She did. So did Hasan. With a look of triumph, he closed the phone and stuffed it back into Rodgers's shirt pocket. He spoke with the other two men for a minute. Then he glared at Rodgers.
"General Rodgers," he said. "You are not an environmentalist, I think. The American military is working with Turkish Security to find who? Us, perhaps?" Hasan moved his face closer until he was practically nose-to-nose with Rodgers. "So — you have found us. And this person who answered the phone. She is not in Gazi Antep."
"She is," said Rodgers. "At the police department there."
"There are mountainous regions between us and Gazi Antep," Hasan said disdainfully. "Your telephone would not have gotten through them. The only flat lands are to the southeast."
"This has a satellite uplink," Rodgers lied. "It goes over mountains."
The man behind Colonel Seden said something in Arabic. Hasan nodded.
"He says you're a liar," Hasan hissed. "This 'uplink' requires a plate a dish. We do not have time for this. We need to get to the Bekka Valley."
The Arab turned angrily back to Colonel Seden. The officer was more alert than before and breathing heavily from his ordeal. Hasan knelt beside him again and flicked on the lighter. Rodgers could see the Turk's expression in the light of the flame. It was defiant, God bless him.
Hasan asked Seden something in Turkish. The colonel didn't answer. Hasan jammed a handkerchief in his mouth, grabbed a handful of the officer's hair to hold his head steady, then put the flame under Seden's nose. The colonel kicked roughly at the ground, his cries muffled by the handkerchief. This time, Hasan didn't remove the flame. Seden's screams rose higher and he writhed violently to try and get away.
Hasan shut the flame. He removed the handkerchief from Seden's mouth. He spoke closely into Seden's ear. The colonel was panting, his legs and arms trembling. Rodgers could tell from his condition that Hasan was about to "get inside" him. That was the point in torture when the pain and not the mind was in control of the body. The will had been broken and the conscious mind was only concerned with preventing further pain.
Hasan put the handkerchief back in the colonel's mouth. He moved the lighter toward Seden's left eyebrow. Seden shut his eye, but Rodgers knew that wouldn't help.
The flame burned the hair of his eyebrow and crept up along his forehead. Seden was about to break. Rodgers didn't want him to have to live with that guilt — if either of them survived.
"Stop!" Rodgers said. "I'll work with you."
Hasan removed the flame. He let go of Seden's hair. The Turk folded forward at the waist.
"What do you want?" Rodgers asked. It was time to change tactics. He would stop stonewalling and try to compromise and disinform.
"At first, General, we wanted you to come as our hostages," Hasan said. "But now we want something else."
Rodgers didn't have to ask what. "I will help you hide or leave the country," Rodgers said. "But I won't take you to my camp."
"We know this land. We can find it without you," Hasan said confidently. "But we will not need to. Your people must have vehicles where they are. You are going to tell them to come and get you."
"I don't think so," Rodgers replied.
Hasan walked toward the general. "If Mahmoud and I approach your camp in the dark with the colonel's motorcycle, wearing what is left of your clothes, do you think we will be stopped?"
"My people will challenge you, yes."
"But not before we get very close with our weapons. And they will hesitate before firing," Hasan said. "We will not hesitate. We cannot."
Rodgers extrapolated quickly. Firebrand Private Pupshaw might not hesitate to open fire at the bike, but Private DeVonne might. And if Phil Katzen, Lowell Coffey, or Mary Rose Mohalley were taking the watch tonight, they might not even be armed. Rodgers couldn't justify the almost certain loss of life, especially if these men ended up taking the ROC anyway.
"What guarantee have I that you won't kill the colonel and me after I place the call?" Rodgers asked.
"We could have killed you already," Hasan replied. "We could have telephoned your camp, said we found you bleeding and unconscious. They would have come for you. No, General. The fewer deaths, the better."
"The more hostages the better, you mean."
"God is compassionate and merciful," Hasan said. "If you cooperate, then we will follow His example."
"Your flood killed innocent people as well as believers," Rodgers said. "Where was your mercy then?"
"The believers have gone to the High Pavilions of the Lord," Hasan replied. "The others were content to dwell in our stolen homeland. They are victims of their own greed."
"Not their greed," Rodgers said. "The greed of generations long dead."
"Nonetheless," said Hasan, "if they continue to live there, they will continue to die."
Mahmoud spoke impatiently to Hasan, who nodded.
"Mahmoud is correct," Hasan said to Rodgers. "We have talked enough. It is time to telephone." He opened the phone and handed it to Rodgers. "Press only the redial button. And don't try and warn them. It will only lead to bloodshed."
Rodgers looked at the phone. The thought of giving ground offended him utterly. His heart told him to crush the damn thing and be done with these three. He asked himself, What will your people think if you surrender for them? If you don't give them the chance to fight or withdraw on their own? But this wasn't a question of them not having a choice. By resisting he sentenced those people to death. By surrendering for now, he might be able to negotiate the release of some of the team or disable the ROC's key technologies. At least that was something.
Rodgers hesitated as he swallowed the bile of self-reproach.
"Quickly!" said Hasan.
Rodgers looked at the phone. He reached down slowly and touched redial. He raised the telephone to his ear, and Hasan leaned close to listen.
As he did, Rodgers knew that everything he'd just told himself was nonsense. No one was going to hand him a telephone and order him to lead his countrymen into an ambush.
FIFTEEN
Lowell Coffey II was dozing in the driver's seat of the ROC when the phone rang. He awoke with a jolt, fumbled with the phone for a moment before finding the right button to push, then answered.
"This is the mobile archaeological research center," he said.
"Benedict, it's Carlton Kuhnigit."
Lowell wasn't fully awake. But he was awake enough to recognize Mike Rodgers's voice and to know that his own name wasn't Benedict. In fact, the only Benedict he knew of was Benedict Arnold the traitor, who'd plotted to surrender West Point to the British during the American Revolution. Since Mike Rodgers had zero sense of humor, there had to be a reason he'd referred to him as Benedict. There also had to be a reason that Rodgers had intentionally mispronounced the name of his Carlton Knight pseudonym.
All of this the attorney considered in the instant it took him to reply with a jaunty, "Hi there, Mr. Kuhnigit." At the same time Coffey pressed the record button on the top of the phone cradle. Then he opened the driver's side window and snapped his fingers. Phil Katzen and Mary Rose were eating a chicken they'd bought in the market that morning and had cooked over a campfire. Coffey pointed to them and indicated that they should come in quickly but quietly. They put their paper plates down and hurried over. "How are things going?" Coffey asked.
"Not so well," Rodgers said. "Benny, the colonel and I had this damn accident out here."
"Are you okay?"
"More or less," Rodgers said. "But I want you to tell Captain John Hawkins to pack up and get out here as soon as possible."