with the bait. Would you like that?”
“You bastard!”
“Because of you, I’m parentless. But I’m not a bastard. ”
“You are a . . .”
“Shush, shush. No time for that. Let’s get bait on the line. Hello, bait.”
I could hear a woman whimpering.
Trapper said, “Tell him your name.”
“Isa . . . Isabella.”
Trapper muttered, “Izzy Bella. You must be scared.”
Her voice sounded muffled when she responded, “Please . . . please, let . . .”
“You go?” Trapper laughed again. “Not likely under current conditions. Mr. Cochrane: if you drop your gun, she might live. If not, she’ll die because of your cowardice.”
The numbness I felt earlier was gone, and my heart was pounding. “Who is she?”
“A twenty-year-old Argentinian girl with ropes around her body.” Trapper sounded matter-of-fact when he added, “I can’t really think of anything more interesting to say about her.”
I took a step forward, my gun still pointed at the water tower. “Her voice could be a prerecording.” Just like the woman’s voice in the GPS that had brought me to this kill zone.
“Ask her anything you like, something I couldn’t predict and prerecord.”
My cell felt clammy against my ear. “She’s still listening?”
“Yes.”
My mind raced as I tried to think of a question that might resonate with a person who wasn’t my gender or nationality, and was fifteen years younger than me. I decided to ask her to do something that was out of Trapper’s control. “Isabella. Listen to me carefully. I want you to repeat back to me what I’m about to say.”
Her voice sounded strained as she replied, “Okay.”
“The phrase is: Trapper is seriously fucked up. I repeat: Trapper is seriously fucked up.”
“I beg you . . .”
I shouted, “Just say it. It’s proof of life and may just save your neck.”
Isabella responded in a near whisper. “Trapper is seriously fucked up.”
“Good.” I asked, “Are you hurt?”
“Enough!” Trapper was back on the line and sounded angry.
I smiled. “Bet you didn’t like that.”
“I might as well kill you now.”
“With a gunshot?” I took five steps forward. “Then you’ll have failed to put me in the box.”
Trapper was silent for a moment before asking, “Would you like to meet Izzy Bella? The trunk can be opened from the outside.”
I stood stock still.
“Go on. If you’re brave enough.”
I walked quickly toward the trunk, knowing that if I fired my handgun, I’d struggle at this distance to hit the tower, let alone a man on its walkway.
I reached the trunk and saw that it was secured by numerous steel bolts. I’d no idea what Trapper’s game was, but I had to open the trunk and get Isabella out of there. Keeping my gun pointed toward the tower, I slid back each bolt and swung the lid open.
What? I thought.
Inside was a young Indian man. He was bound in chains. Around his throat was razor wire that had cut into his skin. Blood had drooled out of his mouth; more of it covered his naked upper torso, having oozed out of a bullet wound in his chest. I placed my fingers against his neck, then his wrist. No heartbeat. He was dead.
The man at the end of the line said, “His name was Sahir. I told him you murdered his father and I could help him get revenge.”
I tried to make sense of it. “Who was his father?”
“The man I described to you. Don’t worry—you didn’t kill him. I did. And tonight I killed his son.”
I gripped my gun harder. “What is this about?”
Calmly, the man replied, “It’s about a young man deliberately getting himself arrested in Afghanistan so that he could convincingly tell the CIA that you’re being targeted for assassination. It’s about flushing you out and doing so in a way that gets you on your own. And ultimately, Mr. Cochrane, it’s about punishing you.”
“For what?”
“One day you’ll find out. Today’s not that day.”
I glanced at Sahir. He looked so young.
“You bastard!”
“Because of you, I’m parentless. But I’m not a bastard. ”
“You are a . . .”
“Shush, shush. No time for that. Let’s get bait on the line. Hello, bait.”
I could hear a woman whimpering.
Trapper said, “Tell him your name.”
“Isa . . . Isabella.”
Trapper muttered, “Izzy Bella. You must be scared.”
Her voice sounded muffled when she responded, “Please . . . please, let . . .”
“You go?” Trapper laughed again. “Not likely under current conditions. Mr. Cochrane: if you drop your gun, she might live. If not, she’ll die because of your cowardice.”
The numbness I felt earlier was gone, and my heart was pounding. “Who is she?”
“A twenty-year-old Argentinian girl with ropes around her body.” Trapper sounded matter-of-fact when he added, “I can’t really think of anything more interesting to say about her.”
I took a step forward, my gun still pointed at the water tower. “Her voice could be a prerecording.” Just like the woman’s voice in the GPS that had brought me to this kill zone.
“Ask her anything you like, something I couldn’t predict and prerecord.”
My cell felt clammy against my ear. “She’s still listening?”
“Yes.”
My mind raced as I tried to think of a question that might resonate with a person who wasn’t my gender or nationality, and was fifteen years younger than me. I decided to ask her to do something that was out of Trapper’s control. “Isabella. Listen to me carefully. I want you to repeat back to me what I’m about to say.”
Her voice sounded strained as she replied, “Okay.”
“The phrase is: Trapper is seriously fucked up. I repeat: Trapper is seriously fucked up.”
“I beg you . . .”
I shouted, “Just say it. It’s proof of life and may just save your neck.”
Isabella responded in a near whisper. “Trapper is seriously fucked up.”
“Good.” I asked, “Are you hurt?”
“Enough!” Trapper was back on the line and sounded angry.
I smiled. “Bet you didn’t like that.”
“I might as well kill you now.”
“With a gunshot?” I took five steps forward. “Then you’ll have failed to put me in the box.”
Trapper was silent for a moment before asking, “Would you like to meet Izzy Bella? The trunk can be opened from the outside.”
I stood stock still.
“Go on. If you’re brave enough.”
I walked quickly toward the trunk, knowing that if I fired my handgun, I’d struggle at this distance to hit the tower, let alone a man on its walkway.
I reached the trunk and saw that it was secured by numerous steel bolts. I’d no idea what Trapper’s game was, but I had to open the trunk and get Isabella out of there. Keeping my gun pointed toward the tower, I slid back each bolt and swung the lid open.
What? I thought.
Inside was a young Indian man. He was bound in chains. Around his throat was razor wire that had cut into his skin. Blood had drooled out of his mouth; more of it covered his naked upper torso, having oozed out of a bullet wound in his chest. I placed my fingers against his neck, then his wrist. No heartbeat. He was dead.
The man at the end of the line said, “His name was Sahir. I told him you murdered his father and I could help him get revenge.”
I tried to make sense of it. “Who was his father?”
“The man I described to you. Don’t worry—you didn’t kill him. I did. And tonight I killed his son.”
I gripped my gun harder. “What is this about?”
Calmly, the man replied, “It’s about a young man deliberately getting himself arrested in Afghanistan so that he could convincingly tell the CIA that you’re being targeted for assassination. It’s about flushing you out and doing so in a way that gets you on your own. And ultimately, Mr. Cochrane, it’s about punishing you.”
“For what?”
“One day you’ll find out. Today’s not that day.”
I glanced at Sahir. He looked so young.
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