I’m not even religious, and certainly not Jewish!”
Before I could answer, another man entered. Older, and much more self-assured, with an eight-inch salt-and-pepper beard just like Osama bin Laden used to have.
The boss.
He said something in Arabic, and the tough said something back. The boss screamed at the man, and immediately he was rippingthrough my pockets. He found the cell phone and passed it over. They both left the room, and I prayed the phone stayed in the building. It was my last bit of hope.
I went through strategies for prolonging the inevitable, but my mind was having trouble staying focused. I felt a deep sense of fear, a pathological phobia of what was about to happen, and it was blotting out logical thought. I knew that sooner or later they were going to get rough, and I had seen what that entailed.
In 1984, the CIA chief of station in Beirut, William Buckley, was kidnapped by Hezbollah. Months later, an unmarked videotape arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Athens. In it, a nude William Buckley was being gruesomely tortured. Another tape arrived every few months, until one came simply showing him dead, the skin puckered throughout his naked body from repeated abuse.
The tapes were classified, but I had seen them. They had left a mark on my soul, grainy images branded in my brain and guttural screams haunting my dreams, made all the more visceral because they were real. The pain, shrieks, and agony weren’t from a screenplay, but a living man. The tapes had left a disquieting mark on my subconscious that had never gone away. I hadn’t ever told anyone, but Buckley’s fate was my singular fear. And now I was going to live it. Buckley had managed to survive for more than a year of inhumane captivity. If it came to it, I hoped my demise would be much, much quicker.
Rescue wasn’t going to happen. An enormous effort had been made to locate Buckley, using the entire powers of the Central Intelligence Agency, along with help from a multitude of Western intelligence agencies and Mossad. He was, after all, the Beirut chief of station. None of it had mattered.
I had no such luxury. Nobody even knew I was missing. There would be no grand struggle to locate and recover me.
All I had was Jennifer.
* * *
Jennifer fought with all of her might to prevent being thrown into the van, but it was wasted effort. With four men holding her writhing form, she made them work, but that was all. They heaved her through the sliding door hard enough to slam against the other side.
She sprang to her knees and turned to fight, striking the first man who tried to enter with two quick jabs. The back doors opened, and two men piled in. She lashed out with her feet, connecting with one and trying to slip past the other out the back, to freedom.
He slammed her above the ear with a straight right punch, causing stars. She continued to spin toward the rear, getting her hands outside the van. She pulled, and felt her legs grabbed. She was ripped inside and set upon by both men. They began to punch her all over, forcing her to curl to protect herself. She felt the van move and heard someone shouting in Arabic. The punching stopped, followed by the men simply holding her down.
She heard her name called over and over. She looked to the voice and saw Samir staring at her in concern, his lip split, nose bleeding, and the left side of his face swollen.
“Have you gone mad? What in the world happened?” he said.
She began to buck, trying to get out of the men’s grasp, spittle flying from her mouth.
“Jennifer, stop it! Look at me.”
She relaxed, her eyes on the ceiling of the van. “Looks like you got us both, you son of a bitch.”
“I had nothing to do with that bomb. I still don’t know what happened. Where’s Pike?”
She looked at him, trying to sense deception. “The computer you gave Pike didn’t only have a camera. It had a bomb.”
He said nothing, his mouth dropping open.
“I get that you have
Before I could answer, another man entered. Older, and much more self-assured, with an eight-inch salt-and-pepper beard just like Osama bin Laden used to have.
The boss.
He said something in Arabic, and the tough said something back. The boss screamed at the man, and immediately he was rippingthrough my pockets. He found the cell phone and passed it over. They both left the room, and I prayed the phone stayed in the building. It was my last bit of hope.
I went through strategies for prolonging the inevitable, but my mind was having trouble staying focused. I felt a deep sense of fear, a pathological phobia of what was about to happen, and it was blotting out logical thought. I knew that sooner or later they were going to get rough, and I had seen what that entailed.
In 1984, the CIA chief of station in Beirut, William Buckley, was kidnapped by Hezbollah. Months later, an unmarked videotape arrived at the U.S. Embassy in Athens. In it, a nude William Buckley was being gruesomely tortured. Another tape arrived every few months, until one came simply showing him dead, the skin puckered throughout his naked body from repeated abuse.
The tapes were classified, but I had seen them. They had left a mark on my soul, grainy images branded in my brain and guttural screams haunting my dreams, made all the more visceral because they were real. The pain, shrieks, and agony weren’t from a screenplay, but a living man. The tapes had left a disquieting mark on my subconscious that had never gone away. I hadn’t ever told anyone, but Buckley’s fate was my singular fear. And now I was going to live it. Buckley had managed to survive for more than a year of inhumane captivity. If it came to it, I hoped my demise would be much, much quicker.
Rescue wasn’t going to happen. An enormous effort had been made to locate Buckley, using the entire powers of the Central Intelligence Agency, along with help from a multitude of Western intelligence agencies and Mossad. He was, after all, the Beirut chief of station. None of it had mattered.
I had no such luxury. Nobody even knew I was missing. There would be no grand struggle to locate and recover me.
All I had was Jennifer.
* * *
Jennifer fought with all of her might to prevent being thrown into the van, but it was wasted effort. With four men holding her writhing form, she made them work, but that was all. They heaved her through the sliding door hard enough to slam against the other side.
She sprang to her knees and turned to fight, striking the first man who tried to enter with two quick jabs. The back doors opened, and two men piled in. She lashed out with her feet, connecting with one and trying to slip past the other out the back, to freedom.
He slammed her above the ear with a straight right punch, causing stars. She continued to spin toward the rear, getting her hands outside the van. She pulled, and felt her legs grabbed. She was ripped inside and set upon by both men. They began to punch her all over, forcing her to curl to protect herself. She felt the van move and heard someone shouting in Arabic. The punching stopped, followed by the men simply holding her down.
She heard her name called over and over. She looked to the voice and saw Samir staring at her in concern, his lip split, nose bleeding, and the left side of his face swollen.
“Have you gone mad? What in the world happened?” he said.
She began to buck, trying to get out of the men’s grasp, spittle flying from her mouth.
“Jennifer, stop it! Look at me.”
She relaxed, her eyes on the ceiling of the van. “Looks like you got us both, you son of a bitch.”
“I had nothing to do with that bomb. I still don’t know what happened. Where’s Pike?”
She looked at him, trying to sense deception. “The computer you gave Pike didn’t only have a camera. It had a bomb.”
He said nothing, his mouth dropping open.
“I get that you have
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