Code of Blood

by George C. Chesbro

  Chant leaned back in the chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. “They damn well took their time about it,” he said through clenched teeth as, for the first time, his voice began to hum with emotion.

  “Yes. The doctors who did the autopsy estimate between two-and-a-half and three weeks. Many of the wounds showed signs of partial healing.”

  “To keep him alive that long, they must have used a torture doctor.”

  Gerard Patreaux reached for the whiskey bottle, started to pour himself another drink, then thought better of it and pushed the bottle away. “We think so,” he answered softly. “In fact, we’re almost certain there was a torture doctor involved.”

  “What did Harry know?” Chant asked evenly, still staring at the ceiling.

  “Nothing his torturers didn’t know before they started on him.”

  Chant lowered his arms, folded his hands in his lap, and looked at the Swiss. “What did they think he knew, Gerard? What were they trying to find out?”

  Again, Patreaux swallowed hard. “I don’t think they were trying to find out anything.”

  Chant pointed to the autopsy report. “Then why … that? These people aren’t amateurs—not when they use a torture doctor who’s probably a trained surgeon.”

  “No,” Patreaux said, his pale blue eyes suddenly glinting with rage. “We’re not talking about amateurs.”

  Chant shook his head. “Harry wasn’t trained to withstand torture. In fact, he had a low tolerance for pain—he was in trouble if he had to pull off a hangnail. Professional torturers would have known he had nothing to hide after their first pass at him. Why keep him alive for three weeks doing that to him?”

  “Punishment,” Patreaux said in a haunted voice.

  “Punishment?”

  “Harry knew his torturers, Chant. He’d been investigating rumors for some time, and maybe he’d finally gotten the proof we were looking for. Obviously, they caught him—and then went on to demonstrate to him just what they were capable of. So it was punishment, as well as a message to Amnesty. The body was sent to us as a demonstration that we’re powerless to stop them, and as a warning to mind our own business.”

  “Who was Harry investigating, Gerard?”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Chant. For now, it seems there’s nothing anybody can do.”

  Chant did not reply. He fixed his iron-colored eyes on Patreaux and waited.

  Finally the Swiss sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “There’s what amounts to a torture epidemic in the world today, Chant. At our last count, at least seventy countries practice torture—or condone it by turning a blind eye and deaf ear to its use by the police or military.”

  “I know Amnesty has centers for victims. In fact, you have one here in Geneva.”

  Patreaux nodded. “We get thousands of victims, and yet surprisingly little is known about how to treat them. You’re right; we operate a number of centers around the world for victims of torture. It’s a practice, an abomination, Amnesty, Inc. takes very seriously. Harry took it personally; for the past two years he focused on nothing but torture investigations.”

  “I know,” Chant said quietly. He was impatient to learn the identities of Harry’s torturers, but sensed that Gerard Patreaux was attempting to exorcise his own nightmares and needed to give the information in his own way, in his own time.

  “Amnesty’s been engaged in a two-pronged attack,” Patreaux said, lighting a cigarette. “First, we try to expose the practice of official, governmental torture and hope that world opinion will have some effect. Second, as I said, we try to help the survivors. One of the most astounding things our psychiatrists have to deal with is the strong emotional bond—it would be too perverse to describe it as a kind of love, but it can resemble that—that sometimes develops between the victim and his or her torturer. That bond can be very difficult to break, and we just don’t understand enough about all the complex mental processes at work. Almost all victims endure years of depression; they can only sleep two or three hours a night, and they spend the rest of the time pacing. Large numbers commit suicide. Many become impotent, and it’s not uncommon for them to suffer intense pains that have no physical cause. Incredibly, many suffer crushing guilt—they blame themselves, especially if other members of their families have been tortured because of their activities. They become suspicious to the point of paranoia. Torture is so individually focused that it destroys the mechanics by which we deal with people and solve everyday problems. It turns the brain to soup.” Patreaux paused, glanced up at Chant. “But you don’t care about any of this—you want to know who went to work on Harry.”

