Guerrero saw the captive trussed flat on a tabletop, feet toward the door, before Hakim was satisfied. Guerrero kept the butt of his ballpoint pen aimed at the doorway, putting away his gear as Hakim returned. Slumped in a corner, radiating silent hatred, the second captive gripped his wrist and stared at nothing.
"I will set up the media center," Hakim said mildly. "You will feed the big one, Kenton, then install this lock on their door." He handed Guerrero a heavy push-bolt affair.
Guerrero ascertained that `Kenton' could feed himself with one hand temporarily freed, saw in the steady motions a reservoir of strength. He offered the big man a glass of water which was emptied in one draught, and reclaimed the glass by spreading his fingers inside the rim. Hakim had not seen the exchange. Guerrero caught the captive's eyes with his. "You are wondering how you can surprise me while securely lashed with wire, Senor Kenton," he said evenly. "Of course, you cannot. Even if you could, you cannot surprise us both. You would be dead in seconds if you tried. It would be small loss. Suit yourself," he added.
"I hear you," was the growled response. No promises, no pleas, no hollow threats.
Guerrero had seen the same stolid calm in corridas, as a wounded Miura waited for the matador to make one little mistake. But Bernal Guerrero had graduated from Panama by making very few mistakes. "Just remember that I know, and Hakim knows, what you are wondering," he said.
Guerrero was wrong. Everett was wondering why they called him `Kenton' even after capturing him; why the Iraqi had grilled Charlie George about so many things without once mentioning Maurice Everett; whether it was all part of the torturer's art to wear him down by forcing him to stay in the room, to hear the guttural screams of a friend in agony without being able to cover his ears.
It simply had not yet occurred to Everett that he was a target of purest opportunity, a means to distribute more tokens of Fat'ah power and Fat'ah horror without killing the comedian too quickly. Everett considered the care with which Guerrero had handled his water glass. Not with aversion, but with delicacy, as though his own use of the glass had made it special. Yet all he had given it were smudges. Fingerprints. And why study those when they already had him?
Unless they didn't know they had him.
A filament of hope began to glow in the core of Everett's being. He did not think Fat'ah had access to print files. In this he was correct, but at certain levels of international quid pro quo, a more potent organization than Fat'ah did have access.
Guerrero set about clearing the bowls away, taking care with the water glass, as Hakim brought his HP unit and media monitors in. "I saw lights of a village from the porch," Guerrero reported. "With only two of us left, you might brief me to that extent."
"I might—when you need to know. Information is at a premium now, is it not? We have not even a telephone here. But no matter," he said, setting his small portable TV sets up. "We can do what we must."
Guerrero paused, framed another guarded question, then thought better of it and went after tools for the door lock. From his van, he saw that the windows of the torture room were boarded. Returning with the tools, he installed the simple lock, pausing to watch the monitors with Hakim. There was no mention of a shootout between Claim and police—naturally—but there was also absolute silence on the daring daylight abduction of Charlie George and the consultant. Guerrero saw Hakim's subliminal headshakes and was emboldened; the Iraqi might have doubted Guerrero's story if the kidnapping, but no capture of Fat'ah elements, had received major coverage. As it was, Hakim focused only on television as his primary source of dis-, mis-, and non-information.
When the last newscast was done, Hakim read and made notes on alternative courses of action, now and then consulting the HP unit which lay among his media equipment. The HP told Hakim what he already knew: Fat'ah was nearing bankruptcy now.
At last Hakim put away his tools of strategy, ascertained that Charlie George was breathing heavily, and sought his own bedroll. Then, for the first time, he missed Leah Talith until he thrust the image of her youthful body from him. "We shall see, tomorrow," he said to the sentry, Guerrero. Then he fell into a sleep of confidence.
The next morning, there was still no news of theabduction on television. Hakim made a quick trip into town for newspapers and chocolate, vaguely aware that his supremacy over the hostages permitted him to relinquish some control over his simpler desires.
The Panamanian checked the lashings of his captives as soon as Hakim was gone, loosening the wire that looped from behind Everett's knees to his neck. He withdrew the Browning automatic from his waistband, held it up, then replaced it. "A unique weapon," he said. "A bit heavy, but it carries seven rounds for each of you. See that you do not move closer together. I shall be back immediately."
They heard the bolt grind into its socket, heard the floor creak and the door slam. Charlie, taped supine to the table, moved his head to see his friend staring back at him. Neither spoke until they heard the engine of Guerrero's van start, a peculiar whine piercing its throb.
"He's leaving," Charlie wheezed.
"No he's not. Probably bugging us from outside."
Charlie considered the possibility. The engine note was unchanging, a fast idle. "Sorry I got you into this," he said, choosing his words carefully. "It's not as if you were responsible for it."
"I'm beginning to think you're right," was the reply. "But they're gonna snuff me anyhow."
"Maybe not. You have a better chance than I do, sure as your name is Simon Kenton."
A nod to Charlie. "Maybe if I stir around a bit I can get circulation going." With heels and rump, he began inching toward Charlie.
Charlie knew the words had covered another intent, but: "You can't chew wire, Simon. And there's dust on the floor." Fear in the voice. It was a thinly disguised plea. "I'm sorry, Simon."
After a long hesitation: "It was just an idea."
"Not one of your better ones." Charlie flexed his left hand, twisting the wrist within the tape. "How's your hand," he continued, straining to see if his motion was visible from the corner.
"Hurts like a bastard," Everett replied. "Not as healthy as yours."
Charlie continued to strain against the tape, perspiration aiding him as he gradually worked his wrist free of the adhesive which still bound him, like a manacle, to the table. A few moments later, Charlie heard the engine die outside. "I don't think we can play out this hand, Simon."
"They'll deal us another one."
But it was several minutes before Guerrero returned, sliding the bolt loose and waiting a full minute before he flung the door open. He eased to a vantage point that let him view the recumbent Charlie, risked a quick look toward the corner, then walked in, the Browning drawn.
From the corner, "You don't take just a whole lot of chances."
"More than you know," Guerrero laughed, his spirits strangely buoyant. He strode to the corner and replaced the wire around the big man's throat with one hand, the muzzle of the automatic against the stubbled jaw. When he had tested the bonds of Charlie George, he added more tape. He chuckled ruefully to see Charlie's wrist raw from its struggle. "I would do the same as you, Carlito," he said, retaping, "but I would expect punishment for it."
"You don't think I'm being punished enough?"
"I think this conversation is pointless." From outside came the sound of an approaching vehicle. Quickly, Guerrero stepped to the next room, leaving the door open as he moved to a window. "Hakim is prompt," he said.
"You know what I think," Charlie said softly. "I think that sonofabitch is afraid to talk to us." Charlie was partly right. But Guerrero did not need to talk to them so long as the equipment in his van functioned properly.