The Red Syndrome (36 page)

As I continued analyzing, I arrived at the uneasy suspicion that the
unprofessional nature of the interrogation had been a sham - that in fact
they didn't really need the information at all. I had the sense that they
already knew everything they wanted to know and that the sole purpose
of the interrogation had been to keep that fact from me, to maintain the
charade. But this was conjecture, not fact, so I had to set it aside.

Although I was helpless against brute force, I could still use my intellect to tilt the scales in my favor. My best course was to stick to my story
and the explanation for my contact with Eric. I heard metal clicking and a door squeaking open. The jute hood was pulled off my face. I shut my
eyes expecting flooding light again, but there was only a single bulb.

"Water, can I have some water?" I said in Arabic in the direction of the
sound I heard. The door closed. A minute later it opened again.

"Here," said a young man in Arabic. "Drink this." He handed me water
in a cup. When he saw that my hands were cuffed, he brought the cup to
my lips. I gulped it down. I looked around. I was locked in a windowless
ship's cabin.

"What is your name?"

"Abed," he answered.

"How long have I been here?" I asked.

"No talking," he said in a polite tone that surprised me. He was unshaven,
wearing torn jeans and a tee that once upon a time had been white.

"Can I have more water please?" I said, ignoring the no-talking rule.
He took the cup and returned with it filled to the brim with water. "I'm
hungry," I said. He left the cabin and returned ten minutes later with a
bowl of hummus and ful, Egyptian red beans, as well as dry pita bread.
He released one hand from the handcuffs, and chained the other to the
bed. I devoured the food. Abed collected the bowl and cup and left the
cabin, ignoring my requests to leave the water behind. Still, I found comfort in his neglecting to put the stinking jute sack back over my head. I
felt hot. There was no fresh air in the cabin.

I tried to figure out where we were going. My best guess was that the
boat was midsized, judging from the roar of the single engine and the
pitching and rolling. And the distinct smell I remembered so well from
my childhood in Israel told me we had to be in the Mediterranean. True,
the Atlantic isn't far from Marseilles, either, but the Mediterranean Sea
smells different. I'd spent many hours on the beaches of Tel Aviv growing
up. If we were crossing the Mediterranean, Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia
were possible destinations, more or less directly across the water from
Marseilles. But if we were aiming southeast, we'd end up in Libya or
Egypt. There was nothing I could do but wait.

Two more days passed. Other than two meals a day and an occasional
visit to the toilet across from my cabin, nothing happened. I didn't see anyone other than Abed, who brought my meals. On the third day I heard
noises, people shouting, the engine changing gear. We were slowing down,
and then we came to a stop. We had arrived at a port. I heard sounds of
other boats, seabirds perhaps, and now the smell was different, a mixture
of engine oil and diesel fuel. I couldn't even speculate about what port it
might be. The shouting increased in an indistinct vernacular. I was sure it
was Arabic, but again in a dialect I could not make out.

Abed returned to my cell, uncuffed my hand and legs from the bed, and
cuffed my right hand to his wrist while another man entered my cabin.
"We have arrived. You'd better behave yourself or you get this," the
second man said, glaring at me as he displayed a foot-long butcher's
knife. "I'll cut you in half if you try anything." They put the jute sack back
on my head and led me through a corridor, up a flight of stairs where I
banged my head twice, out into abundant fresh air. I was led like a blind
man down a wooden gangway until I felt the ground. I was then helped
into a car that sped away; two men were sitting next to me, one on either
side. They pushed my head down. Soon I heard city noises, motorcycles
passing by, peddlers talking. Cars honked repeatedly, a popular pastime
for Middle Eastern drivers. In the car, I heard the men around me speak
in that same strange Arabic dialect. I could pick up a few words, but I
couldn't understand a full sentence. I did make out one word that sent a
jolt of fear down my spine: Tripoli. There are two Arab cities with that
name-one in Lebanon, the other in Libya. I didn't like either option.
Slowly the city noises subsided; I heard nothing but the warm wind
blowing through the open windows and my guards exchanging an occasional word. We seemed to have been driving for hours and hours. The
temperature was high, but the air was dry. The car made a turn to the
right onto a dirt road and filled up with dust. Some time later, we came
to a stop. I was taken out, and the jute sack was removed from my head.
We were in a small village. Around me was nothing but sand dunes and
mud-brick houses. I could see about thirty or forty houses, one dirt road,
and free-roaming white, black, and red chickens busy picking up food off
the ground. Curious barefoot children with big brown eyes wearing dirty
galabiyas ogled me.

