Then he turned to Zak again. “You,” he said. “You, I think, will give me better, more pleasurable days.”
“Weren’t we supposed to put this man,” said one of the guards, pointing at Zak, “in bits and pieces in front of the Embassy?”
Hamani glared at the man who had questioned him. “No. I am certain it was Petroni that was to be dumped. We are to interrogate this one,” he said, pointing at Zak. “And that will take a month or two. He is not to be killed immediately.” He brandished the machete, looking around to see if anyone else was going to contradict his orders.
“Yes, of course sir,” was the immediate response.
Hamani walked too and fro, hand rubbing his chin, reflecting, then turned to one of the guards. “I think I know how we will start with this man. Heat up the cauterizer, please.”
Zak felt a cold chill flow through him. He was about to lose a part of his body, and it would not be pleasant. As he was pulled back into the room, he glanced at Petroni’s body. Hamani had said a month or two. That meant that tonight would not be his night to die. It was something, at least. In theory. He watched as Hamani went to his tool bench and examined several instruments, finally settling on an old carpenter’s saw. He took it from the counter and checked its sharpness with a flicking thumb.
“Dull, gentlemen,” he said to the guards. “It is difficult to do one’s work when instruments are not up to scratch.” He laughed a strange, high-pitched laugh of excitement. “Let’s see now. Where to begin?” He circled Zak, looking for all the world like Michelangelo surveying a block of marble. “Let’s see.”
Zak took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure. As Hamani approached him, he stared the man in the eye, refusing to show any fear. Instead of thinking about what was going to happen, he tried to think about what he’d do to put the torturer in his place, were he free of the bonds and guards. He pulled against the leather thongs with all his might, praying that they would break, and give him the chance to do just that. The muscles in his well-defined arms and torso strained until he thought his tendons and ligaments might burst, but there was no give in the restraints.
Hamani simply looked on in approval. “Lots of fight in this one,” he said, nodding. He brought the saw to Zak’s left wrist, touching blade to skin, slowly increasing the pressure. Unwilling to take this lying down, Zak bucked with his torso and used what limited movement he had from shoulder to hand. “We’ll need some assistance here,” murmured Hamani, and again laughed his freakish, high-pitched cackle.
Zak realized that he had never hated anyone with such intensity. His plans for escape quickly began to include a slow and painful death for this man who thought to play God with the lives of others. He renewed his struggles, wishing with every ounce of his will that it would happen now. He had been trained in self-defense for years, by both the Marines and the CIA, and then for his undercover role. He was incredibly strong, and equally determined, fueled by both hatred and the strong disinclination to lose his hand. In the end, two of the guards were required to immobilize his wrist.
“You know, whoever you are, we are certainly going to enjoy your time with us,” Hamani smiled. Then, in light, slow motions, he began to move the saw across Zak’s wrist joint.
The pain was searing, blinding. Zak remained silent for the first three or four saw strokes, certain that his discipline would see him through. Then, in spite of himself, he began to moan aloud, eventually finding temporary mercy in unconsciousness.
You did well, sir,” Hamani told him when he came to. “I am impressed with a man who does not scream, but merely moans, as his hand is severed. And here it is. Your very own left hand.”
Hamani brought it closer to Zak’s eyes, until it was only an inch away, and then even closer, touching his prisoner’s face with the fingers that were no longer his. Zak passed out again, from shock, blood loss, and the conscious decision to leave the situation. Hamani quickly motioned to one of his men, commanding that the cauterizer be brought to him. The device, resembling an oversized branding iron, had been electrically heated, and was, at this point, white hot.
The shock of the burning heat on his arm brought Zak back to consciousness with a scream of pain. The cauterizer was hissing against his wrist joint, and the smell of charred flesh nearly choked him. He struggled in pain and anger, straining once again at his bonds.
Hamani smiled at Zak. “You see, I will become your benefactor. I will stop the bleeding. I will lengthen your life, a life that you will pray ends quickly. A life where your last words will be to thank me for letting you go. You will go mad, as the other prisoners do. But we have many weeks before that happens.”
He turned to the guards. “Take him back to his cell,” he said. “Take him, but with care. He is powerful and there is much fight in him. Use the restraints whenever you escort him to and from the cells.”
Hamani tossed Zak’s left hand onto the small pile of body parts that had once been Petroni. “Take that shit and drop it in front of the Embassy,” he said, motioning to the carnage. “Be certain that you don’t lose any of it.”
As two of the men lugged Petroni’s remains up the steep staircase that led to the outside world, his head tumbled from a poorly closed burlap sack. The second guard bent to retrieve it, and threw it up to his coworker, who threw it back down. The second guard threw the head up again, this time deliberately throwing it behind the first. This action led to an impromptu game of soccer. When the game ended another guard took what was left of Petroni’s head and threw it into a deep ravine behind the fortress.
“No need to worry about it now. The animals will get it. No one will ever find it,” he said, scuffing dirt at the disappearing head.
Later, Zak awoke to find himself in his cell once again. With Petroni gone, he had the place to himself. For a moment he forgot where he was, but then glanced down at where his hand should have been and nearly screamed as his memories came crashing back. Along with the memories of pain and frustration, though, came another realization.
Hamani had spoken of keeping him for a month or two. For interrogation. At the time he’d been able to think only of seven or eight Weeks of torture, if he didn’t get out. But now Zak remembered something else. And it was a far cry from what Hamani had said. Engulfed in waves of pain and partial unconsciousness after being attacked by Marak, Zak had still distinctly heard Yousseff say, “Extract from him whatever information you can, and dump his body in some remote canyon in the Hindu Kush.”
That seemed clear enough; Yousseff had wanted him killed. But the orders had evidently been lost. Hamani had confused the instructions. Instead, he was to be kept alive and questioned. Zak’s mind grabbed the idea and focused on it with a fierce intensity. He had prayed to God for a reprieve. It had been handed to him, through the death of the wrong man. Instead of being killed immediately, as he should have been, he had time… time to be tortured, from Hamani’s standpoint. Time to plan an escape, from Zak’s.
11
It was close to midnight when Turbee slouched back to his apartment. Most of his colleagues left by five, and a few hung around till six, but even George was normally gone by nine. Turbee loved challenges, though, and didn’t rest until he had them figured out. He had stayed in the office until he had the Heckler and Koch issue sorted out, and thought now that Dan would certainly be pleased tomorrow. Another major victory, yet elation eluded him. The embarrassment of the day still stung. He wasn’t working on the possible WMD strike on one of the nation’s ports. Dan had deliberately excluded him from that and relegated him to the lower-priority problem of finding some stolen Semtex.