by Jack Mars
“Here’s how my way works,” Reid told him, his voice low. “I’m going to hurt you. And then I’m going to ask you a question. Then I’m going to hurt you some more, but worse. There’s no way around it, and there’s only one way through it. That’s for you to answer quickly and honestly. Do you understand?”
The Syrian’s lips curled into a slight smirk. “I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of pain, or death. Only one can judge me. And I will meet Him soon enough.”
Reid knelt so that he was face to face with the man. “They all say that. Usually right before the screaming begins. Speaking of.” He took a balled-up sock, one of Adrian’s he had found in the loft upstairs, and stuffed it into the Syrian’s mouth. “We don’t want to wake the neighbors.”
The last time Reid could remember torturing anyone for information was a Russian man, whom he waterboarded for intel on the terrorist organization Amun. At the time it had sickened him to do it. All the while he kept thinking, This is not what Reid Lawson would do.
He was wrong then, and he wasn’t thinking like that now. Reid Lawson was Kent Steele, and vice versa. He was not two minds in the same body. He was one man who, until he got his memories fully restored, was simply confused about who he was. But at the moment, he knew exactly who he was—and what he was capable of.
If the map they had found in Athens was correct, then Washington, DC, was a target. And despite the fact that millions could die if the virus was unleashed, Reid could think only that his two little girls were a mere stone’s throw from the nation’s capital.
This man and his cohorts, they had unknowingly threatened his family. And that made torture precisely the kind of thing that Reid Lawson would do to protect them, if he needed to.
“Barnard, you’re probably not going to want to watch this,” Reid said in English. The doctor stood in the doorway, possibly to satisfy some grim curiosity, but at Reid’s warning he nodded and turned away. Maria stayed, leaning against the refrigerator with her arms crossed. She was no stranger to this sort of work.
Reid took a steak knife from the block he’d found and held it near the man’s throat. But he wasn’t slicing skin. Instead he swiped it downward on the collar of the Syrian’s T-shirt, and then tore it open, exposing his chest.
“Nnggh.” The man was trying to speak, but Reid wasn’t interested in what he had to say—yet. He had already outlined his method, and the first step was not questions.
He held the head of a teaspoon over the blue flames on the gas stove. “I don’t have time right now to explain the different degrees of burns to you,” he said in Arabic. “Suffice it to say that what you’re about to experience is going to be a second-degree burn.”
He pressed the head of the spoon to the man’s left pectoral muscle. His eyes widened and the sock in his mouth muffled his cry. When Reid pulled the spoon away, the skin was red and already beginning to blister slightly.
He yanked the sock from the man’s mouth. “What is your name?”
The man sneered up at him, panting slightly. “Your friend in there… he called you ‘Zero.’” Though he spoke Arabic, he said “Zero” in accented English. “You are the Agent Zero?”
“Yes. I am. And if you know that name, then you know that this is going to get so much worse for you.”
“The fact that I know that means I will not make it through this alive anyway. I have nothing more to say.” The man opened his mouth wide—but not to speak. He was inviting Reid to stuff the sock back into his mouth.
Reid obliged. The Syrian seemed confident, already knowing that this was going to end in his death and believing he had no reason to talk. But he will. To stop the pain.
He pulled on an oven mitt and held the spoon over the flames again, longer this time, until the head of it glowed orange. When he pressed it to the man’s chest, the skin sizzled and immediately bubbled in angry, gray blisters.
The Syrian threw his head back and let loose a gurgled cry, drowned by the cloth in his mouth.
“That was still a second-degree burn,” Reid told him, tossing the spoon and mitt in the sink. “To get to third-degree, we have to do something a little more drastic.” He lowered himself to his knees. “Maria, hand me that bottle of floor cleaner.”
She passed him a plastic jug of amber-colored liquid, and Reid splashed it liberally over the man’s shoes. It stank of ammonia and artificial pine scent.
“I’m going to set you on fire now,” he said soberly. “Starting with your feet. It’s going to take a long time. You’re going to watch as the fire melts your shoes. It won’t hurt—at first. Not until the flames eat the rubber. By the time you feel your skin scalding, it will be too late. Your pants will catch fire. Your legs. It will slowly creep up and engulf you. And I will let it.”
Reid took a strand of pasta he had found in a cupboard and held it over the blue flames until the end caught like a makeshift match. Then he lowered the flame toward the terrorist’s feet.
“Mmm!” the man shrieked. “Nngh!”
Reid blinked at him. “I’m sorry. You made it clear you had nothing more to say to me.”
The chemicals ignited quickly, orange fire spreading over the man’s black shoes. The Syrian screamed in fear. He tried to thrash in the chair, to kick his legs, but the duct tape held him still. He whimpered and whipped his head left and right as the leather soles curled and the acrid scent of burning rubber filled the kitchen.
Reid glanced over his shoulder. Dr. Barnard stood in the doorway again, watching, one closed fist held tightly over his mouth as the flames licked the tops of the Syrian’s shoes, threatening to spread to the hem of his pants. The panicked noises emitting from his throat were like that of some dying animal, vacillating between brays, grunts, and muffled screams.
