Enemies Within
Page 22
He finally spoke. “You are aware. Awake.”
Jack raised his head, trying to peer through the blindfold.
“I will ask one question and one question only.”
Jack needed time. To think. To plot. To assess. To figure out what this was all about. To find the right answers, even if they were lies.
“Whom are you working for?”
Jack moved his mouth around soreness, swelling, and globules of coagulating blood. His words came out slurry. “Working for?”
“Don’t be obtuse. We know who you are. You were employed by your government. But you work for someone else. Consider this. You’re on your own. No one will come to your rescue. Should my friends decide they have a thirst for blood that cannot be quenched, no one will hear your screams. Therefore, I ask again.” He paused to inhale and then to exhale smoke in a measured manner before going on. “Whom are you working for?”
Jack spat out blood before saying, “No one.”
“You have a nasty cut on your forehead.” The gentleman almost sounded concerned. Apologetic. “It should be attended to.”
Jack was on the verge of laughing. This was a scene from B-grade movie, where the good guy is made out to be a villain and the bad guy is really a very understanding bloke.
“It will scar, and we wouldn’t want to be responsible for making your pretty face unpretty.”
“You could let me go.”
“Oh, we would, we would, except we know you’re a fighter. I have a swollen jaw to prove it.”
“Who are you, you and your thugs?”
The German laughed. He made a movement. Got up. Tugged a glove over his hand, manipulating each finger in succession, methodical about it. He stepped forward. Swung out. Pounded his fist into Jack’s gut. Retreated. And retook his seat, fastidious about it, adjusting his clothing and crossing a leg over his thigh. He dragged on the cigarette. Expelled the fumes. Chortled in between. “I do that without anger. Only to make a point. We are only bureaucrats. Pencil pushers. We have an aversion to violence but will use it if necessary.”
Jack passed out, he didn’t know for how long.
When he came to, the cavernous interior had stilled. His head was bowed. The bindings strained. The stink of oil and gasoline permeated the walls. Everything reeked of rot and decay and neglect. Heat was building under a relentless sun.
The inquisitor spoke. The men returned. Footsteps trundled forward. One of the thugs yanked Jack’s head back by the roots. The other forced a bottle between his lips. Water poured down his gullet in a drowning rush. The interrogator watched from his chair, saying nothing, only smoking. The men backed off. Jack hacked, spitting out water, catching his breath. He groaned once, head lolling, and groaned again, putting effort into it, trying to convince his captors he was docile and compliant and eager to talk.
The interrogator spoke in his native language. “Mach ihn unwohl!”
The men went to work. Ripped away what was left of Jack’s shirt. Upzipped his jeans. Tugged them down to his ankles. Stood back, at attention. Awaited the next order.
Their boss sat back, crossed a leg, observed his captive to see what he would say or do. “You may piss, if you like. Or shit. Or puke. Or any combination thereof. One way or another, you will tell me what I want to know or your insides will be outside. Verstehen Sie?”
He lit a fresh cigarette. Inhaled deeply. Uncrossed his leg. Crossed the other leg in the opposite direction. Clucked disdainfully. Exhaled. Picked tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “From now on, it’ll be just you and me. Verstehen Sie mich? Man to man.”
“You’re not German,” Jack said. “You’re Austrian.”
There was a thoughtful pause. “How very clever you are. But not clever enough, I fear. Since I am here, and you are there.”
The men stood off to the side. A silent clock ticked. Eventually the cigarette fizzled and was crushed beneath the sole of a shoe. The burning embers brought Jack out of a complacent malaise into keen awareness. With this awareness came defeat. He wasn’t going to get out of this. His interrogator would eventually get what he wanted, even if it took hours. Even if the remnants of the day stretched into blackest night. And when it was over, when they forced from him the information they wanted, one of the men would execute the final stroke, a quick slice across his throat followed by the slow exsanguination of his blood, which would deliver him to his final destination.
The interrogator made an abrupt movement. Two sets of footsteps retreated once more, the men grumbling beneath their breaths, impatient for their leader to do whatever he had to do so they could get on their way.
“We are alone. Just me. And you.” The inquisitor paused before saying, “Jack Coyote.”
It was the first time the inquisitor had said his name. It meant something to Jack. It also meant something to his captor. What lay between them had become personal.
“Me. You. And the ancient ghosts of this place. Call it a tropical requiem. Yours. For there is no reprieve from your predicament. Merely an unpleasant exit or an easy passing. The choice will be yours. But enough of poetic allusions. Let me arrive at another salient point.”
“I’m dying to hear.”
The air parted. A whoosh followed. The pain was indescribable. Jack screamed and screamed some more as the instrument of torture descended persistently and repeatedly until he lost count at four ... or was it five? The screams eventually died in his throat and left nothing behind but a babbling idiot incapable of anything but dribbling snot and spit onto himself.
A leather-encased hand smacked him hard across his cheek, bringing him around.
“Ah,” the inquisitor said. “He awakens. You’d be surprised the pain that can be inflicted by an ordinary corn broom. The bristles, you see. Stiff. The damage is minimal. But the pain is exquisite. You’ll still be a man when it’s over, but the memories will persist, making you impotent for all practical purposes.”
The torture resumed, going on and on until Jack couldn’t remember his name. Minutes later, or perhaps hours, he came to. Blubbering like an infant, making no sense, thinking he was alone at last. But it was only a hopeful wish, for the voice of his inquisitor spoke once again.
