Gauntlet (13 page)

A
RUSTING DOOR deep beneath the Inzar Ghar fortress opened, and the dead-eyed Hamani Lowki, accompanied by a small phalanx of guards, strode into the damp, dark cell area. There was no natural light here; the only illumination came from one small, low-wattage ceiling bulb. Two of the guards had brought powerful flashlights with them, which they now used to illuminate the prison dungeon. There were a total of four cells, with two or three prisoners in each. A total of 11 prisoners, in various stages of mutilation.

Hamani looked around in expectation, feeling himself to be in a particularly good mood. Today he would be finishing off an old patient, and then commencing work on a new one. As is the case with all individuals who enjoy their work, Hamani would have performed these chores for nothing. The handsome paycheck he earned, in American dollars, was just the icing on the cake.

“Those two,” he told his men, pointing to two of the prisoners. “Bring those two wretched bastards along to the Operating Theater. We have a special assignment for the day.”

He whistled a happy tune to himself as the guards opened the cell where two prisoners, Darius Petroni and Zak Goldberg, were kept imprisoned. Petroni had been an occupant of the dungeon for almost two months, and the experience had nudged him, day after day, off the coil of sanity. He was, at this point, also unable to walk.

Petroni screamed when he saw the door swing open. The guards merely smirked at him. He was handless, and had only one foot, in which every individual bone had been crushed by a collection of small hammers. He had been pierced, flogged, flayed, and desecrated in a hundred different vicious and callous ways. He was now nothing more than a ghost of a human being, his body mutilated and his face unrecognizable. It was a wonder that he had any sanity left. No one had ever lifted a finger to help him, or to alleviate any of the pain. The guards had minds similar to Hamani’s, and enjoyed watching the master at work. Some even considered themselves his students.

As he watched them walk in and grab the subject of their current attentions, Zak’s adrenaline spiked. He had been told by the other prisoners what it was that lay beyond the door. He had heard the screams, and listened in shock and fury to the horrifying tales of the others. He could hardly believe that such things were still done. But he himself had seen such torture performed in many training camps and prisons over the past four years. He’d attempted to harden himself against the sights, knowing that if he failed to live up to his cover story, he would be discovered. That task had been far easier when he wasn’t the next one in line for the torture chamber.

Since he’d regained consciousness to find himself locked in this dank cell and awaiting Hamani’s attention, he’d tried to come to grips with what was to come, and to build some sort of protection for himself. He’d had training as an undercover agent, and had been taught how to build a wall in his mind, to separate his mental self from his physical self, to take his consciousness out of his body to protect himself and the information he carried during possible torture. But every time he came close to achieving this separation, he would look up and see another prisoner, another example of what was in store for him.

This was part of Hamani’s process, for he was also a master of psychological torment. He carried on the punishment of his prisoners, making sure they lasted weeks, and sometimes months. He did this to maximize his power, to increase the terror of those held captive in the prison. Even if a prisoner was still whole, he was presented every day with the gruesome vision of what would happen to him when his time came. He would wake up every morning wondering what this day would hold. Perhaps he would just be made to watch the torture of another prisoner today, or perhaps he was about to experience some unimaginable violation of his person. The fear and anticipation alone were enough to break many of the prisoners.

At this point, Zak had been aware of his environment for only a couple hours. But he’d already had enough of the tension and fear. In the last hour, he’d changed his philosophy. This wasn’t the way he wanted to die. This wasn’t the way he
planned
to die. He’d stopped trying to ready himself for torture and had now turned to plotting his escape. As the guards grabbed him and dragged him out of the cell, he wondered if he’d get the chance.

The Operating Theater, as Hamani preferred to call it, was well lit. It was an ample room, some 30 feet by 30 feet, and very clean. There was a drain in the floor, in the center of the room. The only prominent features were two large tilting wooden tables. Each table had six darkly stained leather restraints — four at the corners of the table and two on the face of the table itself. Zak knew from experience that they were restraints to fix the arms, legs, midriff, and head tightly to the table. Along one wall of the room was a large work bench, with various tools — hammers, drills, pliers, alligator clips, a stack of batteries, and a host of other devices for bending, piercing, burning, and cutting. Zak swallowed heavily, and for a moment his vision blurred. There were definitely some disadvantages to knowing exactly what was going on, he thought wryly.

