Sudan: A Novel (37 page)

But he knows his father would want him to be strong for his younger brother, who is hurting in a way Dan can’t quite fathom. So he swallows hard and does what he knows his father would want him to do. It is the first time his father’s character has served as his guide; it won’t be the last.

“Sometimes change takes a long, long time.” Dan speaks slowly, chooses his words carefully. “And sometimes it doesn’t happen at all—never will happen. But that doesn’t mean you don’t try, that you just throw up your hands and walk away. Dad fought for a lot of important things, and I don’t think his story’s over yet.”

“Oh, his story’s over all right!” Ron reaches down and picks up a handful of dirt and holds it out to Dan. “It’s over! This is the dirt those guys over there in the blue shirts are going to shovel in on top of him as soon as we leave.”

Dan can’t think what else to say. He finally just blurts out, “He loved you, Ron. And he loved me. But he was struggling, too. He adored Mom—I saw how they were together!—and he missed her every day of his life. Did you ever think about that, about the burdens he carried, how hard it was for him? He was a single parent and he did the very best he could to balance it—to be a pastor, to stand up for what he believed in, to be a mother and a father, too—all at the same time. He tried! He just didn’t get everything right. Can’t you forgive him for that?”

Dan reaches out, but his younger brother pushes his hand away.

“Leave me alone.” Ron turns his back but after a few moments speaks softly. “Maybe someday I’ll think what he did was as wonderful as everybody else does. But not right now. It hurts too bad right now. I just want my father back.”

His shoulders begin to shake, and he turns to Dan with tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I miss my dad!” The last word comes out in a strangled sob, and Dan wraps his arms around Ron and holds him while he cries.

Whap!

When another searing lash sent a shock wave through him, his body jerked and he heard a wailing scream. He realized it was his own before he slipped quietly away again.

This time, the scene playing on the screen of his mind is set almost a decade after the death of his father. It is the New Albany Newlin Hall ballroom in the Floyd County, Indiana, district that has just elected Dan the youngest state senator in the history of the Indiana General Assembly. The party is in full swing. Confetti is flying, champagne is flowing, a band is playing rock 'n’ roll songs from the '80s, and a large group of well-wishers encircles Dan.

Ron smiles and begins to shoulder his way in to see his brother. He finally gets close enough that Dan sees him. The new state senator parts the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea and folds his younger brother to his chest in a mammoth bear hug.

“Congratulations, big guy!” Ron shouts above the noise of the crowd and the music. “I’m proud of you! And Dad would be, too!”

Dan looks into his brother’s eyes, and they connect. They have a moment, the two of them, alone in the middle of the crowd. Dan nods his head and says softly, “Yeah, I think he would. Thanks.” There’s too much noise for Ron to hear the words, but he reads Dan’s lips and the look on his face.

Someone shouts Dan’s name, and he looks up and smiles, but keeps his arm draped across his brother’s shoulders.

He might even be proud of me, too,” Ron continues to shout. “I got my letter from the Peace Corps today. I’m in.”

Dan can’t understand because of the crowd noise. He leans down to put his ear closer. “What did...?” Then he suddenly sees the Indiana lieutenant governor, one of his biggest political supporters. He straightens up and waves, then turns back to Ron and shouts, “I’m sorry, what? I didn’t get that.”

Ron responds with a big smile and shouts really loud, “I’ll tell you later!” Dan nods his head vigorously and smiles back, and Ron turns and vanishes into the celebrating crowd.

Whap!

Ron’s body convulsed and smashed his nose into the rock wall. He groaned, the agony in his back so excruciating he had no air to scream.

Through the jackhammer of his heart in his ears, he heard Masapha scream. But the sound came from a long, long way away. Then Ahkmad stepped back behind him. He wanted to cry, but he had no air for that either. He tensed, didn’t breathe, cringed…

The jailer said something in Arabic, and Ron heard the big door open and slam shut. The key clanked in the lock and two sets of boots stomped down the hallway. Then there was silence.

Omar’s quest had been successful on two fronts. He’d found both information and transportation.

Julian’s sources had given him the names of two men they believed worked for slave traders. He’d talked to the sister of a Murahaleen guerilla who captured tribals and sold them and made lots of money. It was a place to start.

A local entrepreneur had a jeep that he normally leased to government officials or businessmen on their way to the oil fields. Even though Omar drove a hard bargain, it was still a lot of money, and the supply Idris had given him was steadily dwindling. Omar kept meticulous track of every pound. He would stretch the tribal’s funds as far as possible, but when the money was gone, the game was over. Without a vehicle, there was no chance at all of finding the girl; with a vehicle, there was very little.

Omar motioned for Idris to follow him and led the way to the inn where they would spend the night before they picked up the jeep to start their search by daylight. They turned the corner and headed down a dusty side street toward a building with a sign high above it. It was a big, red sign with a roaring lion on the bottom: the al Jubari Lodge.

Masapha’s voice was breathy; it was hard to talk when your entire back from the neck to the waist was an agonizing, throbbing wound.

“That day we found Koto, remember?”

Why in the world was Masapha worried about Koto now?