  “I am interested, Gerard—and I do want to know who tortured and killed Harry. But I’m in no hurry. I want to know anything you care to tell me.”

  Patreaux, whose voice and manner had become steadier as he’d spoken, nodded curtly, rose, and walked around his desk to where a rack of maps on spring rollers was mounted on the wall. Patreaux pulled one of the maps down, and Chant found himself looking at the western half of South America.

  “Actually,” Patreaux said in a low voice, without turning, “Harry wasn’t even supposed to be where I suspect he ended up. He’d originally gone to Nicaragua to negotiate with the Sandinistas for permission to interview and study some of the torturers from the Somoza regime they’ve got locked up down there.”

  “What would be the point, Gerard?”

  The Swiss shrugged. “There are psychiatrists who believe that studying the mind of the torturer may help us to better understand the mind of the victim—for example, the emotional bond I mentioned. Also, it could give governments that want to avoid torture some idea of the personality types that require close supervision, if they’re to do police or military work at all.”

  “Obviously,” Chant said in a flat voice, “the torturers Harry found weren’t locked up.”

  “Probably here,” Patreaux said, putting the tip of his index finger beneath a tiny dot in the Pacific, just off the coast of Chile.

  “What’s there?”

  “It’s all supposition, Chant. Rumor.”

  “It’s rumor Harry acted on, maybe after he got a tip in Nicaragua. What do you think is on that island, Gerard?”

  Now Patreaux turned. His face was slightly ashen, and his mouth was set in a firm line. “The name of the island in Spanish means ‘Place of Winds.’ We call it Torture Island. If our information is correct, there’s a kind of torture institute out there.”

  “A torture institute?”

  The Swiss nodded. “Yes—by which I mean a facility devoted to the refining and improvement of techniques and tools for torture. Just what the world needs. There are governments, and even some private organizations, who’ll pay a lot of money for that kind of information and training. It’s run by a prince of a man named Dr. Richard Krowl; he’s an American who was thrown out of medical school for conducting unauthorized experiments.”

  “What kind of experiments?”

  “We’ve never been able to find out; the record is sealed, and the school won’t talk. However, I think it’s safe to assume that the experiments would have done someone like Josef Mengele proud. Anyway, Krowl must have seen that there was money to be made in the torture business—and he’s making it. Some of the worst torturers in the world show up on that island for Krowl’s seminars and demonstrations He runs a pretty sophisticated operation in pain and death.”

  “I wouldn’t think governments that torture would suffer any shortage of would-be torturers,” Chant said. “And almost any physician with a streak of the sadist in him will make a fairly decent torture doctor Why pay Krowl? What’s so special about him?”

  Patreaux shrugged sadly. “That’s what I assume Harry was trying to pin down We just don’t know that much about him or his operation However, I suppose he’s just the best there is at what he does. He handles very special cases. If all you want to do is intimidate, brutalize, terrorize, or punish, then any
idiot with pincers and a cattle prod can do the job—assuming you’re not worried about the victim dying, or what he looks like when the idiot is finished with him. As we both know, that isn’t always the case If the authorities want to extract information from a very tough man—somebody like you, for example—there could be a problem. You’d evade and defy. They wouldn’t care what you ended up looking like, but they wouldn’t want you to die before you told them what they wanted to know—and they’d want to make certain the information was accurate. That would take some doing. Then you have political prisoners, people like Viktor and Olga Petroff who have gained the attention of the world. The Russians would probably do anything to get Viktor Petroff to shut up or recant, but they can’t afford to mark up him or his wife because too many people are watching. Tough, resistant people like you, or people like the Petroffs who require kid-glove treatment, give torturers fits. Also, there’s only so much pain a person can endure before passing out, or dying.”

  “Which is why we have torture doctors,” Chant said in the same, flat voice.

