25.
“As you were!” snapped the President as he swept into the Situation Room. A red-faced Rose followed with the coffee urn. He was irritable and had just chewed her out for no good reason at all.
The reason for his foul mood was that he had just been informed that the joint CIA/military rescue mission to snatch Ambassador Moore from the clutches of the PRFF had failed.
“Is everyone present?” he growled. “Leo? … Mr Prime Minister?”
“Yes, we’re here, Mr President,” replied Leo from the speakers belonging to one of the room’s wall screens.
“Okay, good,” the President replied before turning to the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staffs and saying, with an edge to his voice, “Well, Fitz, suppose you tell me what the fuck happened with our rescue mission.”
“It turned out badly as you already know Mr.President.”
“Fitz, from what I hear, it was a complete fucking disaster.”
“Yes, Mr President, one might say that. But here’s what happened. Following the video call yesterday evening with the PRFF, the whiz kid analysts over at Langley were able to finally get a definite fix on the origin of the call. It looked good. We had the coordinates, and satellite imagery confirmed a building at those coordinates that had all the hallmarks of a clandestine headquarters. So we put together a team of Navy Seals and CIA special ops folks, and planned a mission to rescue our kidnapped Ambassador. As you may recall, you were informed of all this at … uh … precisely 23:30 hours last night. And you gave the go ahead at 23:40.”
“I did, Fitz, and I did so because I was all but assured of success. I recall hearing a probability estimate of 94 percent, which sounded pretty good. So, tell me, what went wrong?”
“We were that confident of success, Mr. President. We had their coordinates, as I said, and we had assembled the best team in the world. They flew in under cover of darkness at 0-three hundred on four Ospreys carrying 24 men each, launched from a light assault carrier stationed offshore. Once on the ground, our teams established a secure perimeter, closed in on the target, launched smoke grenades and various diversionary pyrotechnics, and stormed the building.”
“And …?”
“Well, Mr. President … that’s the rather embarrassing part. As it turned out, the PRFF proved to be far more craftier than we gave them credit for. They managed to somehow trick us … through some kind of high tech wizardry … into thinking we had the right coordinates, when in fact we didn’t.”
“So, what happened?” What did the raid yield, if anything?”
“Uh … would you believe seventeen prostitutes, a Madame, and six Johns? The place turned out to be a brothel.”
“Casualties?”
“Two sprained ankles, plus some minor scratches and bruises inflicted by several of the prostitutes who decided to put up a fight. We also lost an Osprey that had to be left behind due to engine trouble; damned things are always breaking down.”
“It really was a fucking disaster then. But …what’s done is done. What do we do now when the leader of the PRFF comes on screen, which should be happening any moment now?”
“Mr President,” responded Leo, speaking from the screen on the wall, “I believe the Prime Minister has something to say on this. I’m going to put him on.”
“Sure, why not?”
“Good evening, Mr President.”
“Good evening to you, Mr Prime Minister. What do you have for us?”
“My advice, Mr President is that we stall for another twenty-four hours.”
“But that would be costly! The PRFF has told us, as you well know, that they will double the ransom demand, and they have threatened to subject poor Ambassador Moore to tortures more cruel than those she has already endured.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, and having met and gotten to know Ambassador Moore, I am especially aggrieved by the prospect of her continued sufferings at the hands of such monstrous people. She is an innocent victim in this. But, if given another twenty-four hours, I believe I have the means to achieve what your people so ignominiously failed to pull off.”
“How?”
“Ah, Mr President. That I cannot share. Suffice it to say that my man, Robert, informs me that he can pull it off. And I have every confidence in his ability to deliver.”
“Who is this Robert? We know he is there with you and Leo, but we only know him as ‘Robert’ and we never see him on screen.”
“Robert is his nom de guerre. Let’s just say he is a soldier of fortune who knows these islands like no one else. He’s assessed the situation thoroughly and assures me that given the proper resources, which I and my associates here in Providencia are prepared to provide, he will have rescued Ambassador Moore by this time tomorrow.”
“I see. What do you think, Leo?”
“I think we should go for it, Mr President.”
“And what do you say, Fitz?”
“I don’t like it, Mr President. I don’t like it at all. I think we’d be better off to give our own people another go at it.”
