by Arno Joubert
No, he would have taken an entirely different approach. First of all, you needed to get the prisoner as uncomfortable as possible. Adrenaline eventually seeps away, but the extended periods of severe discomfort would be worse than any blows received.
What he would have done was to tie his arms over the back of the chair and fastened his upper legs to the seat, pulling his feet up and tying them to his arms, as tight as possible. You needed to stretch those suckers, no way the circulation was going to get going then.
Prisoners would say anything to get out of that unbearable predicament, they would sign a contract to wipe out their families if they had to.
That was the beginning. When the body was suffering sufficiently, the mind was next. Repetition was the key to breaking a man's mind. Don't give them a chance to think, to compartmentalize the pain.
He once interrogated a guy where all they did was take turns shaking the man's chair for a couple of hours, they didn't question him, just reminded him that this was going to go on for the rest of his life. After three hours, the prisoner started to vomit and begged them to stop. He sang like a little canary afterward.
Laiveaux looked up as the interrogator grabbed his chest and hammered two quick jabs into his nose. Laiveaux shook his head, his vision had gone blurry, but that would return soon.
Anyway, another method he had used with a lot of success was the Vietnamese method of drip torture. You would place a prisoner's head beneath a tap or a bucket with a hole in it, tie his head down securely. The water would drip onto their foreheads, drip, drip, drip, incessantly, the dreaded monotony of anticipating the next drop broke the mind sooner than any physical blow could. It felt like your head was going to explode.
He had been through this for two days in the Angolan bush war. The South Africans were masters at the art of torture. Sick bastards. It had taken him weeks to recover. That's where he learnt the trick of compartmentalizing your pain, like it was old baggage. No need to dwell on the past.
Laiveaux braced himself as the man pounded a fist into his stomach. He glanced up, licking his lower lip. The man was growing tired, there was hardly any power in that blow.
He chuckled as he recollected something that had worked with a dog handler.
They had threatened the man, told him he was going to be KIA, they threatened to kill his children, his wife. He didn't blink an eyelid. But when they brought his dog into the interrogation chamber and put a gun to the mutt's head, the man went ape shit, begging them not too hurt the animal. Laiveaux understood how he felt. Most animals were worth saving.
Laiveaux smiled as he looked up. The guy stood in front of him, clutching his hand open and closed, a painful grimace on his face.
"You laughing at me, old man? Tell me now," he shouted, pointing a finger in Laiveaux's face.
The guy was taking this personally. He wondered if he should end this now.
The man turned around, rolling his shoulders, preparing for the next blow. He sauntered to Laiveaux, pulled his arm back and aimed a straight jab at Laiveaux's jawbone. Ah, the perfect shot, a hook would have been more difficult to deal with. Laiveaux dug his chin into his chest, stood up on his toes and rammed his head forward with all the power he could muster.
The punch connected on Laiveaux's cranium, one of the hardest bones in the human body. He heard the crack as the bones in the man's hand shattered. Oh man, that must have hurt.
Laiveaux looked up with a grin as he tilted back in his seat. The guy was bouncing around, clutching his injured hand in his armpit, howling with pain.
“That's a bad fracture, your metacarpals are gone, but I think I got the bones in your wrist as well. That once happened to me up in—“
"Shut up," the man shouted, spittle dangling from his chin. "Just shut..the..fuck..up," the guy enunciated.
Laiveaux closed his eyes, sighed. “My point is that you better have that attended to by a good surgeon, those things tend to grow on skew. I knew a man who had to amputate his entire arm with a similar break."
The man glanced at al-Sharif with a panicked expression, excused himself from the room, holding his hand by the wrist. It was beginning to swell.
Al-Sharif grabbed Laiveaux on his chest. "Talk to me man, do you want to die?"
Laiveaux shrugged. "Off course I don't want to die, no-one wants to die, my dear man." He closed his eyes and licked his lips, took a deep breath and looked up. "Am I willing to die? That is an entirely different question, and my answer is yes. I am and I will not give you any information before I do."
Them man looked at him incredulously, slapped his forehead. "I'll kill you, infidel," he shouted, jabbing a finger in Laiveaux's face.
"We all believe in the same God."
The man spat on the floor. "You're an atheist."
"Now whoever told you that?"
The man's eyes narrowed. "A man in the military who has killed so many—“
"Look who's talking. Assumption is the mother of all screw-ups, Moktar."
The man stood there, assessing Laiveaux for a moment, then turned on his heel, flung the cell door open and slammed it behind him.
The phone on Emerico Barba’s desk rang and he heaved himself upright in his chair. “It’s done?”
“Yes. Target eliminated. And there’s more good news.”
“You’re shitting me, you got him too?”
“We were in luck. Right time, right place.”
Barba pulled himself up laboriously and steadied his bulky frame. He punched the air with a fist. “What do they say, second time lucky, eh?”
The phone disconnected.
Barba smiled, doing another fist pump. Emilio Marcos had been on that plane. The man was outmuscling him at the Port of Tarifa, establishing a foothold on the North African route. He had seen it a hundred times before, a young punk gets a foothold and then reckons he’s ready to expand into the rest of Europe.