After several seconds Reid leaned close to his ear and repeated his previous question. “What is your name?”
He pulled the sock from the man’s mouth. “Please! Please, make it stop!”
“Your name.”
“Put it out, I beg you!”
“You have less than a minute before your flesh begins to burn,” Reid noted. “Your name.”
“Abad! My name is Abad!”
“Who has the virus, Abad?”
“She does, the girl!”
“A name, Abad! What is her name?!”
“Claudette! Claudette! Please, stop this…” Abad squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering incoherently.
“Where is Claudette taking it?”
“I don’t know! I swear to Allah, I don’t know!”
“What do you know, Abad?”
“North! I know she went north…” Abad winced. The fire was burning through his shoes. “Please, it hurts, make this stop…”
“What were you trying to do with the phone? Warn her?”
“No!”
“Is there another bomb?”
“A car, outside… black…”
Reid glanced over his shoulder at Maria. She stepped forward and asked in Arabic, “And the Imam? What is his name?”
Abad was near hyperventilating, his chest heaving as the flames caught his denim pants. Every breath was an intense wheeze, his teeth gritted in agony. Reid knew that the pain of even a mild burn was intense, torturous—and Abad had not even begun to feel what might actually happen if they let the fire continue.
“The Imam!” Reid demanded. “Who is he?”
“Khalil! His name is Khalil.”
Reid grabbed a towel from a hanging rack and threw it over the flames, patting them out. The smell of burnt rubber and hair was atrocious. Abad hung his head, sweat pouring from his brow as he continued to whimper softly. The terrorist was undoubtedly in a lot of pain, but the actual damage done was minimal—far more psychological than physical.
Reid leaned in again, very close to the man’s ear, and whispered. “That still was not a third-degree burn, Abad. I’m not going to kill you today, because I’ll know your face. If I ever see you again for the wrong reason, what you ex
perienced today will seem like mercy.”
Abad muttered something incomprehensible as his head lolled to one side. Reid and Maria left him like that, passing Dr. Barnard in the doorway.
“Claudette Minot has the virus,” he told Watson and Carver. “She took it north.”
Watson shook his head. “The whole of France is north of Marseille.”
“She’ll need to get it out of the country somehow,” Reid said. “Planes are all grounded.”
“Seaports are closed,” Maria added. “And she can’t just drive it across the border.”
“The trains aren’t running,” said Carver.
“That… might not be entirely true.” All eyes turned to Barnard, still standing in the threshold between the kitchen and living room. “Passenger rails are all shut down. But what about freight lines?”
“Freight trains only require one driver, sometimes two,” Watson offered. “They’re all background-checked and vetted.”
Reid stroked his chin. Freight lines in France. Of course. He cursed himself for not seeing it before. “Jesus, Barnard, you’re a genius! The Marseille-Ventimiglia line!”
“The what?” Maria asked.
“It’s a railway established in 1859,” Reid explained quickly. “Two hundred and sixty kilometers long, one of the only international lines that runs from Marseille, and it goes from here to Italy…”
“But Italy has a travel ban in place,” Watson countered.
“Right, but if Claudette can ride the freight rails east, she would just have to keep going until she reaches a country that doesn’t have a ban in place. Or it could be a rendezvous point. Either way, it’s our best shot.”
“You know where we need to be?” Watson asked.
Reid nodded. “Marseille-Saint Charles, the railway station.”
“Let’s go.” Watson led as the five of them hurried out of the flat, leaving Abad in the kitchen. They piled into the white SUV with Watson behind the wheel.
As they sped down the street with Carver directing him, Reid held his hand out to Maria. “Let me use your phone.” She handed it off and he called Langley.
“Riker.” She sounded exhausted.
“It’s Steele.”
“You are the last person I want to hear from right n—”
“We need to find out if France has shut down freight lines,” he interrupted. He was in no mood for a lecture. He still felt incredible remorse for what had happened at the tailor’s shop.
“Freight lines,” she repeated. Her tone suggested she understood. “I’ll get someone on it.” He heard her snap her fingers and bark an order at someone in the background. “You think whoever has the virus is stowing away on a freight train?”
“Yes. It’s our French girl, Claudette Minot.”
“Find her fast.”
“We will. Our missing Imam’s name is Khalil. We have no idea where he is or what he’s up to, but it seems that he’s intent to let others do his dirty work for him.”
“We’ll look into it ASAP and gather whatever we can,” Riker assured him.
“There’s more. French authorities need to know that there’s a black car outside Claudette Minot’s flat wired with explosives. Inside the flat is a terrorist involved in the smallpox plot.”
Riker was silent for a moment. “We’ll make them aware. Tell me about the other bomb.”
Reid almost groaned. “We have more pressing matters—”
“Seven, Agent Zero. Seven dead French officers. That is dizzyingly incompetent. At the moment, French authorities have no idea about any CIA involvement, but eyewitness accounts from neighboring buildings saw two white men fleeing the scene.”
“No one else spoke to us,” he said. “No one else knew.”
“Even so, we can’t keep lying to allies to cover up your mistakes, especially when they involve people dying—”
“I wasn’t the one that triggered the bomb,” he argued.
