OCTOBER
TOM DIDN’T KNOW WHERE HE WAS, and he didn’t care. It was barely 6 a.m. as he paused to lean against a tree and soak in the vibrant colors of the fall leaves. Twenty yards ahead, barely visible against a backdrop of ash trees, was a young buck, muscular yet lean. Their eyes locked for a few seconds, then the deer darted off. Hearing the faint burble of a stream, Tom resumed walking, following the sound.
As far as he could tell, he was alone in the woods. But he had an instinct for danger, and he felt uneasy. Zipping the collar of his jacket as high as it would go, he turned slowly but saw nothing but trees.
Suddenly excruciating pain seared his ankle, and he heard a hideous cracking sound. There was an ugly shriek—it was his own voice! He had stepped into a bear trap. The pain intensified as he jerked his leg with force. He crumpled to the ground.
Tom opened his swollen eyes as far as he could. His ankle throbbed, the back of his head pounded, and his body hurt all over. He was spread out on the floor of a cold concrete cell. Sunlight shone through a small window, but thick iron bars cut through its brightness. Scanning the room through puffy eyes, he spotted a basin on the floor near him and a rusty bucket in a corner. The stench of human waste told him the bucket served as the bathroom.
“So, you are awake?” asked a gentle male voice with a Middle Eastern accent. “You were dreaming.”
Tom turned his head slightly in the direction of the voice. “Here, you drink.”
The man in a soiled white headscarf moved closer. Then, as he helped Tom raise his head to drink from the basin, a black mustache, beard, and kind brown eyes came into focus. Tom winced from the pressure of the man’s hand on the back of his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “You have a nasty bump.”
Even with the pain, the water felt refreshing as it trickled down Tom’s throat and dripped from his bloody, split lip onto his unshaven chin.
“Thank you,” Tom could barely whisper.
“You are not good, I think. Your ankle is not good either.”
Tom looked up at the man again. “I’ve seen you before. Who are you?” He whispered.
“I am Amin. I have been in this cell with you for maybe three weeks.” “Oh, yes, Amin,” Tom mumbled.
Tom looked down at his aching foot. He could see it was twisted and at a strange angle. Blood had seeped through the rag that bound it. His jeans were filthy, and his blue plaid shirt was torn and stiff with dried blood.
“What happened?” Tom whispered.
“Guards here have not been nice to you. You have had many beatings.” “Oh, yes, yes.”
Tom moaned and shivered as he began to remember. Amin picked up an old thin blanket from the floor and covered him.
Then came the metallic sound of a heavy door opening. Men were laughing and coming closer to the cell. Tom closed his swollen eyes. He hoped he appeared unconscious.
The men stopped in front of the cell. One of them shouted something to Amin in Arabic through the metal bars. Then the other guard spoke. His voice sounded familiar—rough and raspy—and it sickened Tom. He would never forget that hideous voice.
Tom didn’t dare move as he listened to Amin’s reply in Arabic. The raspy voice yelled back. Tom didn’t dare move. He swallowed over and over, trying to keep down the bile rising in his throat. He heard the cell door open, a fist hitting bone and flesh, and a body hitting the floor—Amin’s body. Then Tom felt a sharp, excruciating kick to his ribs. He gasped. His arm automatically tried to cover his side to protect it, but another kick came before he could act. Then another kick connected right into his shoulder.
“Please, no,” Tom muttered.
“Mr. CIA agent, you will never forget me,” promised that cruel, ugly voice. There were more brutal kicks. When he kicked Tom’s injured ankle, the pain shot up his leg and body like a penetrating electrical shock. He screamed and groaned as tears ran down his puffy cheeks. That was the last thing Tom remembered as he passed out again.
Amin laid curled up on the cold floor across the cell, blood trickling from his nose and split lip. He watched helplessly as Tom’s limp body endured another brutal beating.
**********
“President McMillan, you’ve had enough,” said Chief of Staff Dennis Eckert. “You’re getting drunk. You know what happens when you get drunk.”
“I know, I know, but tell me a safer place to get drunk than during the annual National Security Gala. No media, no cameras, no wife, and I’m with the best secret-keeper in the world!” His words were slurred and he spoke more loudly than usual.
“But Mr. President…”
“Come on, Dennis. I haven’t done this in weeks. I deserve to party a little now and then. Anyway, they love me, and they love me even more when I’m a little loose.” He grabbed another glass of champagne from a tray as a waiter walked by.
U.S. President Ronald McMillan had insisted they invite the field staff this year so they could also unwind in this safe setting. Tonight, more than 400 people were in attendance—most of whom the president did not know.
Eckert observed the 52-year-old president as he interacted with FBI Director Fred Jackson and CIA Director Edmond Metcalf. But Eckert was getting worried. The president was loose-lipped anyway, but it was inevitable when he drank. He would exaggerate and outright lie about his accomplishments and often blurt out sensitive or even classified information. Eckert knew the president did it to bolster his ego, which seemed insatiable. He was simply an exceedingly insecure man—more concerned with his image than the impact of his words and actions on others. And, really, McMillan was lucky to be president at all. He had won the electoral college, but not the popular vote. But the president had a loyal base of supporters. That kept most members of Congress from his party in line. They rarely dared to disagree with him since he was also good at intimidation. Personally, Dennis Eckert disliked the man, but worshiped his politics.
“Dennis, how are you?”
Eckert spun around as he was tapped on the shoulder by a colleague. He exchanged pleasantries with her for several moments, but Dennis was distracted. He wanted to get back to observing McMillan, so he waved at an acquaintance to join them. Then, skillfully excusing himself from the conversation, Dennis turned just in time to see CIA Director Metcalf introduce the president to an unfamiliar man. They exhibited animated gestures and facial expressions as McMillan, Metcalf, and the stranger talked. Metcalf then walked away while the guest and the president kept visiting and laughing.
After a few minutes, the president and the man walked to a more secluded area of the room, where it appeared their conversation turned serious. A few guests hesitantly approached the two men, attempting to speak with the president, but McMillan politely dismissed them.
Metcalf was conversing with his deputy director when Dennis approached him.
“Excuse me, Edmond, but who’s President McMillan talking to?”
The alcohol had loosened Metcalf up as well. He responded in an atypical cheerful manner. “Oh, that’s one of our field agents. He’s one of the best— Gregory Karnes.”
**********
A hand behind Tom’s upper back gently lifted his head off the thin mattress. Tom jerked, “No!” he said weakly.
“It’s okay, Mister. It’s Amin.” He gave Tom a sip of water. Tom could barely speak. His throat was dry and there was pain throughout his body.
“Oww,” he groaned.
“You’ve been unconscious for many hours. They’ve beaten you again. Worse than ever.”
Tom’s ankle burned as if it was on fire. He had never felt such pain and throbbing. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest felt like it was in a vise grip. His head ached too. He winced in pain, moaning.
“Take it easy, Mister. You have many injuries.”
“Tom. My name is Tom,” he whispered.