Chapter 59
As the ketamine wore off, Stuart began to wake up.
He opened his eyes to pitch-blackness. His hands and ankles were bound tight, his chest, thighs, and shins held to a hard surface by straps of some variety.
His joints began to ache and the jolts of pain pricked his brain.
His mind was a mess of slow and random thoughts, none of which were connected to anything.
But the fog lifted slowly, and he realized it would be unwise to move or make a sound.
They were probably waiting and watching.
He was cold and became aware of being naked.
Without moving his lips, he counted silently to ten, then to twenty, then a hundred.
His mouth was dry, his tongue felt like sandpaper.
More time passed as his joints continued to scream. His hands and ankles were numb.
A door rattled close by and a dim light came on. Two men in masks were in view. Without a word they pulled a hood over his head, then strapped it hard to the surface he lay on.
A voice said, “You were at Gitmo, right?” North African accent, probably Algerian or Tunisian, according to the experts at The Farm.
“Yes.” Keep the answers as short as possible. Offer nothing extra.
“Did you interrogate the prisoners there?” Nabeed asked.
“No. I spoke with them.”
“Did you interrogate a prisoner named Sayman al-Darbi?”
“I remember him, but I did not interrogate him.”
“And you were there to prosecute him on behalf of your government?”
“I was there to learn the facts that might lead to charges against him.”
“Was he ever charged with a crime?”
“No.”
“How long did he stay at Gitmo?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Seven years, and he was never charged with a crime. So you did not find evidence of a crime, is that right?”
“I was only part of a team. I didn’t make decisions about who to prosecute.”
“Did you find evidence against him?”
“No.”
“Then did you try to get him released?”
“No. I quit the prosecution before he was released.”
“But did you try to help an innocent man?”
“No. I didn’t have the authority.”
“I don’t like your answers. Did you see prisoners abused at Gitmo?”
Define “abuse.” The only answer was no. “No.”
Cold water soaked the hood. Stuart braced himself and tried to hold his breath.
The water flooded his eyes and he gritted his teeth and sealed his lips.
More water. It seeped into his nostrils and he couldn’t breathe.
He had to open his mouth as more water flooded his face.
When his mouth was full he began to drown.
More water. He began to gag and cough. The water stopped, but only for a moment.
He retched and heaved as he tried to catch his breath.
“Did you know that prisoners were being beaten and tortured at Gitmo?”
The only answer was no. “No, I swear.”
More water hit his face and ran down his neck. He tried to spit it from his mouth but there was too much. He choked and began to drown again.
“No! I swear! No!”
The water kept coming. He tried to scream but could only gargle. Without air he thought he would pass out.
The water stopped and he retched and gagged until he almost vomited. His heart and lungs pounded as he fought for air. A minute passed, then another.
“Your wife says the two of you are working for your government.”
He tried to shake his head no. “Not true,” he said, panting. “Not true.”
“Are you here on a mission for your government?”
“No, I swear.” He clicked his molars just at the water hit his face again. Instinctively, he gritted his teeth and held his breath and soon began to drown again.
—
A solid hour at the table produced nothing Nabeed needed. His instincts, intuition, and paranoia battled one another but the bottom line was that he needed to change plans. He would not use Benoit again and he would stay away from Marseille and Toulon.
He jabbed a needle into Stuart’s neck and he was soon still.
They loaded him into another van and raced away from Marseille heading east. In the fishing village of C?te d’Iris they waited in the damp cold darkness by the harbor until the captain finally appeared.
He smelled of rye and was in a foul mood and demanded his entire fee in cash, up front.
Nabeed counted out the money and asked about possible destinations.
As a deckhand filled the boat’s tanks, Stuart was loaded on board in a wooden crate.
Neither the captain nor the deckhand inquired as to its contents.
Both seemed too concerned about the weather.
The sea was lousy with storms and should not be tempted, not at that hour anyway.
Their movements caught the attention of the clerk in the harbormaster’s hut on the dock.
He wandered over with his flashlight and asked the captain what they were doing.
The captain took him for a walk along the pier and eventually gave him five hundred euros, a week’s wages.
The harbormaster warned him about the weather, then took the money back to his hut, turned off the lights, and went home.
It was half past midnight and the harbor was deserted.
The captain stalled for an hour, blaming an engine problem but waiting for calmer water.
It only grew rougher, the wind stronger.
Finally, the sixty-foot cargo hauler puttered away from the dock and was soon in choppy waters.
The captain had warned that the ride would be rough.
Nabeed and his men went below and tried to stay warm.
The ketamine faded. Stuart was in a dark, wooden box, cold and wet, bound and cuffed.
The pitch and roll, the knocking of the engines, the sound of water hitting the deck.
He knew he was seabound. Nausea hit hard but his systems were so screwed up he wasn’t sure what to expect.
He gritted his teeth to keep from vomiting.
His teeth. So far the brilliant technology cooked up by someone at The Farm was a dud. He clicked again, counted, waited, clicked again, counted, waited. By now the battery was surely dead. The power was gone.
He thought of Rae Claire and prayed she was being treated in the same manner as Chelsea, Beth, and Milly.
Some discomfort, plenty of fear, adequate food and water, no abuse, then a release.
The demand for ransom would be handled quickly.
Her family would not be notified, nor would his.
That was the plan anyway. Dozens of CIA operatives were primed and ready to spring into action when they heard from the kidnappers. A small army was searching for him.
Plans. At the moment, though, their plans did not seem to be working.
—
The signal was first noticed by a French frigate two hundred miles southeast of Corsica.
The ship was dodging storms and headed for smoother waters near the base at Toulon.
It was a faint signal and would have been ignored but for the fact that all French vessels in the Mediterranean were on alert for unexpected radio signals and mysterious transmissions.
The bulletin had been posted six hours earlier.
Why? No one knew and there was no explanation.
What was known was that the Americans were suddenly showing far more interest in the western Mediterranean than normal.
The frigate’s commander called the base and reported the signal, which by then had disappeared. Placing it, in the dark and under heavy cloud cover, was like throwing a dart blindfolded. The best guess was that it was about a hundred miles south of Toulon, bearing south.
U.S. command responded with two cruisers and two spy satellites.