The media scrum was becoming uneasy. The President himself reading a coroner’s report? What was up with that? The President sensed the growing discomfort in the room, but continued. He read slowly and deliberately, pausing a second or two between phrases or sentences, to let the awful magnitude of what had happened to Zak truly sink in.
“They smashed his right leg to pieces. They tore the tibia completely from its surrounding flesh and tissue, and discarded it. It was not with the rest of the body. They smashed most of the bones in his feet to pieces with some kind of blunt instrument, probably a hammer. They ruptured both testicles, through blunt force trauma. The forensic scientists who examined him think this was done through repeated, incredibly vicious blows to the groin. He had many internal injuries, some occasioned by blunt force, others by surgical instruments.”
The President was speaking with a slow and measured deliberation. He wanted to make sure that everyone understood what had happened. The fidgeting in the room increased.
“Worse yet, they proceeded to flay the skin from his body. The skin was removed from his entire left arm, and most of his right arm received the same treatment. There was similar abuse to the skin on his back. Some of these injuries were old when he died, which means he was tortured again and again, over many weeks.”
The President stopped reading for a moment. It was not for dramatic effect. He too was feeling the pain and outrage of what had happened, and his voice was going to fail him if he continued. He took a long sip of water, looking out over his audience. The press began shifting nervously in their seats. They did not want to hear anything else. But there was more, and the President wasn’t going to let them off the hook.
“At some point in this hideous crime, Zak’s captors proceeded, while he was still alive, to dismember him. Both feet were chopped from his body. We received only one hand, which seems to have been cut off using a dull carpenter’s saw. We can only hope that he was unconscious for much of this abuse. Both his arms and both his legs were also cut off before he was killed.
“His remains were placed in rice bags and deposited in front of the American Embassy in Islamabad. That is where he was found. Only one hand and one foot were included, and his head was missing. We do not know why this was done, but it makes it extremely difficult to say exactly how our man finally died.”
For a full 30 seconds there was dead silence from the usually raucous press corp. No one dared speak. There was no coughing, no shuffling of feet, no raising of a hand. Any remaining questions about the Haramosh Star were forgotten. The President slowly leaned forward, pinning the reporters with his gaze, and spoke into the bundle of microphones. “We will find his killers. We know exactly where they are located. And we will bring them to justice. That is a promise. Thank you.”
He turned and left, leaving his press secretary to answer the questions, which began slowly, but continued for a full 30 minutes.
The central ballroom at Ramma 5, Diplomatic Enclave was crowded, with all eyes focused on the wide screen TV. Almost everyone in the Islamabad Embassy had known Zak. None had heard the coroner’s report yet. As the President’s speech went on, some started to sob, while others curled their fists in anger. How could they? How could the cold-hearted, murderous bastards do this to any person, and how could it have happened to someone who had been their colleague and friend?
None took the briefing harder than Richard. He had considered Zak a brother. He had grown up with him, and lived with Zak and his family in California when his own mother and father were lost in the car crash. Zak had been his family; his best friend and brother. When he first found out about the man’s death, he had gone on a binge of alcohol and painkillers. He had let the fog of drugs and alcohol numb his system, and transport him back to an earlier time. A time when he had thought life was over, and when Zak had been there to pick him up and carry him on.
It had been a warm September evening in 1970 when a young Richard heard a sharp knock on the door of his stately family home on Ramma 5, Islamabad, just a few steps over from the American Embassy. He had been deeply immersed in an introductory calculus text, attempting to solve derivative equations. Because of his nationality and his parents’ positions at the Embassy, his schoolwork was done partially through correspondence and partially through the local high school. Exams were approaching, and he had been deeply engrossed in his work. When he didn’t respond to the knock, it was repeated, more insistently. Richard put his pen down, and walked toward the front door. As he reached the central foyer the knock was repeated a third time.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said in Urdu, hastening to open the door. There stood a 20-year-old Michael Buckingham, red faced and out of breath. Michael had held a junior CIA position at the time. He would soon leave the Embassy for field work, to return more than 20 years later as the station head.
“Michael, what’s up?” Richard had asked, watching a small rivulet of sweat crawl down Michael’s forehead.
“It’s bad, Richard. It’s… it’s very bad. Richard…”
“What Michael? You’re scaring me. What?” A small core of anxiety had formed in the pit of Richard’s stomach.
“There’s really no easy way to say this. It’s your folks. Your parents. Both dead. Both. Richard I’m so so sorry.”
The words had pounded into him like a sledgehammer on an anvil. “Michael. Both? You’re serious? How?”
“Car accident. Toward Peshawar. A huge transport truck drove right over their car. Driver was drunk.” The words tumbled out of Michael in a rush of sorrow. “Or stoned. They never had a chance. They died instantly. Richard, I am so sorry.”
“Where are they? Where are their bodies? Michael, take me to them. Now.” By this time the adrenalin had been pumping into Richard’s system, and his mouth was as dry as sandpaper. He’d thought that it had to be a mistake.
“Richard, you need to come with me to the Embassy. The station chief will handle it from there. Come on, please.” Michael had gently reached out to take Richard’s arm.
Senses numbed, Richard had followed the older man. They had reached the Embassy gates before he realized that he’d forgotten his shoes. Richard had been an only child. Now he was an orphan. The shock had pushed everything else from his mind.
Richard had continued to insist on seeing the bodies after he got to the Embassy. “Take me to them. I want to see them,” he said. “Show me the bodies.” Over the protestations of the station chief, he was taken to the basement morgue of Islamabad General Hospital.
“Look, Richard, you don’t have to do this,” the station chief had told him.
“I need to know that they’re dead, that there is no hope or possibility of them living. I need to know it. Let me see them,” Richard had told the older man. He was still in shock, and spoke with no emotion whatsoever.
The stainless steel drawers were pulled back, and Richard had come face to face with his parents — two wonderful, kind, and generous people, with whom he had eaten breakfast no more than four hours earlier.
The accident had been horrific. The truck had driven through the small Volvo his parents had been driving. Both his mother and father had sustained massive long bone fractures and internal injuries. Their heads had been crushed between thousands of pounds of tire and steel. Death had been instantaneous, but the results were ugly and disturbing. Try as he might, Richard had never been able to purge the image of his parents in death from his brain, even after almost 20 years had passed.