Guerrero gave a negative headshake, very much desiring to keep his own vehicle. "It is just ahead there," he indicated. "Do I abandon it now?" Always, he knew, Hakim was perversely biased against an underling's suggestion. He had seen it work many times for Leah Talith; but Talith would use it no longer.
"We have expended twelve thousand dollars in vehicles, and two Fat'ah lives this day," Hakim snarled. "No more waste. Stay here, wait for my van, then follow."
Guerrero nodded and sauntered to his parked van as Hakim hurried away. He knew that distant friendly eyes were on him, but made no signal. One cigarette later, the latino saw Hakim's vehicle pass. He followed closely in traffic, then dropped back during Hakim's double-back maneuvers. When Hakim was satisfied that only Guerrero was following, he turned north onto Highway Twenty-three toward the mountains.
Well beyond the town of Fillmore the lead van slowed abruptly, loitered along the highway until it was devoid of other traffic. Then Hakim swung onto a gravel road. Guerrero sensed that they were very near the new Fat'ah site and philosophically accepted his inability to share that suspicion with the men he reported to.
After two kilometers they turned again, and Guerrero saw that the new site was a renovated farmhouse in a small orchard. He hurried to help Hakim unload the crate at the porch, ignoring the awful sounds from inside it. Only when the crate was opened in the house did Guerrero learn why the massive blond hostage, gagged and tightly bound, was such a noisy passenger.
On both hostages, the legs had been taped flexed, so that muscle cramps would almost certainly result. More tape looped from necks to thighs, assuring that tall men would make smaller packages. Heavy adhesive bands strapped arms across their chests, the left hand of the second hostage heavily retaped over a crimsonand-rust bandage. Guerrero did a brief double-take, rolling the captive over to see the maimed left hand. Both hostages were conscious. Despite his gag, the injured hostage moaned at the rough movement. From Guerrero, a sigh: "Will you rid the world of fingers, Hakim?"
The Fat'ah leader knelt to examine the bandage while Charlie, eyes wide in horror as he saw the hand of Maurice Everett, tried to speak through the gag. "An ancient and honored custom, my friend," said Hakim, smiling, and back-handed Charlie viciously to quell the interruption. "I mailed his left small finger by special delivery to the National Broadcasting Network people. I added a promise to forward more pieces—some of them yours—until my demands are aired," he continued, staring into Charlie's face as he spoke. He wheeled to regard Guerrero. "I might have delivered it myself while waiting for you!"
"Your demands, not Fat'ah's," Guerrero mused aloud.
"I am Fat'ah," almost inaudible.
"It is reducing itself to that," Guerrero agreed ambiguously, then blunted the goad. "What may I do now?"
Hakim retained a precarious control. "Familiarize yourself with the house, cook a meal, mind your tongue if you would keep it. I shall arrange for our guests to—entertain us."
As the dusk became darkness, Guerrero found that the nearest lights were over a kilometer away, too far to carry the sounds of Charlie George's interrogation. The Panamanian took his time, kept away from the torture room, and waited for Hakim to kill their captives in outlet for his frustration. It sounded as though Hakim was devoting all his attention to the comedian. When the screams subsided, Guerrero began to heat their stew.
Charlie George had more stamina than either of them had thought. He managed to walk, a tape-wrapped garrotte wire looped as leash about his throat, to the table, but fell trying to sit in the folding chair.
Hakim's smile was a beatitude, so well did his captive behave. Charlie's nose was a ruin, his right ear torn—"It will come off anyway," Hakim chuckled—but his mouth had been left equipped for conversation. He was not disposed to eat and his hands shook so badly that Hakim laughed; but Hakim needed say only once, "Eat it all," softly. Charlie George ate it all. The second captive, trussed with tape and wire, moaned unheeded in the torture room, a supply of parts which might be maintained or dispensed at Fat'ah convenience. He was, Hakim felt, of only secondary importance.
Hakim produced a huge chocolate bar for dessert and helped eat it. He felt no desire or need to deny himself the stuff, while the garrotte wire was in his hand. After the chocolate: "An hour ago, you maintained that this satire is too wide-spread to halt," he prodded the exhausted Charlie, "and I say you will halt it, piece by piece."
"You underestimate their greed," Charlie replied, scarcely above a whisper. From time to time he clenched his teeth hard. "Every night-club schlepper in the Catskills is inventing stealable material—and the public loves it." he managed something that could have been a smile. "You're a smash, Charlie."
"You will call me `Hakim'." The Iraqi flicked the garrotte wire, then looked at the wall a moment. "And the new series you mentioned? What is the investment?"
"One on ABC, one on CBS," Charlie said. "Buy 'em off if you can. Start with ten million apiece; they'll laugh at you." With this unfortunate phrase he trailed off; exhaustion tugged at his eyelids. Hakim reached out with delicate precision and thumped the bloody ear. "Ahhhh—I don't see what you gain by torture," Charlie grunted. "I have no secrets." It was not a lie. Nor was it accurate.
Guerrero, taking notes, gestured at the captive with the butt of his pen. "Perhaps you do not know what you know."
"And perhaps you are being punished," Hakim murmured.
"What else is new," Charlie said, and was rewarded by a sudden tug on the wire. "Sorry," he managed to croak.
"Repeat after me: 'I beg forgiveness, Effendi'," Hakim smiled, and tugged again. Charlie did it. "Now, the amputee in the next room," Hakim continued. "What is he to you?"
The uncomprehending gaze became wonder as Charlie grappled with a new surmise. "Sy? Simon Kenton?" Charlie steeled himself for the garrotte.
"If that is his name. He is a close friend?"
Charlie swallowed. "We get along; I don't hunger for his bod. He's a consultant; why is he here?"
"You will not question Fat'ah," Hakim thumped the ear again, almost gaily. Charlie, through his agony, caught something subtly inquisitive as his gaze swept past the face of Guerrero. The Panamanian said nothing. Hakim pressed on with, "But the network will know him by the fingerprint." It was a question.
"They have his prints but he's my consultant—like twenty other people from time to time."
"Now tell me again how NBN amassed those tapes to be aired in the event one of their people was taken." With the change of topic, Charlie felt surer that the disguise of Maurice Everett had not been penetrated, that Fat'ah had kidnapped a major enemy by a fluke and still did not know it.
But how long before newspapers, in their zeal for all the news, made these murderous fanatics a present of the crucial datum? Perhaps Charlie could temporize, could claim he did not recognize Everett in his new guise, could hope for clemency. In his heart, Charlie knew it was all a crock of shit. They would tear him to pieces when they found out. Unless Everett's contacts could do a nose-job on the news, too. It was possible. Not likely, but...
Charlie, glad to change the subject, repeated the truth about NBN's contingency tapes. The networks had all considered the possibility that their stars might be ransomed, or worse, by terrorists. They would feel no pain.
The hostages would absorb all of that.
Hakim probed for some weak point in network thinking, asked questions that sometimes led nowhere. Eventually he saw that the answers were becoming more disjointed, less useful, and led the unprotesting Charlie to the torture room.