“I’ll run it past Dan,” he said. “But you know we have to follow protocols here.”
“Johnson, why don’t you stuff those protocols up your ass? Someone is in trouble, and you seem to think it’s no big deal. Fuck you!” she shouted, slamming her phone shut in frustration.
She knew she was getting nowhere. She worked for one of the nation’s most important Intelligence Agencies, and she couldn’t even find a missing friend. There was only one place to go. Turbee was missing. If a person is missing, where does the hunter turn? It would mean formalizing the search to some extent, but there didn’t seem to be any alternative.
Dialing 911, she quickly got through to a clerk at the Henry J. Daly building, just off Pennsylvania Avenue. The building housed, among other things, the administrative and executive structure of the DC Metropolitan Police.
“What did you say his name was, ma’am?” came the sterile voice on the other end of the line.
“Turbee. Hamilton Turbee.”
“Birth date?”
“Don’t know.”
“Age?”
“Not sure. Mid-20s,” stuttered Khasha, still fighting panic.
“Address?”
“Not sure. Umm, I was just there. It’s umm…” In her panic, she started encountering mental blanks everywhere.
“How do you know he’s missing, ma’am?”
“He… he hasn’t shown up for work in six days.”
“We’ll, ma’am, lots of people don’t show up for work from time to time. That doesn’t mean they’re missing,” came the dry reply.
“You don’t understand. He’s suffered a major emotional blow. He’s autistic. He might be off his medication.”
“What kind of blow, ma’am?”
“He was fired,” said Khasha, feeling the increasing skepticism coming from the clerk and realizing how crazy she probably sounded. “Fired in a brutal and very public way.”
There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. “Well, that could explain, maybe, why he hasn’t been at work,” the clerk replied sarcastically.
“Look, this guy is in trouble. I’ve been to his house and he’s not there. He’s missing. He’s autistic. Can you at least check to see if anyone in the Metropolitan Police world has noticed something?” Khasha asked sharply.
“We’ll see ma’am. Any distinctive features? Tattoos?”
Khasha tried to imagine Turbee with writhing snakes or naked maidens tattooed on his shoulders. “Not Turbee,” she replied. “But he would be exhibiting some odd behaviors. He’s got some repetitive right forearm movement. And he’s probably not making much sense in what he’s saying. He’s very, very pale, and probably has dark circles under his eyes.”
“Sounds like a meth addict, or heroin maybe?” It was half a question and half an observation.
“Looks like that, but it isn’t. Can you check, please?” pleaded Khasha.
“Give me a minute, would you?” the voice on the phone suddenly became a bit softer. This sounded unusual, but the clerk had finally registered how deeply Khasha’s concern ran. She checked the new book-ins at the Pre-Trial Detention Center. No Hamilton Turbee there. No one had any record of that name.
Some time passed before Zak lost his next body part. Hamani was indeed a master of psychological torment. Every three or four days the guards were sent to bring Zak to Hamani and his laboratory. Each time he was strapped onto one of the tilt-tables. Each time one of the other prisoners was brought in and tied to the other tilt-table. Each time instruments of torture were brought within millimeters of Zak’s eyes, ears, limbs, or genitals. Drills were started up, saw engines were started, but nothing was in fact done. On each occasion, though, he witnessed unspeakable tortures performed on the unfortunate other prisoner. Body parts were pierced, torn, and dissected before his eyes. He heard the screams, the sobs, the curses, he smelled the scent of burning flesh, he heard the sounds of limbs being torn.
Zak was a man of great strength, both physically and psychologically, but his mind was taken to the edge of sanity every time he witnessed these deeds. He prayed each time for a return to his cell, and to the relative quiet of the dungeons.
Then one day, the inevitable occurred.
“Well now, sir,” began Hamani, in his cheerful voice. “To show you how kind and generous I am, I will give you an opportunity to choose. I will take one of your toes today. You can tell me which one. It is your choice.”
Zak remained silent.
“One last time,” Hamani prompted. “Tell me which toe you prefer, or I will rip out one of your kidneys here and now and make you eat it. I am in a happy little mood today, and you would do well to keep it that way.”
Zak had found, time and again, that stressful situations like this tended to bring on ridiculous behavior. He thought it might be the mind’s way of maintaining a sense of humor, even when the worst was about to happen. Instinctive, unconscious self-protection. Suddenly he realized that this time was no different. Out of nowhere, an American nursery rhyme began dancing through his head. He heard his mother’s voice across the decades. “This little piggy goes to market, this little piggy stays home. This little piggy has roast beef, this little piggy has none, and this little piggy goes whee whee whee…”
At the memory of his mother, and the sheer inappropriateness of the nursery rhyme at a time like this, Zak felt an uncontrollable urge to laugh. Thinking to himself that laughter didn’t fit the reality of his situation, and that it might just make things worse, he used his considerable powers of concentration to remain quiet. Instead, his face became stone.
“Which one, sir? You must pick,” Hamani was saying.
Finally Zak relented. If he didn’t keep his sense of humor, as his mind was trying to do, he was going to be finished. “You are kind, Hamani. You are a good man, just a little misunderstood. Yes, sir, the small toe, left foot, please.”
Hamani was beginning to like this particular prisoner. A good man? Yes, perhaps this man did understand him, and his genius. He smiled happily. “We’ll use the same saw,” he said, flipping through his notes. “The carpenter’s saw, please,” he said to one of his assistants.
Hamani slowly brought the saw blade to the skin of the chosen toe, and, with the guards holding Zak’s foot to immobilize it, removed it. Zak felt white hot pain, and in spite of himself, screamed in agony. He screamed again when the cauterizer was placed against the wound, burning it, and sealing it off.
As his bonds were loosened and he was released from the table, Zak fell to the ground, moaning. As his head hit the floor he saw, lying an inch from his mouth, a medium-sized screw. It looked like it had fallen out of the mechanism that kept the leather thongs fastened to the tilt-table. In one smooth motion, and in spite of the searing pain in his foot, Zak brought his head closer to the screw and put his lips around it, sucking it into his mouth and stashing it under his tongue. The guards were none the wiser, as he hobbled back to his small cell. He didn’t give them any trouble, or require assistance to walk. Even in his state of extreme shock and pain, Zak was busy plotting his next move. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. Days ago he’d noticed that there was a barely perceptible, but omnipresent breeze flowing through his cell. It seemed to be coming from a small iron grate about halfway up the back wall. He wondered where exactly that grate led.
On the other side of the globe, in Long Beach, Ethan Byron and two of his engineers were once again reviewing the specifications Kumar had given them almost three weeks earlier. Ethan ran one of the smaller workshops at Pacific Western Submersibles, taking care of design and construction projects that Kumar didn’t have the time or inclination to do himself. He and his crew were the best of the best in the company, and had been called on by Kumar to build this particular device, which he said was for studying whales. Already, the structure was almost finished. The base was completed, and the upper saddle portion had been machined. Now came the more difficult chore of putting the different layers of metals along the various surfaces.