Oath of Office

“I told him we must get you cleaned up,” he said in a decidedly British accent.

“You speak English,” Jack observed.

“I do,” the man said. He gave a quizzical look. “My men told me you spoke English. So you are not Russian as well?”

“He is,” Jack said. “I only just arrived.” He thought of mentioning Dom but decided against it. If he was dead, he was dead. There was no sense telling these guys they’d forgotten one of their kidnap victims.

“Ah,” the man said. “I see. I am sorry for your treatment. A necessary evil.” He looked more closely at Jack now, and then turned to bark more orders at one of the other men. “Do you need to sit down?”

“I’m fine,” Jack said. “Please see to my friends.”

The man sighed and then stepped back inside his house. He returned a moment later with a tortoiseshell hand mirror, which he held up in front of Jack’s face.

“You may feel fine,” he said. “But I can assure you, that is only because you are in shock. We will see to your wounds at once.” The man gave him a benevolent smile. “After all, you are not worth much to me with your ear half torn from your head.”

* * *

Ryan didn’t know which bothered him more, the fact that he’d crawled through the nasty muck of the ditch with his ear half torn off or that this man spoke so glibly about how much he was worth on the slave market. He couldn’t shake the image of Dom half buried under the burning wreckage, which made his own troubles seem minuscule.

Their oddly benevolent captor identified himself as Omar Khan, a local businessman and a member of the Taliban. He and his men had killed many Americans, he informed Jack with a serene smile, but that was only business — hence his title of businessman. But this was fortunate for Jack, Omar Khan explained. His men were trained fighters, and as such were well acquainted with all manner of field medicine. According to Omar, he himself had sutured on any number of ears.

The Taliban boss was indeed a skilled surgeon. He offered Jack some raw opium to dull the pain. Jack declined and was sweating profusely by the time the suturing was complete. Ysabel assisted, passing scissors and antiseptic pads when Omar asked for them. She said nothing, but watching her in the firelight calmed Jack and gave him something to concentrate on — that and the satellite phone that hung from Omar’s belt. She was making some sort of plan. He could see it in her eyes.

An hour later found Jack’s head wrapped in a large gauze bandage and everyone sitting on cushions in front of a feast of saffron rice, peppers, noodles, and grilled mutton. Omar seemed pious enough but allowed Ysabel to eat with the men as long as she covered her head and did not speak unless he spoke to her. He did make sure she was seated nearest to him — which put her across the corner of the table from Jack. Omar sat between the two of them, barely concealing his lascivious looks.

The surgery had robbed Jack of an appetite, but he ate anyway, not knowing when he might get to eat again. Ysabel and Dovzhenko did the same.

“So,” the Russian said. “Do you have buyers already?”

Omar tore his gaze off Ysabel and dipped a morsel of lamb in yogurt before popping it into his mouth. He nodded thoughtfully, chewing his food before he spoke. “Women are easy to sell. If they look like this one, then it does not even matter much if they are virgins.” He shrugged. “If she were, I would keep her for my own wife, but I can see in her eyes that she is not.” He cocked his head to one side, struck with a sudden thought. “Is she married to you?”

Ysabel looked up at that.

“What if I said yes?” Dovzhenko said.

“What you are thinking is true enough,” Omar said. “It would not matter. In any case, my men are working out a ransom for you as well. Russians are a touchy business, but the American will bring a fine reward.”

Movement at the edge of the concrete patio caught Jack’s eye. A small, gray gerbil, the kind American kids kept as pets, scurried in stops and starts toward the rugs, drawn forward, no doubt, by the smell of rich food. Omar threw the trembling little animal some rice, coaxing it closer. They’d apparently played the game before, and Omar was soon able to scoop the little thing up in his fist.

He nodded to one of his men to add wood to the fire while he caressed the little creature in his palm as the flames grew.

A stricken look crossed Ysabel’s face.

Jack frowned. “You’re not going to throw it in, are you?”

Omar chuckled. “That would be a waste,” he said. “But I am going to make a point.” He held the gerbil up in one hand and with the thumb and forefinger of the other snapped the poor thing’s rear legs like matchsticks.

Jack winced in spite of himself. He’d never been a lover of rats and their kin, but hurting one just to hurt it made him want to shoot this guy in the face.