  “Right. A good torture doctor can maximize pain in a victim, while assuring that the person doesn’t die before his torturers want him to—which is exactly what was done with Harry If our information is correct, Krowl gets special cases from a lot of different countries. He conducts the torture sessions while torturers whose governments have paid for them to be there watch and listen. At least, that’s what we suspect goes on. He doesn’t exactly publish a newsletter. The island is isolated, and his operation there is protected by the countries whose interests he serves.”

  “What countries?”

  “A very good question, and one we’d dearly love to know the answer to. Some, like the seventy I mentioned, would be obvious customers, but we think Krowl may have some other customers who aren’t so obvious—both East and West bloc That’s what Harry was working on. If we could get hard evidence that major powers, communist or democratic, have ever sent—or do send—prisoners to Krowl, the publicity would be devastating. The uproar would probably be enough to shut down Torture Island.”

  “When you say ‘countries,’ I assume you’re talking about intelligence or internal security agencies.”

  “In most cases, yes. In eastern bloc countries, the distinctions become blurred.”

  “Do the Russians use Krowl?”

  Patreaux shrugged. “Maybe. We don’t know.”

  “The CIA?”

  “Same answer, Chant. I do know that the possibility bothered Harry a lot.”

  Chant grunted softly, then pointed to the map. “Are there black pearls in that area of the Pacific?”

  “As a matter of fact, there are,” the Swiss said, obviously puzzled by the change of subject and the question. “How do you—?”

  Patreaux stopped speaking when Chant took something out of his pocket and rolled it across the desk. Patreaux just managed to catch it before it rolled off the edge of the desk, and he stared in astonishment at the huge black pearl in his hand.

  “Harry sent that to me,” Chant said evenly. “Judging from the postmark on the package, he must have dropped it in the mail just before he was captured.”

  Patreaux frowned. “There are stories—legends, really—about there being rich beds of oysters that produce black pearls in that region of the ocean; there are also stories about Krowl having amassed a fortune in them. If he has, I don’t know how he did it. The waters around that island are among the most shark-infested in the world; there are hammerheads, makos, blues—just about every species you can name, including an occasional great white. That’s why nobody dives for the black pearls that are supposed to be there. Where could Harry have gotten this?”

  “He mailed the package from Lima, and I doubt that he found it on the sidewalk there.”

  “Why did he send it to you?” Patreaux asked, still obviously distracted by the pearl in his hand.

  “He must have thought I’d be interested in the good Dr. Krowl and his doings.”

  Patreaux set the pearl back down on the desk and shook his head. “It’s not your kind of operation, Chant. You always work alone, and you know that deception, disguise, concealment, and surprise are important. That won’t work on Torture Island. It’s too small, and Krowl’s facility is the only thing there—if it is there. Krowl would know everybody there.”

  Chant pointed to the pearl. “Harry must have gotten on the island, and off again. He made it to Peru.”

  Patreaux, still unconvinced, shook his head. “I don’t understand how Harry could have done it. The island is twenty miles off the coast—too far to swim, even if there weren’t the sharks. And the island is surrounded by coral reefs. It’s only accessible by air.”

  “Then where did Harry get the pearl?”

  “I don’t know, Chant,” Patreaux said softly. “I do know that I’ve lost a dear and courageous friend, and I don’t want to lose another. Harry’s death has provided me with enough horror to last a lifetime. God, Chant, I wish you could give Krowl and his torturers a bit of special attention, but everything I’ve ever heard about the island indicates that there’s no way. Putting Krowl out of business is a job for civilized nations. There’s nothing one individual—not even John Sinclair—can do. As I said, you couldn’t even get on the island.”

  Chant reached out for the pearl, casually dropped it in his shirt pocket. He lifted the bottle, poured drinks for both of them. “Here’s to Harry,” Chant said, raising his glass.

  “To Harry,” Gerard Patreaux responded, his pale blue eyes misting as he raised his own glass and drank with Chant.

  “What’s the latest on Viktor and Olga Petroff?” Chant asked quietly as he set his glass down beside the bottle.

