taking me?" Robert cried out.
His question evoked a grunt from one of the soldiers. They hauled him up two flights of cracked and splitting stone stairs, through a door that led outside into bright sunlight that momentarily blinded Robert after so long in the dark cell. He squinted, trying to see where he was, where he was being taken.
They loaded him into the back of a truck, open on top, which was empty except for bits of fruits and vegetables. Two of the soldiers climbed up and sat down on the floor with him. A heavy dark green vinyl tarp was pulled over the top. Then the truck began to move. "Where are we going?" Robert asked.
No one responded.
The air was stifling under the tarp. Robert strained his eyes to see through a rip in the plastic, but he was too far to the side. One of the soldiers pointed a gun at Robert. The other took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. In a matter of seconds the pungent aroma of Turkish tobacco filled the air. To Robert, the odor was disgusting.
He wanted to remain awake and alert, to observe everything he could about where they were taking him, maybe even to escape if he had the chance. But his body betrayed his mind. Ever since he could remember, he fell asleep in a vehicle when he was tired and he wasn't driving. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness.
The truck slammed to a stop. Robert opened his eyes and saw a worried look on the face of the soldier who was smoking. He crushed out the cigarette with his boot and peeked out of a corner where the tarp was loose. His look of concern turned to amusement. He said something to his comrade, which Robert couldn't understand. They both laughed. From his pocket he removed a grease-stained cloth, covered Robert's eyes, and tied it behind the prisoner's head. Robert smelled another cigarette being lit.
The wheels of the truck started rolling again. Robert, sitting and leaning back against one of the wooden planks on the side, found a haze descending over his mind. He could no longer think clearly. He closed his eyes. He wanted to believe that it was good he was being moved, that his father had found a way to win his release. More likely, he thought with grim bitterness, his father had somehow managed to make Robert's fate worse, as he usually did.
* * *
Sarah McCallister stared into the bathroom mirror in the suite at the Four Seasons and was horrified. "My God, I look like a mess," she announced to the haggard, wrinkled face with bloodshot eyes that stared back at her. It had been another long night of anguishâthe third since her Bobby's plane had been shot downâtossing and turning in bed, her chest and stomach muscles tightening to the point of agony when she tried to imagine the horror confronting poor Bobby. Twice she felt she was on the verge of a heart attack. And all the while Terry was in the same bed sleeping soundly, secure in the belief that the president, who owed him big-time, would secure Bobby's release. Finally, at four-thirty, she had moved to the other bedroom in the suite.
She couldn't stand to be with him in bed any longer. How could he sleep? He was the one who was responsible for what had happened to Bobby. He was the one who robbed Bobby of his childhood, who constantly raised the bar so high that no accomplishment was ever enough, who latched on to the absurd idea that his son would have a career in politics and one day become president, a blueprint that Terry would dearly have wanted for himself but was unable to achieve because of what he had done in his youth.
"Leave him alone, Terry. Let him live his own life," she had pleaded.
"Stay out of it," he had snapped back.
He had brushed her concerns aside and increased the pressure on Bobby, who didn't have Ann's courage to disobey him.
The idea of Terry's living vicariously through Bobby's accomplishments infuriated her, but she was helpless to do anything.
Terry had been stupid to drag them both from Chicago to
His question evoked a grunt from one of the soldiers. They hauled him up two flights of cracked and splitting stone stairs, through a door that led outside into bright sunlight that momentarily blinded Robert after so long in the dark cell. He squinted, trying to see where he was, where he was being taken.
They loaded him into the back of a truck, open on top, which was empty except for bits of fruits and vegetables. Two of the soldiers climbed up and sat down on the floor with him. A heavy dark green vinyl tarp was pulled over the top. Then the truck began to move. "Where are we going?" Robert asked.
No one responded.
The air was stifling under the tarp. Robert strained his eyes to see through a rip in the plastic, but he was too far to the side. One of the soldiers pointed a gun at Robert. The other took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. In a matter of seconds the pungent aroma of Turkish tobacco filled the air. To Robert, the odor was disgusting.
He wanted to remain awake and alert, to observe everything he could about where they were taking him, maybe even to escape if he had the chance. But his body betrayed his mind. Ever since he could remember, he fell asleep in a vehicle when he was tired and he wasn't driving. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness.
The truck slammed to a stop. Robert opened his eyes and saw a worried look on the face of the soldier who was smoking. He crushed out the cigarette with his boot and peeked out of a corner where the tarp was loose. His look of concern turned to amusement. He said something to his comrade, which Robert couldn't understand. They both laughed. From his pocket he removed a grease-stained cloth, covered Robert's eyes, and tied it behind the prisoner's head. Robert smelled another cigarette being lit.
The wheels of the truck started rolling again. Robert, sitting and leaning back against one of the wooden planks on the side, found a haze descending over his mind. He could no longer think clearly. He closed his eyes. He wanted to believe that it was good he was being moved, that his father had found a way to win his release. More likely, he thought with grim bitterness, his father had somehow managed to make Robert's fate worse, as he usually did.
* * *
Sarah McCallister stared into the bathroom mirror in the suite at the Four Seasons and was horrified. "My God, I look like a mess," she announced to the haggard, wrinkled face with bloodshot eyes that stared back at her. It had been another long night of anguishâthe third since her Bobby's plane had been shot downâtossing and turning in bed, her chest and stomach muscles tightening to the point of agony when she tried to imagine the horror confronting poor Bobby. Twice she felt she was on the verge of a heart attack. And all the while Terry was in the same bed sleeping soundly, secure in the belief that the president, who owed him big-time, would secure Bobby's release. Finally, at four-thirty, she had moved to the other bedroom in the suite.
She couldn't stand to be with him in bed any longer. How could he sleep? He was the one who was responsible for what had happened to Bobby. He was the one who robbed Bobby of his childhood, who constantly raised the bar so high that no accomplishment was ever enough, who latched on to the absurd idea that his son would have a career in politics and one day become president, a blueprint that Terry would dearly have wanted for himself but was unable to achieve because of what he had done in his youth.
"Leave him alone, Terry. Let him live his own life," she had pleaded.
"Stay out of it," he had snapped back.
He had brushed her concerns aside and increased the pressure on Bobby, who didn't have Ann's courage to disobey him.
The idea of Terry's living vicariously through Bobby's accomplishments infuriated her, but she was helpless to do anything.
Terry had been stupid to drag them both from Chicago to
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