Finally someone spoke to me. "McMillan," said an unshaven man
standing next to me. I turned to face him. He was short and thin, with a
fierce look in his eyes. He was dressed in a long, formerly white galabiya.
He had short black hair and chickenpox-scarred face. Judging by the
fearful deference the other men showed him, I assumed he was their
commander.

"This is a remote village in the desert," the commander said; "there is
no point in escaping. If we don't get you, the sun and the heat will. You
are six hundred miles from the nearest city. Unless your American president sends a helicopter for you, you will remain here. But then," he added
with laughter, "we are beyond the range of your helicopters."

I quickly calculated: The Black Hawk UH-6o has a range of one thousand miles, so for a round trip from a carrier cruising off the coast of
Libya, I'd be out of range, provided the commander's information was
correct. I was sure he was lying about the distance, though. We'd left a
city-probably Tripoli-and driven for about six hours; we couldn't be
more than three hundred miles from the harbor. Unless, of course, I'd
miscalculated the length of our trip, which was entirely possible. I'd been
blindfolded, had no watch, and had lost my sense of time days before.

"If you try anything, my men here have orders to shoot you. Do I make
myself clear?"

I nodded. "I'm Canadian, not American. Could you tell me where I am,
and why?"

"The Western Desert."

"Where is that?"

"North Africa."

"The Egyptian or the Libyan side of the Western Desert?"

He was visibly surprised at my geographic knowledge. "The Libyan."

"How long will I be here?"

"Until our brothers finish their job in America."

"Who are your brothers?"

I didn't expect an answer, because I knew the answer and feared it, but
it still came. "The Slaves of Allah. We will teach all the infidels a lesson
they will never forget."

His English was good, although he spoke with a heavy accent. "Where
did you learn such good English?" Some flattery wouldn't hurt under the
circumstances.

"In America," he answered. He then turned around and was driven
away. I just stood there. The sun was setting. The children were still there,
looking at me curiously. A middle-aged man, perhaps in his fifties,
approached me. ~4halan wa'sahalan,"he said in Arabic, welcome.

Shukran, "I answered. Wna Neil, shoo ismak?" I'm Neil, what is your name?

"My name is Nasser," he said hesitantly in English. "I speak little
English I learned many years ago."

"Your English sounds fine to me."

"Thank you. I learned it while working for Standard Oil when they
were still here."

"I'm glad to meet you," I said. "What is the name of this village?"

"Bit Tamam."

"Sorry, I've never heard that name before," I said apologetically.
"Where is it located?"

"East of Sarir, not far from the Egyptian border."

He saw the expression on my face, although I thought I'd kept it
motionless. "We are only two hundred miles from Egypt, but between us
there is the Great Sand Sea. The other foreigners here have also asked me
the same question. Don't even think about it, nobody can survive the
desert."

"Foreigners?"

"Yes, there are two other foreigners here. They were brought here about
two or three weeks ago."

"Where are they from?"

He smiled. "We're not supposed to know, but they are from Hungary."

I tried harder to keep my face calm. This time the effort was perhaps
more successful because he said nothing. "Who are they?"

"I don't know. The people who brought you also brought them. They
told us to keep them in place. And we do. In Libya you don't ask too
many questions, and I'm afraid you are doing just that."

I tried to figure out why all of us foreigners would be brought to this location in particular. Because of its remoteness, I assumed, and its proximity to desert. But what was the Slaves of Allah's connection to this
place? Was it their safe haven? "Thanks for your help," I told him. He
seemed friendly and I did not want to abuse his hospitality. "Who will be
taking care of my needs here? I mean food, water, shelter?"

