In London it was past midnight, and the prime minister and his lieutenants were similarly engaged at 10 Downing Street watching the local Fox network. On another television tuned to the BBC, they had only audio from the satellite telephone of the BBC’s man in Eyl, Rab Bishop. A scrolling legend on the bottom of the screen pleaded technical problems and promised video momentarily.
“All that money for the BBC,” someone remarked, “and this is what we get.”
Both the prime minister and the president had satellite telephone connections with Admiral Tarkington aboard Chosin Reservoir. The admiral had apprised them several hours ago that the action would soon begin, but they had expected that when they read Mike Rosen’s first e-mail.
“Wouldn’t it have been better to wait until the marines were ashore tomorrow before launching this party?” the foreign minister asked the PM.
The prime minister knew little of military affairs, a fact he was willing to admit publicly, and he had learned not to trust generals and admirals, who were, in his opinion, far too quick with victory predictions and clueless about political realities. Today his misgivings over the handling of this crisis grew with every machine-gun blast and Hellfire impact on the screen in front of him. Still, he wasn’t going to call the admiral for reassurance. If he had any to give. Or those ninnies at the White House. The bald fact was the horse had left the gate and was running the race.
He contented himself with the comment, “If anything happens to those Sultan people, there will be bloody hell to pay.”
On the far side of the Atlantic, the president was also examining his hole card. Giving Grafton command of this operation looked smart last week, but if this thing turned into a civilian bloodbath … A congressional investigation was the least that would happen. His handling of the military would be questioned. Foreign affairs … His enemies, of whom he had many, would wave the bloody shirts as proof of his and his administration’s incompetence, which would have incalculable political effects.
He felt like a man on a runaway horse, with no control whatever, just trying to keep from being thrown.
The president glared at Sal Molina, who had lobbied hard for Grafton.
As machine guns chattered and muzzle flashes strobed on the television screen and that nincompoop Ricardo had oral sex with his microphone, the president dug a packet of cigarettes from a drawer and lit one. Blew smoke at the NO SMOKING sign. Mouthed a dirty word but didn’t say it.
The SEALs were certainly thorough clearing Ragnar’s lair. I counted five bodies as I climbed the stairs. Passed a troop of women and kids going down the stairs. I knew from the net that the SEALs had found them upstairs in the living quarters below the penthouse and were sending them down. Eight women, eleven kids, three being carried. I saw no blood. Just scared helpless people.
The penthouse was a helluva mess. The four SEALs were standing around looking for someone to shoot while Nora Neidlinger sat on the floor, working in near darkness cutting rope. Fifty dollar bills and C-notes were scattered everywhere.
“One alive, these other two are dead,” the SEAL team leader reported.
“Got a flashlight?” I asked.
He gave me his.
“Have you searched them?”
He handed me a small RC control unit with three little arms and a red button. “Ragnar had it on him. No battery. The battery was in the other pocket.” He gave me the battery and I pocketed it. Stuck the controller in my other pocket. It just fit.
I took a look at the pirate still alive. Ragnar! He was trying to talk. Had stuff covering his feet and hands, and one eye didn’t focus. Concussion. No weapons in sight. The SEALs had confiscated them.
“Thanks,” I told the SEAL guy. “I’ll take it from here.”
They turned and trooped off.
I squatted by Nora. She hadn’t said a word. Just sawed that dull knife on the rope.
“Wanna go get a beer?” I asked.
“No.”
“What are you going to do with the rope?”
“Tie him up.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
I took out my Marine Corps fighting knife with the seven-inch blade and handed it to her butt first. “This is sharper.”
She quickly finished cutting the rope into the lengths she wanted. She pulled all the trash and debris off him, then tied a rope around each of Ragnar’s wrists and ankles. Then she tied the other end to any heavy thing in reach. Worked on those knots. Got them good and tight.
I went into the bathroom. The water wasn’t working, naturally, since the electricity was no longer powering the water pump, but there was water in the toilet. I used a gourd I found in the kitchen to scoop out some.
Went back and poured it on Ragnar’s face. He started coming around.
“Why don’t you just kill him?” I asked. “I won’t tattle.”
“You can leave now,” she said. She was watching Ragnar. She didn’t even glance at me. She was holding that Ka-Bar with both hands.
“If you want, I’ll do it for you.”
No response. I put the flashlight on the floor and went.
Nora Neidlinger made sure Ragnar was trussed up good. The ropes holding his arms were tight, the knots snugged down. In fact, his hands were beginning to turn white from lack of blood.
She had tied one ankle to a fallen ceiling beam and one to a heavy chair. She used hundred dollar bills to gag him. Wadded them up and stuffed them in his mouth, and tied them in place with a piece of his shirt. Made sure he could still breathe. He was good to go.
Unfortunately he was still groggy from the concussion. She went into the bathroom and got more water from the toilet. She dribbled it on his face until his eyes flipped open.
“Hey there, asshole.”
He seemed to become fully conscious. Looked around, tried to talk, struggled against the ropes.
“Try harder,” she said and showed him the knife. Then she cut off his trousers. Rubbed his cock with her hand, waited for a response. Oh yes. She got a death grip and pulled it straight.
Ragnar bucked like a man possessed. “Have you ever been raped?” she asked conversationally, as if getting raped were equivalent to getting a parking ticket.
“Have you any idea what it’s like? You ignorant raghead devil worshippers rape women, kinda like breeding a dog. You pour acid on their faces, beat them, sometimes to death, and it’s just a ho-hum thing. Can’t wait to get to Paradise so you can butt-fuck little boys. Isn’t that what that pedophile Mohammed promised?”
She sighed. The bastard didn’t understand a word. Even if she could have spoken Somali, he wouldn’t understand. It was like talking to some slimy thing that lived in a sewer and came out when it was hungry to rape women and eat kids.
“Going to cut this off,” Nora told him. She made the first incision. Blood spurted.
“You won’t need this anymore,” she said. “You are all done screwing. Finished.”
Every muscle in Ragnar was taut, and his stomach was arched toward the ceiling. He was moaning through the gag.
“You should have known us back in the day,” she said, just talking. “Back in Cherry Hills. My husband wanted me to be the perfect little piece of arm candy.” Nora showed him his member, then tossed it through the door onto the balcony.
“He told me my boobs were too small so I had to get fake tits. Stay trim, look good for him. He was a car guy, seven dealerships, all kinds of brands, and gave money to every civic organization in town, all the charities. We went to every dinner, every function, got photographed for the society pages a hundred times. There I was, the perfect little wife, all dolled up in designer duds to show off my fake tits, smiling at everyone. And every evening the son of a bitch was fucking the babysitter when he took her home.”