Gauntlet (36 page)

“What on earth could be funny about this?” asked Indy.

“Look around you,” Catherine replied. “Look at this. We’re locked in a room with millions and millions of dollars. Look at this.” She grabbed a stack of hundreds and threw them in the air. “I feel like Scrooge McDuck in his money room.”

“At least he didn’t lock us up in the marijuana room,” replied Indy. “The fumes from that much weed, in close confines, would get to us after a while.”

“What’s wrong with that, Indy? If we died, at least we’d giggle to death.”

Suddenly the distant throb of the generator ceased. The single overhead light abruptly went out. The room became as black as the coal in the walls. The silence was oppressive. Instinctively Indy reached for Catherine’s hand. “Oh, God, Catherine. I feel like I’m inside a tomb. Or a coffin.” He realized that after having held it at bay for so long, this was the final straw; his claustrophobia was finally going to overwhelm everything else. He was fighting back the panic.

“We’ll get through this, Indy,” said Catherine. “We’ll get out of this somehow.” Her mind was racing. She didn’t have a clue how they were going to spin this one.

“I have a tough time in enclosed spaces, Cath,” said Indy. “I had a near death experience when I was a young undercover officer. I’ve been to some therapy, but it didn’t do a whole lot of good. We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to find a way out. I can’t deal with this.”

T
HE PHONE in Leon’s palatial home rang, cutting sharply into his warm drug-laden thoughts. He was still deliciously stoned, gazing at the very container dock where, so many years ago, the party had really started. But when he heard the voice on the phone, he snapped to attention. It was Dennis, and he was beside himself. Cops. RCMP. In Devil’s Anvil. They had gone through the storage rooms. Dennis had them locked up for now, but was desperate for guidance.

“Describe the people for me, Dennis,” said Leon at length.

“A lady, not bad looking, about 30-ish. A Hindu, maybe 50. Short.”

“Keep them locked up. I’m comin’ over. How’d they get in to start with, you fucking moron?” snarled Leon, in his usual style.

“They broke in,” Dennis responded.

Leon hung up the phone without answering and got ready to saddle up and head out. Didn’t matter that he was stoned — the wind would clear that up soon enough. The Hindu might be the same character he saw there a week ago. They were cops. If they were cops, they would have a warrant. No cop in Canada in this day and age would break in without a warrant. Bad news in court. But a warrant meant affidavits and information upon which the affidavits had been sworn. It meant that they had been looking into his affairs, possibly for some time. It usually meant a major investigation. This could be serious. How had they found him? Leon moaned aloud. Not now. Not goddamn now. He would net $10 million, in laundered money, real money, American money, from the deal he had going this month. Not to mention the money and drugs he had stashed away in the mine. Jesus Christ, not fucking now.

Val came to him with another ice-cold beer, which he proceeded to throw down in two gulps. “Where are you going, honey?” she asked, seeing him in his riding leathers.

“None of your fucking business, bitch,” came the toxic reply. He stormed out before she could protest. He was seething with rage. The only reason he had acquired that idiot bicycle tour company was to control precisely where tourists could go, and to ensure that no one would accidentally stumble across the mine so close to the park gates. He had left Dennis in charge of that company when he left — it was a simple enough task, one that even an idiot should have been able to handle. Sometimes Leon wondered whether he’d been put in the wrong crib at the hospital. No way could he actually be related to the brainless wonders he was forced to call family.

K
HASHA WAS WORRIED. More than worried, actually. Turbee had vanished. Yes, Dan had fired him, but no one had actually accepted the fact that Turbee was, in fact, finished at TTIC. Dan had not appointed Turbee to his position. A Senate subcommittee had. Turbee’s brilliance had been demonstrated repeatedly. He just needed a good crew around him to tell him what to look for. The success of Madrid had demonstrated that. Even the pointlessness of establishing a connection to the Janjawiid, in the search for the missing Semtex, had demonstrated his usefulness and skill. Khasha was inclined to believe Turbee when he offered the opinion that the stolen Semtex was on the
Haramosh Star.
When he nailed something, he did so with devastating accuracy. Maybe the SEAL teams had missed it. After all, even a small freighter had a few nooks and crannies. Whoever these drug runners were, they had already been devilishly clever in smuggling drugs. Why would that have changed?

Khasha had seen the expression on Turbee’s face as he slunk out the door of the TTIC control room. It was a look of shock and utter despair. About an hour after he left, she had started thinking about the many prescription drugs she knew he was taking. What if he forgot to take them? Would he slide into a subterranean world of schizophrenic despair? What if he tried to kill himself? What would her reaction have been if an error on her part, perceived or real, had caused a Presidency to come unglued?