"I will," he said. "We are poor, but we will share with you what we have.
That hut"-he pointed at the mud-brick hut I'd noted earlier-"is your
home now." I followed him inside. On the floor were a straw rug, a big
bowl of water, and a charred kettle. "We are eating dinner at my home
soon; you are welcome to join us."

"And where is your home?" I asked.

"Over there." He pointed to a mud-brick hut close by.

"I'd be glad to." I was famished.

I followed Nasser into his home. 'Marhaban," said Nasser, welcome. It
was spacious and much larger than my hut. His wife, clad in traditional
Arab garb, covered her face as I walked in. Three small children were
standing next to her, peering at me. "Tfadal,"please, said Nasser as he sat
down, signaling me to join him. In the middle was a big bowl full of food.
I sat next to him on the rough camel-wool rug. There were no plates or
utensils. All family members waited for Nasser to eat first. He stuck his
hands into the bowl, took a fistful of rice mixed with lamb meat, and ate
it off his hands, telling me, "Please help yourself." I didn't need any further invitation and reached my hands into the common bowl. At the end
of the meal Nasser burped loudly, signaling that he had liked the meal.
His wife then served thick coffee from a small charred bronze finjan, a
Middle Eastern kettle that had been simmering on a small fire in the
corner.

I was tired. Nasser walked with me back to my hut. "Good night," he
said. I thanked him, entered my hut, and fell asleep immediately on the
dirt floor. Sometime in the middle of the night, I was awakened by the
penetrating cold. I'd forgotten how cold the desert could be at night,
winter or summer. I had no blankets or extra clothing to cover myself,
only the lightweight clothes I was wearing when I'd been captured. Now
they were dirty and smelled. An hour later, too cold to stay still, I went outside. I heard a weapon cock. "Shoo hada?" said the man. Who is there?
He pointed a gun at me, motioning me to go back inside.

"It's me," I said, "Neil McMillan, I just needed fresh air," and returned
to my hut. I sat on the floor, leaning against the hardened mud wall,
clenching my teeth, waiting for morning to come. First came the rooster
call, then the sound of sheep bells ringing. I opened the door and looked
around. The village had awakened. Men in long galabiyas were leaving
their huts. Some holding small agricultural tools, some herding a small
flock of sheep. I saw four or five women in traditional Arab garb carrying
buckets of water. When they saw me they covered their faces with their
veils. The men looked at me with curiosity but kept their distance.

I walked to Nasser's hut, my limbs stiff. "Please come in," he said.

"Let's have breakfast."

His wife returned to the hut holding a wide tray with flat bread.

"Gharaiba billaoz,"he said, when he saw me looking at the bread. "My
wife baked it in the clay oven outside." It was warm and sweet.

Just then two men entered the hut, the other foreigners. I nodded:
"Hi," I said in English, "I'm Neil McMillan, from Canada."

The older man, perhaps in his fifties, with a medium build, gray eyes,
silver-framed eyeglasses, and an alert, intelligent gaze, answered first.
"Hello. I'm Dr. Istvan Kovach, and this is my assistant Janos Hegedus."
He pointed at a man in his midthirties who stood next to him.

"Hungarian?" I asked.

"Yes," they both replied. Janos Hegedus was athletically built, with
brown eyes and short black hair. I shook their hands; one had a soft grip,
the other a firm one.

From the moment I'd heard of them, I'd figured that the other foreigners in the village were the two missing Mossad operatives, Benny's
guys. Now, seeing them, I was certain. The theory I had suggested to
Hodson had turned out to be true. The plan to acquire genetically engineered virus, the kidnapping of Benny's men, the encrypted messages
sent to Eagle Bank, the huge money transfers, my own kidnapping, and
the threat to hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of New Yorkers and
other Americans: The Slaves of Allah were behind all of it. There was a connection between the Israeli operatives' disappearance and the ciphered
messages. The depth of the conspiracy was now revealed to me, though
the meaning of it all remained murky. I tried to remain calm but the tension I felt was almost unbearable. We ate our breakfast in silence. While
Nasser was listening, there wasn't much to talk about other than the
weather. When Nasser finished his meal, he got up and said, "I must
attend my herd. I'll see you tonight."