“The kid will be fine,” Ron gasped. He tried to remain perfectly still. It hurt less if he didn’t move. Much of his body now was turning a hideous mixture of blue, black and red from the merciless flogging. The fiery agony throbbed with the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the pain traveled around his rib cage, where the whip had several times wrapped itself around his torso. A sticky pool of gel had formed in the crack of his buttocks with the blood that flowed down from shattered capillaries. His right eyelid was fluttering— the result of the eighth lash, when the tip of the whip came over his shoulder and caught his eye. For the last hour, he had slipped in and out of consciousness, and he had to focus his foggy mind to speak.

“Koto will make it; he’s a survivor.”

What he didn’t say was, I hope the two of us are, too.

“No, I do not mean that...the crucified men...”

Before Masapha could continue, they heard the footsteps of the jailer and the soldier in the hallway. The man with the scarred cheek opened the heavy door and stepped into the cell. Omar’s henchman followed, and the rusty hinges again creaked as the heavy door thudded shut.

Ahkmad understood the psychology of torture. He had learned to inflict serious injury and then withdraw and allow the victim time to suffer, to experience his agony. It was when you returned for the second round that the prisoners always broke. Already in torment, they were willing to bargain away everything they had, do or say whatever you wanted—anything to avoid more pain.

Ron looked at Masapha. His limp body, already lean, looked emaciated from water and blood loss. Now covered with bloody, bruised stripes, the man hanging from the shackles resembled an antelope carcass that had just been field dressed. Ron imagined he probably looked just as bad.

There was a heartbeat of silence before they heard the whip unfurl and make a rustling sound as it uncoiled on the straw-covered floor. The soldier said something to the jailer in Arabic, and the scar-faced man moved from behind Masapha to behind Ron. The heavy whip dragged through the straw, as ominous as a viper snaking its way across the ground.

There was a pause, and Ron was afraid he was going to be sick. He tensed for the blow he knew would come and cringed away from it, tried to melt into the cold, stone wall. Though he tried to stifle it, a whimper escaped his lips.

Suddenly, Masapha cried out in frantic Arabic. Ahkmad stepped up to him and fired questions. Masapha answered each one, a desperate urgency in his voice. They spoke for several minutes. When he was finished, the jailer said something to the soldier. They both laughed. Then the jailer crossed the room to the door, and from a peg on the wall beside the door frame, removed a key. He used it to unlock Masapha’s manacles and then Ron’s. Both men immediately collapsed and curled up beside the wall.

The jailer left, came back with a small bucket of water and placed it in the center of the cell. Neither of the men on the floor had the strength even to crawl to it. He motioned to the soldier and the two of them walked out and locked the door behind them. Ron and Masapha could hear the men’s footsteps retreat down the stone hallway.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Ron spoke. “What did you tell them?” He was sure he knew already. What else could Masapha have said that would have satisfied their tormentors?

“Everything.”

In short, pain-filled sentences, Masapha explained that he had told the men what he and Ron had really done in Sudan, what they had photographed, what had happened to the film, and why they had remained in Kosti.

Well, that’s the ballgame, Ron thought, and the realization sliced pain into him as real as the blows from the whip.

“You do not ask me why I spoke,” Masapha said. “But I will tell you. You could not understand the words of the soldier to the whipping man. He said to forget about the Arab and concentrate on the American. He said Faoud had given instructions to make you talk or kill you.”

Masapha let that sink in for a heartbeat before he said softly. “There are easier ways to die, my friend, than to be beaten to death. And we are going to die.”

Ron looked at Masapha, who lay bleeding in the straw beside him. His mind reeled, stumbled, tried to track what the Arab was saying. But he backed up from the reality of it like a calf from a branding iron.

“I was in such pain, I dreamed about the crucified men,” Masapha continued. “And that is when I remembered. When we were there, you took pictures, a whole roll, then you loaded in another roll in your camera, yes? But only you had shot a few frames, and then we saw Koto and...”

The memory dropped into Ron’s mind with the force of a refrigerator dropping on his head. Those were the last pictures he’d shot! But he didn’t finish the roll so he didn’t unload it! That roll was still in the camera!

“The slave man has that film, and when he sees the pictures, he will know crucified men are not for a magazine of traveling,” Masapha said. “He knows who only would take pictures like that. He is aware who we are or can figure it out.”

Masapha grimaced in pain when he tried to sit up, so he gave up and remained where he was. “Why would this slave man let us live? He will say, ‘Oh, you have tried to destroy me, so now you can go free?’”

Ron said nothing.

“Who will come to rescue us from this death? Even who knows we are here?”

Masapha’s words were like ice picks that jabbed again and again into a smooth, hard, frozen surface, and sent little cracks in all directions.

“We are going to die, my friend. You Americans think the guy always wins who wears the white hat. You do not really yet understand Sudan. It is death here all around. Only you can avoid it for a while, and then it catches you. For that death, it is time now to prepare. I will make peace with Allah; you should make peace with your God.”

Masapha turned on his side to face the wall, in what he hoped was the direction of Mecca. He began to gasp out familiar words, long-ago-memorized phrases. Allah might listen to his prayers; he might not. It was impossible to know. He could only hope that he had done a sufficient number of good things in his life to earn Allah’s favor.