Kuraymah Barkal
Sudan
March 19, 6:00 p.m.
Malone stared at the ceiling.
The small, windowless cinder-block room they had moved him to—replete with a brick of water bottles, a cot with an actual blanket, and a bucket for relieving himself—was more humane an accommodation than he’d expected. He wasn’t chained to a wall, eating food off the floor, or being subjected to frequent beatings . . . Thank God.
Nonetheless, his fear of what was coming next grew with each passing hour. Each time the key rattled in the lock, he expected the well-dressed terrorist—whom he’d nicknamed Fifth Avenue in his head—to walk through the door. But as the hours passed without a second meeting, he imagined that maybe things were not proceeding as well as the terrorist had planned and that the next time he saw Fifth Avenue it would be to drag Malone out for his beheading.
He decided to do some calisthenics to get his blood moving and break the fear cycle, but the attempt was cut short by his hip and knee joints, apparently torn up worse than he’d thought by the time he spent folded like a pretzel in the freezer box. He rolled over and heaved himself up into a sitting position with a grunt, wondering when his next meal of roasted bread and rice paste would arrive. Without a window, his sense of time was further muddied, and he couldn’t distinguish day from night. He tried counting to keep the time, but that was too tedious and monotonous. The best evidence he had that more than twenty-four hours had passed since moving him to this room was that a scab had formed over the cut created by the blow he’d taken to his cheekbone. Also, the number of meals, he realized. His next plate would be number seven.
So, I’ve been here about two days.
And in that time, no one had explained to him what they wanted from him. In fact, no one had spoken to him at all—they simply slid food on a metal plate into the room or silently replaced his full toilet bucket with an empty one.
Had they contacted the State Department yet? Had they already made a ransom demand? The hope he’d be tapped to participate in the negotiations for his ransom and release faded with each passing minute. Cohen would never negotiate a cash settlement for his release—not after criticizing prior administrations for paying cash to other groups, money that had later been used against America in the never-ending war on terrorism.
Unless some miracle leads a team of Navy SEALs to my location, I’m totally screwed. Even then, I’d likely die in the cross fire or be executed before they find me in this cell.
It seemed his only hope of survival was to endear himself to Fifth Avenue—a man who’d slapped him twice and ordered a teenager to smash a rifle butt into his face. If Cohen wouldn’t pay, should he try to negotiate his own ransom? Certainly Fifth Avenue had thought of that . . . and if money was his primary objective, why not lead with that?
Maybe because he wants me hopeless. If he can convince me that my government has abandoned me and refused to pay, then he figures he can get more from me.
Or maybe the political leverage is truly what he craves. He did seem to hold me personally responsible for the poverty and suffering in Sudan—
A key rattled in the lock, sending his pulse through the roof. His bucket had been replaced not long ago, and it seemed too soon for a meal. This was it. They were coming to do the deed. His mind conjured imagery of his bloody, headless body being crammed back into the freezer box for shipment home to his wife.
A wave of nausea washed over him.
Oh, Linda . . . I’m so sorry.
The door swung open and Fifth Avenue strode in, rifle slung on his chest and his hand on the grip. Unsure what to do, Malone rose to his feet, his knees and hips screaming in protest, and lowered his head, hands clasped in front of him.
Dear God, please don’t let this be it. Please don’t let this be how it ends.
His throat tightened and he stared at a spot on the floor halfway between him and the terrorist, noticing again the man’s clean, well-polished shoes. This man had money from somewhere.
“Please, sit, Mr. Secretary,” the terrorist said, his English well practiced but his accent thick, making his words seem so much more ominous.
Malone sat, folding his hands in his lap, still not quite able to look up into the man’s face, afraid of what he would see there. The silent pause drew out, the man perhaps waiting for Malone to speak first. But he wasn’t about to make that mistake again, and so he sat in silence.
“It would seem that your government is quite upset about your disappearance, and have many, many people scouring North Africa to find you,” Fifth Avenue said, sounding bemused.
At that, Malone was unable to resist looking up, feeling hope rising in his chest.
The look in the man’s eyes dashed any such promise.
“But I’m afraid they’re looking in the wrong places—the wrong country, in fact. No Special Forces team will arrive to get you anytime soon. We are quite safe here. I also have been busy setting in motion what must happen once your sharira President Cohen gives us what is right and due—both financial restitution and the public acknowledgment of our legitimacy.”
