it an honor to cut off your head for the world to see. Barbarism is counterproductive and, of course, a terrible mess, but if that is the path you choose, I will embrace your choice. The stakes for my people are too high to do nothing with you . . .”
He paced away, while Malone rolled over and struggled to get to his knees. The leader said something, and two of the young men scurried to Malone’s side and hoisted him into the chair. Malone stared at the man, his back to him now, arms on his chest, through the one eye he could still open. So much for the negotiation. Fuck it. This job isn’t worth dying for. No amount of six-figure speaking engagements and seven-figure book deals in the world are worth this kind of abuse.
“What do you want me to do?” Malone asked, realizing his voice sounded wet and mushy.
“I knew you could be reasonable. We will get you cleaned up, and perhaps even fed, and then we can discuss the terms of the negotiation with your government.” He bent at the waist, leaning his hands on his thighs, and smiling that damn smile that now filled Malone with both terror and rage. “I knew I chose the right man.”
Malone nodded deferentially, hating himself as he did, and watched the terrorist turn to leave.
“By the way, Mr. Secretary, you are not in Egypt anymore,” the man said, pausing at the threshold. “We are in my country—a country with people whose suffering you have personally grown rich off over the years.” The terrorist gave a little bow as if greeting a dignitary, then laughed, “Welcome . . . to Sudan.”