“That’s a challenge.”
“But I did it-under oath. Everyone knew I was covering for GENGHIS. And they all understood, too. They’d all been there. But I couldn’t live with it, Camille. My word is everything. They made me a general and sent me to the Pentagon. That’s when I left Delta for the Christians In Action. Lying is a lifestyle with those loveable bastards, so I thought that’s where I belonged.” Iggy picked up a pen and twirled it around his artificial fingers. “Haven’t spoken to GENGHIS since.”
“I understand,” Camille said, even more convinced that she could trust Iggy. Especially considering what it had cost him, his loyalty to GENGHIS would’ve made a Marine proud. “But you’re going to have to work with him and that’s going to involve more than talking.”
“I’m a soldier. You can count on me doing what it takes to accomplish the mission. And we have a mission to finalize right now. You’ll meet your team at twenty-three thirty hours in the bunker to do some run-throughs first. Come as an Iraqi civilian-male, traditional dress.” He looked her in the eyes. “I’m also going to have to ask you a question about a scenario involving our guy on the inside. If I don’t like your answer, I’m pulling you, even if you are the boss.”
“I’d expect no less.” Camille left the room.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Camp Tsunami, Abu Ghraib Prison
Hunter’s stomach growled as he sat naked on the prayer rug, heavy metal music now blaring over the loudspeakers. The one hundred ninety-three cinder blocks had been inventoried so many times that he was ready to name each one like he’d already done with the seven rats that regularly prowled his cell. He did another hundred pushups, but didn’t want to work out too hard since he hadn’t eaten in days and he was starting to feel it. All the water he could drink was a bitter reminder that he had let Zorro extract more information from him than he had ever given the North Koreans or Saddam’s Mukaburat. Handing over his real name was harmless enough, he tried to convince himself, but he knew that was the way it always started. Each scrap was innocuous, you told yourself as you handed over more and more. He understood how denial worked-he had once dated a Catholic girl who called herself a virgin the next morning-time and time again.
He was man enough to admit to himself he had been screwed by Zorro and it wasn’t going to happen anymore. Even though Zorro knew he worked for Force Zulu, he had refused to acknowledge it during today’s interrogation session. It wouldn’t take long for them to realize their only leverage over him was water. Then they’d start withholding it again. Soon enough a point would come when he would have to begin handing them the little details they already knew or die from cascading organ failure. Intense physical pain was less insidious, easier to resist. Old-fashioned electrodes-on-the-balls torture made things very black and white.
Zorro had kept coming back to something called SHANGRI-LA and he seemed to believe that Hunter knew something about it. Hunter assumed it was the code name for whatever Rubicon had going on with the tangos and it was probably related to the arms caches Ashland had accused him of stealing, something that Zorro didn’t seem to care about. He wondered how the strange Uzbekistan connection fit in. Jackie’s husband had worked for Rubicon Petroleum and she claimed he was up to something secretive in Uzbekistan-the same place the al-Zahrani terrorists had trained. It could be a weird coincidence, but he doubted it. No matter how much he thought about it, a clear picture wouldn’t come together.
He opened the Koran and started reading it to kill time, but his mind kept wandering to Stella. She would be trying to find him, but he doubted she stood much of a chance.
The guards on this shift were still playing heavy metal at a deafening level. He wasn’t sure if they had switched to heavy metal to annoy Arab inmates or for the guards themselves to relieve their own ears. Either way, he welcomed the change except that the sound level was about the same as a jet taking off. Constant exposure to the deafening sound left him with a splitting headache that wouldn’t go away for days and he feared he was going to have a hearing loss. He flipped through the Koran, then unexpectedly heard some familiar notes on an electric guitar, but he told himself no way were the guards playing that song to get to the prisoners. It wasn’t right. Not even they would stoop so low as to play the national anthem to torture inmates.
After another chord, Hunter got up. Jimmy Hendrix’ electric guitar was screeching while machine guns, bombs and screams-the sounds of Vietnam, the sounds of Iraq-were going off in the background. He stood at attention in his Abu Ghraib cell, naked, singing “The Star Spangled Banner” while he chocked back tears.
Without warning, the door cracked open and a guard threw Day-Glo orange prison coveralls, an olive-drab hood and a pair of flip-flops at him. He carried an AK-102, the poor Russian cousin of an M4, but he didn’t point it directly at him. Hunter could’ve taken him out, but he saw something in the guy’s eyes; he wanted something from Hunter and he was afraid.
The guard yelled above the music. “Put these on. We’re getting you out of here. Hurry!”
Hunter jumped into the overalls and zipped them as fast as he could.
The guard glanced at the door as he handed Hunter the heavy hood. “Pull this on, too. I’ll stick the strap through, but I won’t buckle it.”
“Did Camille Black send you?”
“And get your hands behind your back so I can cuff them.” The guard’s body was shaking with tension.
“No cuffs.”
“It’s got to look like a prisoner transfer. Get your hands behind your back. We’re running out of time. Do it!”
“I want my hands free. You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”
“I’m making five million in five minutes. Hands behind your back.” He pointed the Russian assault rifle at Hunter.
He hoped the guy’s half-assed plan gave him an opening to escape before it got him killed. But he didn’t hesitate to go along with him. He’d rather die from a bullet than organ failure. “Give me the tie and I’ll hold it in place.”
“Whatever.” He handed Hunter the zip-tie.
The flip-flops were several sizes too big and Hunter struggled not to trip over them as the guard shoved him along. The hood obscured everything, but he heard the clank of heavy metal locks and guessed he was almost outside the cell block or had entered another one.
A woman’s voice said, “What took so long? Nathan can’t stay parked at the door much longer. They’re starting to get suspicious.” Her footsteps paced alongside them.
“Stop!” A man shouted. Hunter estimated he was ten meters from them at their six o’clock. He wanted so badly to rip off the mask so he could see, but he knew better.
One of his liberators grabbed him, spun him around, took his arm and started to run. He planted his feet firmly and refused to move, figuring it was his best and only chance. Hunter heard an automatic weapon pop and the guy holding onto him screamed, then let go. He wanted to yank off the hood, but knew any movement on his part would be interpreted as a threat, a threat to be neutralized. So he stood there as he listened to another burst of gunshots and he heard the female jailor scream. He forced his eyes closed and pictured Stella telling him she loved him-that was the last image he wanted to take with him to eternity. In a split second, he was being shoved to the floor. He didn’t resist.