The place had been functional for just two weeks, and Sayyed did not plan to use it for more than another few days at the most. The greatest vulnerability for his side was a complete lack of air power. If some dog in Israel found out where he was, he could have jets scrambled and dropping bombs on him in less than twenty minutes.
He took the stairs down to the basement level. The smell of raw sewage was an instant reminder that the city was still suffering the ills of almost fifteen years of fighting. Two men were in the hallway-standing next to a kerosene lamp. They were still without power in the basement. Without having to be told, the men moved away from the door. The older of the two snapped off a distinctly British salute.
“Colonel, it is good to see you.”
Sayyed ignored the greeting. “Where is Colonel Jalil?”
The man jerked his head toward the door. “He is inside with the prisoner.”
Sayyed motioned for him to open the door.
The guard extended his hand. In it was a black hood. “To hide your identity.”
Sayyed gave him a disdainful look, and the man put the hood away and opened the door. A man sat naked in the middle of the room tied to metal chair. One man was standing beside him, another in front. Both were wearing black hoods. Sayyed entered the room and walked directly to the prisoner. He grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head up so he could see his face. Sayyed stood there searching the man’s features for half a minute. So far he only had a trickle of dried blood on his upper lip. Other than that he looked untouched.
“Who are you?” Sayyed asked.
“My name is Nihad Wassouf.”
Sayyed stared at him for a long time and finally said, “I think you are a liar. In fact I think you are a Jew.”
“No!” the man protested vehemently. “I am a Syrian.”
“I doubt that.”
“I would not lie about such a thing. Check with the names I have given you.”
Sayyed was already doing just that, but this man seemed like a rat to him, and those lazy fools back in Damascus could be tricked. Without warning, Sayyed walked over to a small cart. A variety of tools were lying on the surface. His hands danced from one to the next. He did not want to do anything that would require medical attention at this point. Finally, he settled on a pair of pliers. Sayyed walked back to the man and held the pliers in front of him. “I am not as nice, nor am I as patient as these two men. I will ask you only one more time … what is your real name?”
The man stammered for a second and then said, “Nihad Wassouf.”
Sayyed reached out and straightened the prisoner’s forefinger on his left hand. He clamped the pliers down on the quarter inch of nail that extended beyond the tip of the finger and rocked it back and forth a few times. The prisoner began to squirm. A line of crimson blood appeared at the edge of the nail bed. “Tell me your real name.”
“I already have … I swear.”
“Why are you looking for the American?”
“I was sent here to negotiate his release.”
“By who?”
“His company.”
“I think you are lying.”
“No … I am not. Call my friends in Damascus. They will vouch for me.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Please. I am only a messenger. They are willing to pay a great sum of money.”
“What if you are a spy?”
“I am not.”
“Liar!” And with that Sayyed tore the man’s fingernail completely out of its bed.
CHAPTER 10
LAKE ANNA, VIRGINIA
T HE doctor peeled off his leather riding gear and stood on the porch listening to Hurley recount the afternoon’s events. He did so as passively as possible, even though his concern grew on several fronts. Interrupting, he’d learned with Hurley, was a bad approach. It was best to let him get it all out. Questions or comments could be perceived as a personal attack, which in turn would elicit a spirited counterattack, all of which the doctor knew was very counterproductive.
Lewis had met the spook five
He took the stairs down to the basement level. The smell of raw sewage was an instant reminder that the city was still suffering the ills of almost fifteen years of fighting. Two men were in the hallway-standing next to a kerosene lamp. They were still without power in the basement. Without having to be told, the men moved away from the door. The older of the two snapped off a distinctly British salute.
“Colonel, it is good to see you.”
Sayyed ignored the greeting. “Where is Colonel Jalil?”
The man jerked his head toward the door. “He is inside with the prisoner.”
Sayyed motioned for him to open the door.
The guard extended his hand. In it was a black hood. “To hide your identity.”
Sayyed gave him a disdainful look, and the man put the hood away and opened the door. A man sat naked in the middle of the room tied to metal chair. One man was standing beside him, another in front. Both were wearing black hoods. Sayyed entered the room and walked directly to the prisoner. He grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head up so he could see his face. Sayyed stood there searching the man’s features for half a minute. So far he only had a trickle of dried blood on his upper lip. Other than that he looked untouched.
“Who are you?” Sayyed asked.
“My name is Nihad Wassouf.”
Sayyed stared at him for a long time and finally said, “I think you are a liar. In fact I think you are a Jew.”
“No!” the man protested vehemently. “I am a Syrian.”
“I doubt that.”
“I would not lie about such a thing. Check with the names I have given you.”
Sayyed was already doing just that, but this man seemed like a rat to him, and those lazy fools back in Damascus could be tricked. Without warning, Sayyed walked over to a small cart. A variety of tools were lying on the surface. His hands danced from one to the next. He did not want to do anything that would require medical attention at this point. Finally, he settled on a pair of pliers. Sayyed walked back to the man and held the pliers in front of him. “I am not as nice, nor am I as patient as these two men. I will ask you only one more time … what is your real name?”
The man stammered for a second and then said, “Nihad Wassouf.”
Sayyed reached out and straightened the prisoner’s forefinger on his left hand. He clamped the pliers down on the quarter inch of nail that extended beyond the tip of the finger and rocked it back and forth a few times. The prisoner began to squirm. A line of crimson blood appeared at the edge of the nail bed. “Tell me your real name.”
“I already have … I swear.”
“Why are you looking for the American?”
“I was sent here to negotiate his release.”
“By who?”
“His company.”
“I think you are lying.”
“No … I am not. Call my friends in Damascus. They will vouch for me.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Please. I am only a messenger. They are willing to pay a great sum of money.”
“What if you are a spy?”
“I am not.”
“Liar!” And with that Sayyed tore the man’s fingernail completely out of its bed.
CHAPTER 10
LAKE ANNA, VIRGINIA
T HE doctor peeled off his leather riding gear and stood on the porch listening to Hurley recount the afternoon’s events. He did so as passively as possible, even though his concern grew on several fronts. Interrupting, he’d learned with Hurley, was a bad approach. It was best to let him get it all out. Questions or comments could be perceived as a personal attack, which in turn would elicit a spirited counterattack, all of which the doctor knew was very counterproductive.
Lewis had met the spook five
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