Sudanese Islamic Front Covert Compound
Kuraymah Barkal
Sudan
March 21, 11:05 a.m.
Malone didn’t know whether the fact that they had cleaned him up, allowed him a shower, and changed his orange jumpsuit should make him feel optimistic or terrified that he was about to make his gory YouTube debut. Twenty-four hours ago, he recorded a video where he pleaded—without sounding like he was pleading, he hoped—that his government acknowledge SIF as legitimate and engage in conversation.
He’d expected something, anything, to change in his situation for doing so, but nothing had. He’d sat here, isolated, in his small room waiting for his fate to be determined by a group of people who hated him with a zealot’s passion.
The anxiety he felt made his stomach cramp, and for a moment he thought he might best return to the bucket in the corner for yet another painful bout of diarrhea. But the cramp passed, and he rose nervously from his tiny cot and began to pace the room. If he was forced to betray his country on video, Cohen would certainly see it for what it was—a desperate play on his part to delay his execution and secure his rescue. And he had done nothing to betray his oath so far, right? So why had a day passed with nothing? Had she sacrificed him in pursuit of a tough stance on terrorism?
When the key rattled in the door lock, he actually cried out, a pitiful sob he was glad no one was inside to hear.
Get your shit together, Frank. You’re still the fucking secretary of state for the United States of America. Face this like a man . . .
Another wave of cramps rippled painfully across his insides, and despite his terrified nervous energy, he dropped back onto his cot as the door swung open, fearful he might vomit or shit himself at any moment.
The well-dressed man who entered, however, looked nearly as terrified and nervous as he felt, and for a moment he thought the man to be another hostage with whom he would now share the tiny room until one or both of them lost their heads. But the guard beside him nodded to the man with almost deference. Then he stepped aside, and another man—again, a rougher, more seasoned-looking terrorist than the teens he’d seen so far—brought in an oversized cushioned leather chair and positioned it in the center of the room, facing Malone.
Despite the bead of sweat trickling down from the well-dressed man’s temple, he turned to the armed men and addressed them politely.
“Shukran,” he said, thanking them.
Then the door was closed behind him, and Malone heard the lock turn.
The man gave him a genuine smile as he took his seat, smoothing his suit coat, and crossed his legs. He let out a rattling sigh, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” the man said, his English crisp and practiced. “I thought they made the whole thing up—that they lied, because how could they possibly have done this thing . . .”
“Who are you?” Malone demanded, evenly, the man’s presence his first glimmer of hope since he’d arrived, balled up like dirty laundry in a box.
“Secretary of State Malone, on behalf of my people and the government of Sudan, I apologize for what has happened,” the man said. He looked nervously behind him at the closed door and around the cell. “They are listening,” he whispered, and straightened up and took a long, cleansing breath. “It is my sincere hope—”
Malone stood, placing his hands on his hips and feeling for the first time since his arrival like he might have a tiny bit of control over a conversation.
“I really need to know who you are,” he demanded, cutting the other man off. “And if you are a representative of the Sudanese government you have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”
“My name is Irshad Khalil. I’m the acting minister of interior for the transitional government of Sudan. I assure you that the Sudanese government had absolutely nothing to do with your kidnapping. Until the ransom demand came, we had no idea you were in Sudan. Until just hours ago, the whole world thought you were in Egypt.”
“Wait a minute,” Malone said, holding up a hand. His mind went to his conversation with Fifth Avenue only yesterday—or three meals ago, at least. “You’re telling me that no one knew I was here until today?”
The man nodded. “I’m afraid we all assumed the worst. Then the video of you was sent to us and to your State Department. We have been working tirelessly ever since to help locate you. I have been tasked with the responsibility to negotiate your release.”
“On behalf of whom?”
He felt a new, real hope surge inside. If this acting minister was working on behalf of D.C.—if this was the beginning of some back-channel negotiations—then maybe this really might be over soon.
“Well,” the well-dressed man said, looking around as if nervous about choosing his words carefully, “officially I am working on behalf of the government of Sudan, but you should know we are working very, very closely with the diplomats from your country on behalf of your President.”
The man stared into Malone’s eyes with an intensity that suggested he was conveying some important message—but what? Was it simply that the United States was fully engaged? Was “diplomats” code for embedded CIA assets in country? Was it that a heroic rescue from SEAL Team Six or Delta Force was imminent? Whatever it was, Malone decided he was better off than he’d been only minutes ago.
“I understand,” he said.
“I need to ask you some questions, please,” the man said, opening a small leather notebook he pulled from his inside coat pocket. Malone saw the man’s hands were shaking.
“Anything.” Malone let out a slow, rattling breath.
“Can you confirm the car you drove in high school?”
“What? Why?” But then he realized—this was to confirm that this man Khalil had really met with him. “Sorry, yes, of course. I drove a white Dodge Dart until I left for college.”
“What was the name of your childhood dog?”
“Ranger,” he answered, smiling a moment at the memory of the black lab he’d gotten as a puppy when he was in first grade. Ranger had died the year before he graduated from UAB.
“In a moment they will come back and they will take a picture of us together. Is this okay for you?”
“Yes, of course.”
If the terrorists were allowing this man—the minister of interior—to come and take a picture as proof of life, then some deal must be in the making. He didn’t know Irshad Khalil from Adam, but he probably should if he was a minister in the transitional government. But the name Khalil sounded very familiar for some reason other than this man, he thought.
“What else can I do?” he asked, hoping he sounded brave and in control.
“If they ask you to make another video, I would ask that you comply. And to the extent your position allows, I would ask that you please comply with all of their demands as it will help us complete our negotiations quickly. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, embarrassed that this time his voice cracked.
Khalil gave him a compassionate smile. “It is okay. I am very frightened as well, but I think we are both going to be okay.”
Malone nodded and tried to smile back.
“They have treated you well? You are healthy?” Khalil asked.
He thought of the pain still in his hips and back from his hours and hours in the ice chest. He thought of the aching pain that still remained from the blow to his face with the rifle butt. Then he thought of the possible consequences should he share that now, while his captors listened to every word.
“They have treated me very well,” he said, staring into the minister’s eyes, hoping he could see his own message reflected there . . . as if the fist-sized hematoma on Malone’s face wasn’t answer enough. “They have kept me comfortable and well fed. I have no complaints, other than my strong desire to go home.”
The minister nodded, signaling he understood the unspoken message. He appeared about to speak again, when the key rattled and the door opened again. Malone was not shocked to see one of the more seasoned guards coming through the door. The large, barrel-chested man dressed in a long, gray, traditional-looking tunic barked at him in Arabic, signaling with his hands for Malone to rise, which he did. The man roughly turned his chin, using a large hand that smelled of dirt and gun oil, apparently trying to hide his facial wound in the shadows. He then shoved Khalil backward roughly, pulled out a phone, and took two pictures of them together.
“Yakfi alhadith. Tueal maei,” the guard said.
Malone was unsure of the first phrase, but the second he was pretty sure meant come with me. Khalil stepped toward the door, but then stopped and turned, extending his hand. Malone shook it.
“I will negotiate your safe return, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “I promise.”
“Thank you, Minister Khalil. Thank you so much.”
Despite his best effort, he felt tears well in his eyes as a second guard wrestled the large chair out of the room, leaving him alone. Suddenly weary, Malone collapsed onto his cot, pressed his hands painfully against his battered face, and began to sob. He didn’t care if they could hear him or even see him. President Cohen had not abandoned him, after all. Backdoor diplomacy was under way. Chess pieces were moving.
Whatever they wanted him to say in the next video, he would say it.
Help was coming.