“I am a patient man. An ordinary man. I revile violence. Sad to say, occasionally I must resort to the unpleasanter aspects of my profession. I am merely a vehicle. To deliver pain, it is true. But also, to deliver you from pain. Jack Coyote. John Fox. Whatever name you go by, you are most definitely not whom you appear to be.”
“I’m ...” His head lolling, Jack licked his parched lips. “... a data analyst.”
“Ah, yes, the cover. A very good cover. But you know and I know that you are a hacker. You have refined your skills to a fine art, therefore making your cover very believable since that is how you started out. But now you are something else. Somewhere along the line, you became a spy. Shake your head all you want, but you will not be believed.”
The room descended into blackest silence. Once Jack thought the room vast, but the walls were closing in. The strictures binding his wrists were cutting off the flow of blood. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. “At least remove the blindfold so I can look you in the eye.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ve already seen you.”
“True enough. But doing it this way makes you weak. And vulnerable. And serves as a reminder. Of who is in charge. And who isn’t. Pain is the only provable evidence of nobility. And surprise is the truest element of torture. If you cannot see it coming, you cannot prepare for it.”
The thwacks resumed with a rushing fury, the bristles sharp and the force relentless. He passed out again. A wall of water met his face.
The calm voice of his inquisitor resumed. “Tell me whom you work for. Ah yes, I know. You work for the Homeland Intelligence Division. Otherwise known as the Firm or H-I-D. A quaint acronym. But you no longer work there, do you? Ergo, you are working for someone else. We know, for instance, you were stationed in
Berlin with the State Department. We also know that while there, you often traveled to Frankfurt and Stuttgart. You can shake your head all you want, but our intelligence is very good. We know you had a romantic relationship with a woman. Heidi Beatrix Schröder. An imposing name for an insubstantial blonde with blue eyes and rosy cheeks. You met at a party through mutual acquaintances. And you promptly took her to bed.”
Jack laughed. It was the crazed laugh of a man on the brink of insanity.
His interrogator paused to light another cigarette, using the flick of his thumbnail against the match. After inhaling deeply and exhaling with a slow steadiness, he continued.
“You resigned from your position rather abruptly and without notice. You gave her a goodbye kiss at the airport. If you had asked her to come with you, she probably would have. But you didn’t ask her, did you? Still, you kept in touch. For a time. Emails. Text messages. Occasional phone calls. Eventually your communications dwindled, due in no small part on your reluctance to continue the long-distance relationship. Perhaps you suspected her. Did you?”
Yes, he remembered her. Yes, he broke it off, just like all the other lovely women. The story of his life in three acts. Beginning, middle, and end. “Suspected her of what?”
“Of being a swallow. But no matter. You may or may not have known that your communications were being monitored.”
“By you?”
“Yes, by us. And your side. Her people became aware of it and had her back off.”
“You’re making it up.”
“Am I? Who’s to say? At any rate, you haven’t heard from her for a while. That is because she is dead, the buxom Heidi. Oh, didn’t you know? I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Suicide. Or so the authorities claim. Who can know for sure. But I wonder. Did she die because of her association with you? Or did she die because she was dabbling in areas where she was a rank amateur? Well ...,” he tossed off as if it were of no importance. “Once we understood the nature of your relationship, we decided to approach you. Unfortunately, you left before we had the chance. Therefore I ask again. Whom do you work for?”
Even if Jack could speak lucidly, he had nothing to say.
“You are a very clever fellow, aren’t you? Yes, very clever, indeed. Brave. And stubborn. Even unto death.”
“You chased down the wrong dog.”
“I don’t think so. We already know who your contact is. We only want you to confirm it.”
“You know jack shit.”
“We have other methods to make you talk.”
“Truth serum?”
His interrogator laughed before taking a drag of his cigarette. “A defector from the Biological Weapons Department of the KGB once claimed that a truth serum with the code name XQ3 was highly effective. No taste, no smell, no color, and no side effects. Most importantly, the victim had no recollection of having confessed his gravest sins, only that he awakened from an unremarkable nap. It was said they used the drug to check the trustworthiness of their own agents. We all know XQ3 is a fiction. There is no elixir that can loosen a man’s tongue, or if it does, will only produce a tainted confession. And so, I ask again ....” He inhaled an impatient breath. “Whom do you work for?”
Jack worked up a globule of spit and launched it.
His interrogator calmly reached into a pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and calmly wiped away the sputum. “I see we will get no further with this line of questioning. There are other ways. There is the pail method. Or the rope method. Or the razor method. All cruder. And messier.”
Jack heard a movement. Sensed a whiff of air. And the echoing blasts of bullets firing from an automatic pistol.
The interrogator made a gurgling noise before his body toppled forward and gracefully folded onto the floor. Soft-soled shoes approached and rolled over the slack body. The automatic delivered three more shots at pointblank range, the reports deafening. The assassin cleared his throat but said nothing. He slowly turned around, and with a leisurely gait, walked out of the building, hard-soled shoes shuffling across the floor.
All men have enemies. Some known. Others unknown. The enemies within are often the most destructive.
Jack gratefully passed out, knowing no more but the empty arms of forgetfulness. The tropical requiem played on and faded into night.
THE END
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