Petroni screamed and jerked violently as he was led to the table, but, being already savagely mutilated, he had little power or mobility left for resistance. Taking advantage of the commotion, Zak glanced furtively around the room again, looking for something, anything, that might be of use in an escape attempt. The tools on the table? Impossible, how would he ever get to them? And what of the guards? At seven to one, and all seven of them bearing arms, the odds were certainly not in his favor. He only had the full use of one leg. And he was bound, another complication.

As he was contemplating the chances of slipping the ropes from his wrists, he noticed that the action at the table had changed. Petroni had been bound to the table, naked and spread out, immobilized by the leather thongs. The other table was being turned toward Petroni, to stand about 15 feet away from it. The guards began dragging Zak toward this second table.

“Ah, Darius Petroni,” said Hamani, walking toward the bound man. “You have given me and my students much from which to learn. We are grateful, and sad to see you go, after... what is it now?” he asked, flipping through a notebook with his pen. “Ah yes, we’ve had the pleasure of knowing you for nine weeks.”

Jesus Christ, thought Zak to himself. This little fucker actually takes notes. Thinks he’s running an experiment for Anatomy 101. This had all the makings of becoming truly ugly.

Hamani walked back and forth between the two tilting tables, setting them so that they were positioned vertically. He looked thoughtfully at Zak, who was now standing next to the second table. “What to do, what to do,” he muttered as he paced. “You see, my friend,” he said, addressing Zak directly, “usually I would have you strapped to this second table, so that you could witness firsthand the torture and death of this man. But I have my orders...” he tapped his pen to his lips, thinking.

Zak stood absolutely still, trying to focus on his plans rather than what the man might say next.

Finally Hamani continued. “Yes, I have my orders, and I am not certain that you should watch, just yet. We need your mind intact, for the time being.” He turned to the guards holding Zak. “Take him outside. He may hear the screams. He may hear the blows, and the sound of saw on bone. But he is not to watch yet. That will come later.”

Zak sagged with relief. It was little consolation, in the long run, but for now it was some reprieve. At this point the present seemed to be the only thing that mattered.

As the guards dragged him from the room, Hamani added one last command. “Stay by the door. Tell him everything that happens.” Then Zak saw him turn back to Petroni.

Before they were out the door, Petroni began to scream.

“Ah, my friend,” smirked one of the guards, “it is too bad you do not get to see. Our good doctor has just plunged his pen into Petroni’s eye. As I’m sure you can imagine, it is quite a painful action, from the patient’s point of view.”

He led Zak to a chair, allowing him to collapse into it, and quickly securing his hands behind his back. Zak listened to the screams of the man in the torture room and groaned to himself. He thanked God that he wasn’t being forced to watch the actions, but hearing them described, in concert with Petroni’s screams, wasn’t going to be easy on his mind.

Suddenly the screams reached another level entirely, and the guard watching through the door grinned in delight.

“Oh, well done, well done.” He turned slightly to address Zak, his eyes still focused on what was going on inside the room. “The master has taken one of our sharpest swords and severed the man’s other foot.”

There was another scream from the room, accompanied by the sound of the sword hitting the wood of the table.

“And his right arm.”

The sound of another blow.

“And now his left.”

Zak’s stomach seemed to shrink, and then expand very quickly. There had never been any training for this. Dealing with his own pain was one thing... being forced to listen to another man dying in this way was something for which his government had never prepared him. He felt his entire body tighten, as though his extremities were attempting to retract into his body. His legs grew tense, as his natural instinct to draw himself into the fetal position tried to take over.

It took all of Zak’s strength and will to remain sitting in the chair. He gasped, trying to recall his self-discipline. He remembered that he had been chosen by his government, one of the few men in the world who was strong enough to be put undercover in such a dangerous situation, and sat up a bit straighter. He had no choice but to find a way out of this situation. Biting his cheek to draw blood and focus his attention, he pulled his consciousness inward and thought only of escape, and how he would do it.

Eventually he became conscious of Hamani standing next to him. The man was staring at him oddly, evidently waiting for his attention. He still carried the bloodied machete in his hand.

“Ah, there we are,” he said, as he saw Zak’s eyes turn to him. He shrugged. “You will be glad to know that I’ve put him out of his misery. I think you missed many delightful things while you were... unconscious. We’ve had him for nine weeks now. I’m sure we could have used him for another month, but orders are orders. And these came from the top.” He pointed at Petroni’s body, still strapped to the table. “What’s left of this man is to be put into bags and deposited in front of the American Embassy in Islamabad.” He glanced at the guards. “See that it is done.”

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.