“For some reason, Fitz, that scares the hell out of me. I don’t see where we have any choice. Okay, Mr Prime Minister. We’ll go with it. Give your Robert, whoever he is, a thumb’s up, Now, I see it’s about time for our PRFF friends to check in. This should be interesting.”
As though on cue, the same man they had seen exactly twenty-four hours earlier, clad in camouflage fatigues and balaclava, suddenly appeared on screen, backed by the PRFF flag.
“My comrades and I are extremely disappointed,” he began, eschewing any formalities. “You have failed to meet our ransom demands or issued a call for new Commonwealth elections … in addition to launching a duplicitous attack that has failed ignominiously. For shame! Now you must pay the price for your obstinance and treachery. Our ransom demand has doubled and your dear Ambassador Moore must also pay a much higher price. Our patience wears thin. You have another twenty-four hours to do the right thing. Do not disappoint us a second time! And now, without further ado, and in the hope of spurring you on, I give you a little taste of Ambassador Moore’s continued sufferings.”
“Why is that necessary?” demanded the President. “There’s no need to interrogate her any further. She knows very little. Surely, by now, you’ve gotten everything she knows out of her.”
“Yes, we have. But we regard our ability to continue torturing her to be a powerful incentive for you to stop playing games and accede to our demands.”
With that the image on the wall screen switched, accompanied by the customary pixelations and flashing colors, to one shot from an overhead camera trained downward to capture a naked Barb, lying stretched out on her back, strapped to a fulcrum-mounted board, at the head of which stood a large metal tub filled with murky water.
The board had just been raised. She could be seen gasping and sputtering, water streaming from nose and open mouth, sodden hair plastered to her face, neck and shoulders.
An off-camera female voice shouted, “Again! Dunk the capitalist bitch a second time, and this time let’s leave her under longer!”
The board began to tilt with a groan and a creak, the upper end descending rapidly, drawing her head beneath the surface of the water. Seconds ticked by. The camera zoomed in on her face. It looked oddly distorted under the water. And then the camera zoomed out to capture a man’s balled fist sweeping into the frame, descending in a downward arc to belt her in the stomach, causing her body to flinch and strain against the half dozen leather straps that secured her firmly to the board.
In the aftermath of the stomach punch, the surface of the water over her face suddenly roiled with a riot of bubbles and ripples due to her expelling the breath she had been so desperately attempting to hold. And as Barb’s body began to shiver and shake uncontrollably, a woman’s hand could be seen caressing her chest … as a lover would.
“Keep her under a bit longer,” the woman could be heard to say, instructing her comrades as she abruptly seized and cruelly twisted one of Barb’s nipples.
“This is for show, comrades …” the woman continued, “to all those scumbags watching in Washington and Providencia City, that we revolutionaries are determined and utterly ruthless.”
And then the screen went dark.
“My God!” exclaimed the President. “All I can say is … Mr Prime Minister, I hope your Robert, whoever he really is, delivers as promised!”
“I’m confident that he will, Mr. President, but I have two requests to make of you … assuming that Robert is in fact successful. Given that I as Prime Minister of Providencia have a personal political stake in this sordid affair, and that I as Prime Minister feel a profound sense of responsibility for the unfortunate plight of Ambassador Moore, I ask first of all for your solemn agreement that this entire matter be kept in strict confidence. And second, I respectfully request that I be allowed personally to see to Ms Moore’s rest and recuperation in the aftermath of her ordeal. Indeed, I’ve already arranged with my associates to provide her with a special place where she may recover in peace and seclusion. It’s the very least I can do.”
“Well yes, Mr Prime Minister. We can accede to that. I believe that it’s in the interest of my administration to keep this entire affair out of the public eye. Think of the field day the GOP might have with it. Wouldn’t you agree, Fitz?”
“Yes, I concur, Mr President.”
“What say you, Leo?”
“I think the Prime Minister’s plan would work out well for all involved, and it’s quite obvious that Ambassador Moore will need a quiet and private place to rest and recuperate. We can name an interim ambassador to take her place, or even leave the post temporarily in the hands of her assistant … Jimmy something or other, as I recall.”
“Agreed then. This meeting is adjourned.”