"Ashara" said Mahmoud.
"Ten seconds," said Hasan. He bent close to Mary Rose. "You indicate no, yet I do not believe that is what you mean. Think, young woman. There is not very much time."
"Tisa"
"Nine seconds," Hasan said to her. "Soon you will be wet with your own blood."
"Tamanya"
"Eight seconds," said Hasan. "Then you will scream piteously to cooperate."
"Saba"
"Seven seconds," Hasan said. "And with every finger that is removed, there will be more unendurable pain."
Mary Rose was breathing heavily. There was terror in her eyes.
"She's got more courage than you do," Rodgers said proudly.
"Sitta khamsa"
"We will see," Hasan said. "You have five seconds, my young woman. Then you will beg to speak."
Hasan had been smirking slightly during the countdown. But now Rodgers noticed that his mouth had turned down. Had the insult touched him, or was he concerned that they wouldn't get the information after all? Or could it be that Hasan had no stomach for bloodshed, despite his vivid commentary?
"Arba"
"Four," warned Hasan.
Part of Rodgers — a very large part of him — wanted to gamble that Mahmoud wasn't going to go through with this. The Syrians had had nearly two minutes to think about their predicament and also to see what the American team was made of. By capturing the ROC, the Syrians had lost whatever head start they had on the Turks. If they had to leave now, patrols would be everywhere. The Syrians needed the ROC and its crew, and might well be wondering if they hadn't underestimated their captives. If maybe they should have done what Rodgers had asked.
"Talehta"
"Three seconds," Hasan said. "Think of the knife cutting through bone and muscle. Over and over, ten times over."
Rodgers could hear Mary Rose panting. But she wasn't talking, Clod bless her. He'd never been prouder of his own soldiers than he was of her.
"Itneyn"
"Two seconds."
"Monster!" Coffey screamed, and began to struggle against his bonds. The Syrians paid no attention to him. Katzen was awake now and clearly trying to take everything in.
"Wehid!"
"The time is up," Hasan said. He looked at Mary Rose.
Mahmoud, however, looked at Rodgers. There was a moment's hesitation, and then something bitter and vengeful came into Mahmoud's eyes. Perhaps he was looking through Rodgers at some other enemy, some distant pain. His upper lip curled, and at that moment Rodgers knew he'd lost.
"Don't!" Rodgers said as the Syrian began to press down with the knife. He was still looking at the windshield, but he nodded so Mahmoud would understand. "Don't do it. I'll get you on the road."
Hasan repeated what Mahmoud already knew. Mahmoud snatched the knife away. There was no triumph in his expression as he tucked it in its sheath and Mary Rose collapsed in tears.
As Hasan squatted beside the woman and began tying her bloody hand back to the chair, Mahmoud motioned Rodgers to come forward. Rodgers walked toward the front of the van, but paused beside Mary Rose. The young woman was sobbing heavily, her head bent back against the chair.
"I'm very, very proud of you," Rodgers said to her.
Coffey leaned his head toward Mary Rose and touched her cheek with his hair. "We're all proud of you," he said. "And we're in this together."
Mary Rose nodded weakly and thanked them.
Mahmoud was glaring at Rodgers. Rodgers ignored him.
"Hasan," Rodgers said, "the lady is bleeding. Do you think you could bind that for her?"
Hasan looked up. "Will you make another showdown if I refuse?"
"If I have to," Rodgers replied. "You'd take care of your mule once it moved, wouldn't you?"
Hasan looked from Rodgers to the wound. He thought for a moment, and after the woman's hand was securely fastened to the column, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He tucked it gently between Mary Rose's fingers. As he did, Mahmoud stepped over and plucked it away.
"La!" Mahmoud screamed. He threw the handkerchief down, stomped once on it, and shouted at Hasan.
Hasan's eyes were downcast. "Mahmoud says to tell you that the next time I take orders from you, he will amputate my hands and yours."
"I'm sorry," Rodgers said, "but what you did was right." He regarded Mahmoud. It was time to use his third military asset: surprise. "Hasan, tell your commander that I'll need help replacing the batteries."
"I will help you," Hasan said.
"You can't," Rodgers lied. "Only one person has that knowledge. Tell Mahmoud I'll need Private DeVonne's help, That's the woman he has tied up in back. Tell him if he wants to get to Syria he's going to have to let her go."
Hasan cleared his throat. Rodgers couldn't remember the last time he saw a rnan looking so alone. The Syrian informed his superior of Rodgers's needs. Rodgers watched as Mahmoud's eyes grew smaller and his nostrils grew larger. It had been a direct hit. Rodgers enjoyed seeing him broil in the instant it took him to reach the only decision he could make.
Mahmoud waved a finger sideways, and Hasan went into the back of the van. Then in a flash, Mahmoud kicked Rodgers down. Hasan didn't stop to help the fallen general. He stepped over him and hurried into the back to cut Private DeVonne loose. He freed her feet first, then bound them together before releasing her hands.
The Striker tried to turn and help Rodgers, but Hasan pushed her along. While he led her to the battery compartments in the rear of the ROC, Rodgers pulled himself up. He placed both hands on the computer stations and swung his bound feet forward as though he were on parallel bars.
That was part one of the surprise. Part two would come later, when they began replacing the batteries and turning things on. The ES4 satellite would immediately read the increased electromagnetism and send a heads-up signal to Op-Center. Paul Hood would have a number of options then, which ranged from simply watching them to destroying them.
As Rogers moved to where Hasan and Private DeVonne were waiting, he could feel Mahmoud still glaring at him. That pleased him enormously for it told him that his fourth and final military asset had proved effective: He had managed to drive the first small wedge between the commander and one of his soldiers.
TWENTY-ONE
Colonel Brett August had been giving his Strikers a lecture in military science when his pager sounded. He looked down at the number: It was Bob Herbert. August's cool blue eyes shifted back to the seventeen Strikers in the room. They were all sitting tall at their old wooden desks. Their khaki uniforms were clean and crisply pressed, their Powerbooks open in front of them.
The beeper had interrupted a lecture on a bloody attempt by Japanese officers in February 1936 to set up a military dictatorship.
"You're in command of the rebel force in Tokyo that day," August said as he headed for the door. "When I come back, I want each of you to present an alternate plan for staging the coup. This time, however, I want it to succeed. You can retain or jettison the assassination of former Prime Minister Saito and Finance Minister Takahashi if you like. You can also think about taking them hostage. Holding them could have been used very effectively to manipulate public opinion and official reaction. Honda, you're to charge until I return."
PFC Ishi Honda, the Striker communications expert, rose and saluted as the officer left the classroom.
As the colonel strode down the dark corridor of the F.B.I. Academy in Quantico, Virginia, he didn't bother to wonder what Herbert wanted. August was not a man given to speculation. His habit was self-evaluation. Do your best, look back, then see how you can do better next time.