The Chemist

Chapter 19

April 20th, 11:30 p.m. Elizabeth, New Jersey

Under the shadow of the GoethalsBridge, behind a gentleman's club and liquor store, stood a modest sized warehouse. From all appearances, it was abandoned. It had been a textile factory at one time. Corrugated metal surrounded the property, with a rusted gate the only way in or out. The building itself was made of darkened gray cinderblock with a flat, dilapidated tar rooftop.

The entryway was a stripped-down room that was once an office. Behind the inner door was a long, darkened corridor, illuminated overhead with Klieg lights. It did nothing to improve the ambience of the place, which reeked of mold and damp. The corridor had several doors. The one at the end led to the abandoned factory, to the right was a separate office and a small restroom. To the left were two more doors. One led to an old office, the other was the one Sabir would enter.

"In there," Jaffa said with a glance.

"I see they've been true to their word," Sabir said. Wasting no time, he pushed open the door, startling its occupant.

The man, wearing nothing except for his underwear, was hung by his arms behind his head, his legs tied together as a rope, looped over a pipe was tied to an iron rod, just long enough so his toes separated from the dusty floor. This was known as a Palestinian Hanging, but its history went back to the early Renaissance. Left alone a few hours more and his arms would be slowly wrenched from the shoulder sockets, causing his body to fall forward, making breathing excruciatingly painful. The Americans tortured Mandel al-Jamdi in this way too, before he died in captivity. Sabir's expertise was using torture techniques. As a young man, he was recruited by PLO functionaries, but soon joined the PFLP, which went its separate way when Arafat shook hands with Rabin. He received his training in Lebanon and Syria, the heart of PFLP's political leadership, where he learned the rudiments of both physical and psychological torture methods.

Sabir had long been a 'cat' lover. The prisoner's back had several marks, grouped in red parallel blotches of nine. The result of Jaffa having used a nine-pronged whip, the infamous cat o'nine tails. The ends of each prong had tiny metal balls with spikes on them, another torture device, this one going back to the ancient Egyptians.

When Sabir caught the prisoner's eye, the man shuddered in horror and tried to look away. Covered with sweat, he broke his silence with a plea for his life.

"Sabir. I beg you! I have done nothing wrong!" he screamed in Arabic.

Sabir knew better.

Rahfeek was far from innocent. His darkened skin was covered in perspiration that dripped from his forehead and three-day old beard. He appeared remarkably young with no gray evident in his hair even after all this time. It took nearly twenty years but Sabir's men had finally tracked Rahfeek down, thanks to some new American 'friends'. This was personal. An old score would finally be settled.

"You were never my friend," Sabir intoned.

They had grown up together and attended the same high school where Sidayim taught. But Sabir had come to learn that it was Rahfeek who betrayed Sidayim as an informant for the Israelis. They had paid him well for the trouble—sanctuary and passage to America, free to abandon his Palestinian roots and resettling there, under an assumed name with the help of the Americans.

"What do you want, Sabir? I'll do anything!" Rahfeek said, his voice several octaves higher than it usually was.

"You will die. It is Allah's will. But before that, you will confess what you did here and now. Do not expect mercy."

"No! No! Alahu Akbar! Alahu Akbar!" Rahfeek shouted.

Stepping closer, Sabir unsheathed a small knife from his belt. "Allah will never embrace you."

Convulsing in panic, Rahfeek screamed, "Wait! Wait! I have money! I have lots of money!"

"It is time," was all Sabir had to say. Rahfeek's eyes bulged. The knife shimmered in the light as it sliced through Rahfeek's left ear.

Blood flowed from the wound to his shoulder and down his chest, yet Rahfeek did not appear to register pain. Rahfeek forced a grin, willing himself to regain a modicum of self-control, relieved that he was still breathing the sweet smell of life. "I did nothing," he said.

"Liar!" Sabir's voice cut through the rancid air. Then he spoke, softly. "Now."

Hearing no response, Sabir moved in closer, resting the point of the knife just below Rahfeek's Adam's Apple.

In tears, Rahfeek fought to justify his sin, "Sidayim was to betray us! To betray you!"

"No. The Jews made you one of them and you broke my heart because of it." Sabir stood face to face with Rahfeek. Close enough to smell the stink of the captive's breath.

"You are not our true savior, Sabir!"

Satisfied, Sabir whispered, "Allah awaits," as his knife pierced Rahfeek's skin, finding the windpipe. Blood seeped out from the puncture. Air wheezed free and a sick gurgling sound followed. Drowning in his own blood, Rahfeek's pleas for mercy were reduced to a pathetic series of wet gasps.

One minute later, Rahfeek's corpse was left hanging, motionless. Sabir relished the sight, finally getting vengeance that was long overdue.

He walked out of the room, as if he'd just finished his spring cleaning. "It is done," he said to Jaffa. "Did you purchase the items we will need?

"Yes. They're in the back, under the tarp. We loaded them on while you were inside."

As they stepped outside, Jaffa asked, "So when will the time be right?"

"Patience my friend. Patience. Our friends need more time before we are needed."

They reached the van. Sabir opened the door and inspected several items: an iron, a car battery, a grappling hook with chain, a crank with pulleys, handcuffs and some oversized pliers. He nodded his approval. "With their list and these items, we will soon have our answer."

Jaffa closed the door and started the engine. "This girl. She has no idea the hell she is to endure, does she?"

"No matter. It will go quickly."

Copyright © 2016 by Alan Field. All Rights Reserved.