Not sure what else to do, Malone nodded. But his mind was spinning around something just out of reach—something very important, not about what the man was saying, but perhaps how he was saying it?
“Because our plan must lead, inevitably, to a rise in political power, there are many things that must be put in place, people who I assume must be prepared, ahead of our deliberations with your sharira President. You understand?”
“Yes,” Malone said, looking up now at the man. “Except, and I apologize, but I do not know this word ‘sharira.’ ”
The man chuckled and nodded. “It means ‘dishonorable.’ Aimra’at ghyr sharira is a dishonorable woman—an apt description of your President, who shames herself and Allah by her actions. Our intention is to prevent a similar heresy from happening here in Sudan.”
“Of course,” Malone said softly, trying to sound respectful.
“You see, Mr. Secretary, we wish only to govern ourselves, free of interference by imperialist infidels who treat us as children, so we may live in freedom and prosperity the way Allah intended.”
“May I speak freely?” Malone asked, with the distinct feeling he was on the verge of making a connection—an epiphany just out of reach.
“Speak,” the terrorist said, irritated.
Malone chose his words carefully. “As I listen to you now, I hear a man who desires what is best for his country and his faith. A man who wants prosperity for his children and a future. A man who wants peace.”
“Is that not what all good men want?” The man raised an eyebrow as if daring him to disagree. Malone had already felt the sting of that path and avoided it.
“Yes, exactly,” he said. “And as I listen to you now, I fear I may have misjudged you. It would appear that you want respect and stability for this troubled nation—and as secretary of state, that is of course something I want for Sudan as well. Despite my comments before, a stable Sudan is in the best interest of the United States. The provisional government that replaced Bashir had lent temporary stability, but we all know it is not the long-term solution. For real peace to exist, the government must represent the true will of the majority of the people. I assure you, if that is what you seek, we seek the same thing for Sudan.”
The terrorist paced back and forth, his face a mask. When Malone finished, he turned to face him. “Understand, I would as soon slit your throat and bleed you to death rather than cooperate with you as an emissary of the United States. And while it may yet come to that, it has been determined that keeping you alive, for the time being, is the best way forward if we are to achieve our goals.”
“I will help you however I can, so long as your true goals are peace and prosperity for your people, and not war against the United States.”
Fifth Avenue laughed. “You Americans are so full of shit. Always you think that your needs, your wants, your goals, your safety are all that matter. I have no interest in helping the United States and would prefer to rise up our people without the help of infidels who pat themselves on the back as we eat scraps from their table. But for now, it is felt that your cooperation will bring us more quickly to our goals and so we will allow it.”
“I understand,” Malone said subserviently while the dull ember of epiphany suddenly burst aflame in his mind.
You’re not in charge, Fifth Avenue, are you? You desperately want to be, but you’re just a lieutenant in someone else’s army.
In his tenure as CEO, Malone had regularly negotiated with Japanese companies. He was reminded of this now, because typically in those meetings, the Japanese negotiator who purported to have authority, was in reality either a mid-level proxy or a figurehead standing in for the true decision maker. Only when the shadow boss was happy with the progress of the negotiation would they reveal themselves.
And only then did the real work get done.
Malone resisted the urge to smile.
“I will return in one hour,” the terrorist said. “In that time, I have instructed my men to allow you a hot shower and clean change of clothes. They will also provide you with a desk. When I return, we shall have a conversation about how, exactly, you might properly represent our demands to your government. Together, we shall write a speech for you to share on video. There you will help promote the legitimacy of our requests and your personal desire to help us achieve our goals. This video will also serve as our proof of life as we prepare to reach out to your President.”
“We” again . . .
He knitted his fingers together and stared back at him.
“Will you do this?”
Malone rose cautiously, not wanting to insult the man and get a rifle butt to the other cheek.
“Yes,” he said.
The look on the terrorist’s face seemed a combination of smug satisfaction of the power he held over the American secretary of state and also a bit of regret that he would not, for now, be permitted to execute violence on a man he despised.
Without another word, the terrorist turned and left.
Malone sat back on his cot, hands in his lap as the door closed, heartened by the opportunity to bathe. He reeked, his stench an omnipresent reminder of how far he’d fallen.
In the meantime, he silently congratulated himself for the deduction he’d made. He’d managed to check his fear and keep his wits about him enough to make a key observation.
Knowledge was power.
And he definitely had new knowledge about his terrorist captor.