When Kyle Swanson opened the door, the overwhelming stench of pigs swept into the vehicle.
The smell jarred the prisoner. “What is this place? Why are we here?” The pig was a filthy animal, and the blood and flesh of the swine were an abomination in Islam.
“Shut up,” Sybelle said, and she also left the SUV to join the small group.
Mobili stared. The two black men wearing filthy blue denim bib overalls were solemn. Not police. One slapped his palm hard against the ventilated trailer of the eighteen-wheel rig and laughed when the cargo of pigs squealed in fright.
Swanson turned away from the group and returned to the SUV, threw open the door, and unlocked the chains. He hauled Mobili out.
The odor almost made the prisoner gag. “What are you doing?” Mobili shouted. “Police cannot inflict cruel and unusual punishment in this country.”
Kyle grabbed him by the shirtfront and threw him hard onto the ground. The surprised prisoner rolled over but came back with a sneer. “I know my rights!”
“Things have changed, and the sooner you understand that, the better. You are nothing but a terrorist asshole from Iran who infiltrated into my country and murdered an American citizen in his own home. That means you have fallen into a black hole, because you have now been declared an enemy combatant. You no longer have a lawyer, no constitutional protections of any sort, and you will never see the inside of a public civilian court.” Swanson jerked him to his feet and forced him toward the trailer. “Also, I’m not a cop, and I can do to you whatever the fuck I want. From now on, you belong to me.”
Mobili struggled to keep his balance. “I refuse to answer any of your questions.”
“I haven’t asked you anything.” He ripped the Koran from the prisoner’s grip and shoved him toward the pair of men, who caught him with steel-strong arms. “These gentlemen are Buster and Jim Lincoln, who work a pig farm near here. Buster used to play football for Alabama and Jim for Auburn.”
“Roll Tide,” said Buster.
“War Eagle,” snapped Jim.
Kyle resumed. “Buster was a Marine.”
“Semper fi!”
“Jim was an Army Ranger.”
“Hoo-ah.”
“They had a sister, Beatrice, who was an attorney working in the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York on 9/11. Not a shred of her body was ever recovered after your jihadi buddies smashed a big plane into her office. So, Mr. Mobili, you’re going for a ride with the brothers Lincoln and their pigs. There are some things they would like to discuss with you. Maybe you will live through the next few hours or maybe you will become a smelly pile of digested pig shit, and I really don’t give a damn one way or another.”
5
“Were the Admirals satisfactory, sir?” Major Shakuri asked Colonel Naqdi when he came into the office for the evening briefing, dreading it, for he brought some bad news.
“Moving slowly, as usual,” the colonel replied. “They are afraid of putting their expensive toys in harm’s way, and I have to remind them firmly that those ships were built or bought to do exactly that. What do you have for me?”
Mansoor handed over a single sheet of paper containing a summary of the Egyptian Tourism Authority’s dismal monthly report. The industry that was the nation’s primary source of jobs and revenue was drifting toward total collapse. Almost fifteen million tourists had visited Egypt in 2010, more than ever before; then, immediately after the fall of the dictator Mubarak, that number went off the cliff. Tourism was now down 80 percent.
The illusion of personal security had been crushed, and foreigners were taking their MasterCards to safer destinations instead of coming to Egypt to drift down the Nile and visit the Pyramids and the Sphinx. Millions of dollars were being lost every month, thousands of Egyptians were cast out of work, and the coalition governments that came and went with regularity were blamed.
“This is excellent,” said the colonel. “Keep the pressure on. Come up with some incidents where other tourists with camera phones capture the action for television. Maybe a German riding a camel, or a Canadian woman shopping for a rug, or some American hikers who believe they are exempt from the world’s woes.”
“Yes, sir.” Major Mansoor sucked in a sharp breath. Better to get this next part over with. “There has been an unwelcome development concerning the death of the American accountant. The sniper who was supposed to fly to Texas decided to drive instead and has been arrested on a traffic violation in the state of Alabama.”
The colonel closed his eyes tightly, fighting his temper. There was no need to argue about this, because Allah had willed it so. He remained quiet for a moment, letting his thoughts churn through the problem. “We must assume that the U.S. government has assumed custody of this fool by now. Can he hurt us?”
Mansoor felt almost giddy with relief that he was not being blamed. “No, sir. He knows nothing. If he remembers any of his training, and is faithful, he will not say a word to them, even under torture, particularly if we maintain his legal representation.”
“Why did he drive instead of fly?” That made no sense. The man should have been safe in Texas instead of in a jail cell.
“I have no idea, sir. His instructions were explicit, to get on the first plane available.”
The colonel pushed away from the desk a bit and crossed his legs, straightening the creases in his pants as he did so. The black shoes still gleamed in the overhead light. “You gave those instructions to him personally?”
“Yes, sir, in the usual way, sir, through encoded e-mails on a pornography site. The links were taken down after each use. He knew only enough to carry out the assigned task.”
The colonel cocked his head to one side. “So there’s really nothing we can do.” It was a statement, not a question. “The man made a serious error and it came back to bite him.”
“He cannot hurt us, sir. I’m certain of that, but it is unforgivable that he disobeyed orders.”
“Instruct our people in Tehran to kill the fool’s mother, and have that news passed along when Washington allows him to communicate with a lawyer. That will encourage him to remain quiet.”
Major Mansoor smoothly moved to the next subject. “We have had a positive result, sir, on your idea to follow the accountant’s route home to determine if he met with anyone. Aside from the travel and hotel people, his only private meeting was in London, with an industrialist named Sir Geoffrey Cornwell.” He slid a typed biography and a photograph across the desk.
The colonel studied it. “I know of this man. Retired colonel in the British SAS, a wealthy industrialist and an expert in weapons development.” He shut his eyes once again in thought, wondering what Cornwell might have done with the information from the accountant. “Major, I want you to dig deeper on Cornwell. Examine his schedule for the next few weeks to see if there is an opening through which we can get to him.”
Mansoor made a note on his pad. “Yes, sir.”
The colonel was studying the biography again. “And one other thing. Take a look at his wife, this Lady Patricia Cornwell, too. Perhaps we might reach her with less trouble. If we take her, Sir Geoffrey will be much more willing to have a conversation with us.”
Jim Lincoln held their unwilling guest in a steel-tight grip as Buster Lincoln opened a rear door of the enclosed truck trailer. When Pejman Mobili struggled, Jim said, “Be still, boy. I’m looking for a reason to hurt you.”