  The eyes of the Amnesty, Inc. chief glinted with anger. “Nobody’s heard anything for two weeks, not since the Russians packed them off to Gorky. The official line is that they’re still in Gorky, alive and well and probably rethinking all the nasty things they’ve said about the Soviet system.”

  “A newspaper in Holland reported they’d both gone on a hunger strike and were being force-fed.”

  “We’ve heard that rumor, but there’s no solid evidence to show they’re even still in Gorky. We have some contacts in Gorky, but they don’t report seeing any sign of the Petroffs. There’ve been no smuggled letters, nothing.”

  “Would the Russians dare put them in a mental institution?”

  “They might; they’re getting pretty desperate. They claim they can’t allow the Petroffs out of the country because both are nuclear scientists and privy to too many defense secrets. On the other hand, every time the authorities turn their backs the Petroffs call a press conference and denounce the abuse of human rights. At least they did before the Soviets packed them off to Gorky. It’s a closed city.”

  “Yes,” Chant answered absently. He was again leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

  “You said you were in Amsterdam?”

  “Yes.”

  “On business, I presume?”

  Chant nodded.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d love to hear about it. It always makes me feel better when I learn that John Sinclair has mounted an operation against some poor, misunderstood soul.”

  Chant looked at his friend, smiled wryly. “The poor, misunderstood soul in Amsterdam is a pharmaceuticals mogul named Hugo VanderKlaven. His operation is a bit complicated, but what it boils down to is the sale of adulterated antibiotics to Third World and underdeveloped countries. He has a whole string of corrupt officials he’s bribed. The officials arrange for public health administrators in their various governments to buy their drugs from VanderKlaven. What they get is medicine that’s been cut three or four times. In more advanced countries, he sells his shit on the black market.”

  “But antibiotics that have been cut like that would be worthless.”

  “Precisely. Patients injected with VanderKlaven’s drugs don’t respond, and they usually die. Their doctors might as well have i
njected them with water.”

  “I’m surprised the doctors haven’t suspected the drugs are bad.”

  Chant shrugged. “The doctors who receive the drugs don’t operate practices in New York or London. They’re harried, overworked public health physicians fighting what’s already a tidal wave of death in places like South Africa’s black relocation areas, or the poorest areas of India. So many people die on them anyway, the doctors don’t suspect that the antibiotics they’ve been using might be bad. Besides, they have no testing facilities.”

  “Jesus!” Patreaux said with disgust. “I’ve been doing work like the work I do for Amnesty for more than twenty years, and I still find it hard to believe the cruelty some humans will inflict on other humans—sometimes for revenge, sometimes out of anger, and other times just to make money.”

  “Shall I bring Hugo VanderKlaven to you, Gerard?” Chant asked with only the slightest trace of irony in his voice. “You can interview him and ask him why he wants to do such nasty things.”

  Patreaux laughed easily. “Ah, I see you don’t think much of the idea of studying torturers to see what makes them tick.”

  “It would be presumptuous of me to offer an opinion one way or the other; I’m not a psychiatrist. I believe, simply, that some men and women are evil, and that’s all there is to it. Torturers are in their line of work because it gives them pleasure to see people suffer and die. People like VanderKlaven do what they do because they have sociopathic personalities, and making money is all that matters to them.”

  Chant paused, poured another drink for himself and Patreaux. “Men like VanderKlaven have very little imagination when it comes to the suffering of others,” he continued evenly, sipping the malt Scotch. “It might be interesting to see how he would respond to having an illness his frustrated doctors couldn’t treat. The same for the men who work for him. For example, there’s a microscopic parasite that lives in the mud of the Amazon Basin. Some natives pick it up when they bathe or wash clothes in the river. The parasite can only enter the body through breaks in the skin, but when it does get in the bloodstream it wreaks havoc in a relatively short period of time—often three weeks or less. It multiplies rapidly in human blood, and it goes straight for the organs of the head. It loves to feast on the brain, and it gets there by chewing its way along the optic nerve.”