“No, but it was within your power to stop it—”
“You weren’t there,” he said defiantly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was keenly aware that he was crammed into a vehicle with four other people who could all hear the conversation. He was almost afraid they could hear him thinking. You could have stopped it. You could have searched that man.
“What I do know, Agent Steele, is that you are a liability. If we could afford to, we would take you off this case. I assure you, there will be repercussions for your actions—”
Reid ended the call, hanging up on the assistant director before he had the urge to say something he might later regret. He handed the phone back to Maria and shrugged. “Call dropped.”
“ETA is twelve minutes,” Carver announced.
Reid’s knee bounced against the floor of the car. This was it, he was sure of it. The end of the line. They were going to find Minot, and the virus, and put an end to the crisis. He could only hope they reached her before she reached a train.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
“Hello, Restorations Department.”
“Yes, good morning.” Rais did his best to affect a professional yet friendly tone. “My name is Charles Rothstein, from the law firm of Holbrook & Leary. I’m calling in the hopes of obtaining some information on a past employee.”
“Who are you calling about?” He could hear the frown in the woman’s voice.
“Well, admittedly, it’s something of a sensitive subject,” he told her. “This particular employee was a woman who passed away suddenly about two years ago…” He trailed off slightly and let the woman take his bait.
“Oh. You must mean Kate. Kate Lawson.”
“Yes, that would be her.” Kate Lawson. He hadn’t known the woman’s name; only what she looked like and that she worked at the Smithsonian American Art Museum in Washington, DC.
In fact, it wasn’t until afterward that he learned she was Kent Steele’s wife.
“What sort of information are you looking for, Mr.…?”
“Rothstein,” Rais said pleasantly. It was nauseating him to act so… so American , but it was a necessary step to find what he needed to know. He was certain that Kent Steele would have relocated after the events of February, after members of Amun had revealed themselves in the States. “You see, our firm was hired on a case of potential negligence on the part of the emergency medical technicians that arrived on scene at the time of Mrs. Lawson’s… untimely passing. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how long these sorts of things can get wrapped up in litigation. But I’m pleased to say that we’ve arrived at a fairly substantial settlement, one that I’m certain the family would appreciate…”
“I’m sure they would,” the woman agreed. “Those poor girls, losing their mother like that.”
“Yes,” Rais agreed quietly. Sounding sympathetic was nearly beyond him. “But I’ve run into a problem. It seems the Lawsons have moved recently, and they did not supply us with a new address. I suppose they might have forgotten that the case was still pending.”
“Well, it’s no wonder,” the woman said. “A single working father with two teenagers? I can’t imagine the burden.”
Rais almost smirked. This woman was giving him everything—except what he actually needed to know. “Unfortunately,” he told her, “I can relate. I’m a single father myself. In fact, my son is right around the same age as his eldest.”
“Oh, Maya?” The woman sighed. “I haven’t seen her since she was probably twelve years old. It was a ‘take your daughter to work’ day. Such a smart, happy girl. Goodness, she must be about ready for college now.”
“Yes, just about. They grow up so quickly,” Rais said. Kate Lawson. Maya Lawson. A second, younger Lawson girl. Interesting.
“Well, Mr. Rothstein, as much as I would love to help you, I’m afraid that if the Lawsons moved, we wouldn’t have that information on file,” the woman told him. “Have you tried contacting Kate’s life insurance provider?”
“I did,” Rais said, a tone of dismay i
n his voice, “but it’s somewhat rough terrain when you’re dealing with someone deceased. Their policy is against sharing any personal details unless it’s required for criminal proceedings, and unfortunately this doesn’t fall under that category.”
The woman scoffed. “Well, that’s just strange to me. I hope you told them that you were only trying to help the family.”
“I certainly did, but I understand their position. Dealing with that much money, you can never be too careful. You just don’t know when someone will claim to be someone they’re not for personal gain.” This time he couldn’t help but smirk. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Cheryl,” the woman told him.
“That’s lovely. I had an aunt named Cheryl. I’m going to be honest with you, Cheryl. This has been my case for nearly two years, and as I mentioned, I’m in a similar situation as Mr. Lawson, so there’s a personal investment in this as well. I just want this family to have the closure they need and the settlement they deserve. If there’s any way at all in which you can help me find them, I would very much appreciate it. And I think they would too.”
“Hmm.” The woman, Cheryl, sighed into the phone again and thought for a long moment. “You know what, Mr. Rothstein? There just might be. We would still have all of Kate’s employment records in our system, and the museum requires three emergency contacts. One of them would have been her husband, but if I’m not mistaken, she had a sister, in New York…” Cheryl called to someone in the background. “Ben? Ben, do you remember the name of Kate Lawson’s sister?” There was a brief pause. “Was that it? Okay, thanks.” To Rais she said, “Linda. I believe it was Linda. If I can put you on hold for just a few minutes, I could check the computer and find a contact number for you. If anyone would know where Reid and the girls moved, she would.”
“That would be wonderful of you. Thank you, Cheryl.”
“Just one moment.” There was a click, and light violin music began as she placed him on hold.