She’d already avoided work for three full days, sickened at the manner in which Dan had treated Turbee. Instead of going to work, she’d dropped by the offices of the Urdu dictionary group at the NSA and commiserated with them. She realized that she was probably breaching all manner of security protocols but didn’t particularly care. She’d taken one sick day, then another, then another, barely bothering to call in. Three days after the firing affair she’d finally dropped by the TTIC control room. She had been shocked at how muted it was. At least half the workstations were idle. Rahlson had told Dan to go fuck himself and hadn’t been seen since. Rhodes had done much the same, and was rumored to have gone directly to friends in high places to file an official report. Most of the rest of the absentees were engaged elsewhere. Many of them, like George, were not wanting for jobs or money. Dan was on the Hill, subpoenaed by a multitude of committees, who were investigating the
Haramosh Star
affair. No one had seen or heard from Turbee.

When the weekend came along, Khasha had extended a three-day leave to five, spending a portion of it with an old university friend in Philadelphia, letting the pain of the
Haramosh Star
situation dissipate with dry red wine and pasta. Now, as she boarded the early Monday morning Amtrak Acela Express to head back to the capital, her anxiety increased. What would the day bring? Would she too be out of a job? Would TTIC still be there? Would Dan? And, most importantly, what had become of Turbee?

It was this train of thought that eventually led to her self-appointed mission of finding the wunderkind. First she checked in at TTIC and stayed for an hour or so. Turbee was still missing, and no one knew where he was. She had traveled to Turbee’s address, talked her way into his very generic apartment building, and threaded her way past some garbage cans to a basement suite. Typical, she thought. Lights bothered Turbee almost as much as loud or abrupt noises. A cellar dweller. The building was typical — part stone, part wood, old and mostly run down. She knocked on the door of Suite 3, but there was no answer. A second knock, and still no answer. She turned the handle and found the apartment unlocked. She opened the door a crack.

“Hamilton?” she asked. “Hamilton Turbee? Are you here?”

There was no response. She opened the door wider and stepped inside. She repeated herself, a little more loudly, “Turbee, are you in here?”

She was met with dead silence. Something was very wrong. Six days since Dan had fired Turbee. Turbee wasn’t at TTIC. Khasha knew his fear of social situations, and knew he wouldn’t be in any place he didn’t know or feel comfortable. But he wasn’t in his apartment, and it had been left unlocked. Turbee was a high-strung, antisocial creature at the best of times, and now he had been brutally humiliated in front of his coworkers. He was personally taking responsibility for a growing scandal that reached all the way up to the President’s office. Even a reasonable, solidly anchored individual would be in danger of losing his moorings in that kind of situation. Turbee had never been reasonable or even a little bit anchored — he was always riding the edge of disaster. God only knew where he was now.

Khasha raced through each room in the tiny basement suite, stumbling over the archipelago of computers, routers, servers, and screens that littered every available surface. She called out his name repeatedly and, when he didn’t appear, began knocking on the doors of the neighboring units, asking if they’d seen him. They all responded the same way... that they knew who he was, but never talked to him, and hadn’t seen him in days. She wondered what their reaction would be if they knew that he basically owned the largest computer the government had, that he had solved the Madrid bombings within hours of being given the assignment, and that he was the unfortunate soul now being blamed for the latest international American misadventure.

She tried the university mathematics department where he had worked just prior to joining TTIC. Turbee? No. They hadn’t seen him for months. She was given an old address and some old phone numbers but had no luck there either. In desperation, she telephoned Turbee’s father’s law firm, and asked to speak to Mr. James Turbee, but was told that he was en route back from the firm’s Hong Kong office at the moment.

She felt the panic rising in her stomach and swallowed heavily — her mouth had become as dry as sand. That bastard Dan Alexander, out of jealousy or simple derision at someone who thought differently than he, had publicly destroyed this gentle soul. Damn him. Damn the President, for that matter, for not having done his homework; damn the SEALs for screwing up a search, damn the damn drug runners who had started this whole thing, damn them all. Turbee was out there somewhere, probably off his meds, and probably in a suicidal frame of mind. The look in his eyes when he’d left TTIC the previous week had reminded her of the gaze of a wounded puppy. What had happened since then?

She got into her car and began plotting a course in an ever-widening circle around Turbee’s apartment. She stopped at the nearest 7/11 and asked at the counter.

“What’s his name? Hamilton? Hamilton Turbee? Thin white kid, mid-20s? Don’t have a clue. Never heard of him. Seen him? Nope. Sounds like a crystal meth addict to me. They’re all over the place,” the man behind the counter answered.

She telephoned the office twice, getting through each time to Johnson, who had for some reason stayed on in Dan’s absence.

“No, he’s not here, Khash,” he had said quietly. “After all, why would he be? Dan fired him. I wouldn’t come back after a scene like that either.”

“Who are his friends? Who are his relatives, Johnson?” she asked. “Everyone has those. Even Turbee. We must have a file on him or something, with next of kin, people to contact...”

“Don’t think so, Khash. He was too odd to have friends. I think his father is some high-rolling lawyer from around here, but I would need to check the file.”

“Will you please check for anything else, Johnson? I’ve already talked to his dad’s office, but see if there’s someone else I could call. He could be hurt. He’s probably in trouble. I’m worried sick about him.”

“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.

S
OME 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.