Barba lit a cigar and poured himself two fingers of Scotch. He slugged it back and placed the tumbler on the serving tray. Ah, the satisfaction of knowing that you have secured your future. When he had received the phone call from Sonti telling him that Marcos would be on that flight, he had jumped at the chance.
He walked to the World Map that covered a wall of his office. The entire world’s shipping routes were marked with red lines, criss-crossing the width and length of the world’s oceans. His green lines covered almost half. This wasn’t a chump change business, a couple of million here and a couple of million there. It was worth billions per year. He considered the twenty-million well spent.
When Sonti told him that the target would be the Eiffel Tower, he thought that the gods were smiling down on him. He had mentioned that there could be another target that he wanted to eliminate; his brand new son-in-law, Pete Ricco.
“Well, get him on the Tower by six,” Sonti had said. “No extra charge.”
Sometime’s his daughter’s escalator didn’t go all the way to the top, she was a sweet, innocent, naive girl. But one thing you couldn’t take away from her was that she was well organized, like her mother had been, bless her soul. He told Carmen that she should go shopping, relax a little, and send Pete and that damn brat of his to go visit the Tower, she deserved some time off. She agreed, and obviously Pete agreed; he had no choice.
Barba shuffled to his chair, puffing on his cigar. He slowly lifted himself down, then leaned back with a grunt, folding his hands on his stomach. The little Italian prick had made some dubious investments lately. Penny shares, what the hell? Pete had stood in line to inherit all of his wealth, he would have run this company into the ground if it was up to him.
No, Barba's daughter was much better off now that Pete was gone. Barba would secure her inheritance, forcing her to take small lumps sums at a time, ensuring she or her husband-to-be didn't piss it all away before she died.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and checked the number. He took a deep breath. "Hello, honey."
"Daddy?" h
e heard his daughter's panic-stricken voice.
"Yes, my baby, what's wrong?"
"Daddy, there's been an explosion. The news says someone bombed that big Paris Tower."
"Yes, it's called the Eiffel Tower, my dear."
"Daddy, I think Pete was up there."
He kept quiet for a while. "Now don't jump to hasty conclusions."
"But what if he was?" she cried.
"Look, baby, why don't you take Eurostar back to daddy tonight?"
"I think I'll do that."
"This is probably for the best, baby. The kid irritated you."
"He did, didn't he? I guess you're right."
"See you later. Daddy will take you to a nice restaurant."
"Okay, daddy. See you soon."
He disconnected the call, slapped his belly. Life was good.
Moktar sat on a cushion in the room next to the cell, smoking his pipe. The wind was blowing outside, another dust storm ravaging the landscape. It hadn't rained in a year, and their nomadic lifestyle meant that the people had to journey further away for less grazing than before.
The desert was encroaching on their way of life. A life which Moktar despised. Some said that God was punishing them for their sins. He snorted. What sins could be committed in a place like this? No, he simply thought the people were stupid for continuing to live this nomadic lifestyle. It had one benefit though; they were far from civilization. The dust tracks of approaching vehicles could be seen from miles away, and they were out in the open, which meant attackers had nowhere to hide.
Alan Turner had told them that this man, Laiveaux, held the key to all the secrets that Interpol knew. But what did you do if the man was unwilling to divulge those secrets? He spat on the ground. They needed some leverage against him, something that would make him talk.
He scratched his beard, blowing the smoke through his nose. Come to think of it, Alan Turner was also outliving his usefulness. He was becoming another mouth to feed. With Turner's help, they had managed to smuggle weapons into Air France flight 459. Moktar savored the vision of the Airbus striking the Eiffel Tower. They had all gathered around a television set outside, men, women, children. And Alan Turner. He had cheered louder than all of them. It had been a magnificent victory for Al Qaeda.
Turner also helped them with the access codes to the Interpol HQ. He would sell them soon to the highest bidder; they would be worth a year's pay check on the black market. He chuckled. Most importantly, Turner gave him the contact number of Allan Sonti, the guy who Turner worked for.
Moktar didn't understand Allan Sonti's motives, but he had the financial clout to bankroll these operations. Sonti had said that he could call him anytime to run ideas by him. If it fitted in with his itinerary, he would help finance it. Good to know.
But what was he going to do with Turner? The idiot probably thought that he would be set free. No, if he didn't glean any useful information from Laiveaux soon, both would be eliminated.
He looked up as the door to the cell opened and Rehan entered the room. A young girl wearing the traditional garb followed him. "Anything?" he asked hopefully.
The man shook his head.
"How's your hand?"
Rehan showed him. It was swollen and was colored in different hues of green and blue. "Throbbing like hell."
"You should have Doctor Omar take a look at it."
"The Vet?"
Moktar shrugged.
Rehan shook his head. "No, I'll go to the US military hospital in Kabul. They have some good doctors up there, they've seen it all."
Moktar chuckled. "Just don't tell them that you’re a member of Al Qaeda."
The man managed a faint smile. "That guy is one tough bastard. He's not going to break as easily as Turner did."
Moktar relit his pipe, sucking his teeth. "We need some leverage on him. Tell Ishaq to find out everything he can regarding the old man. Family, kids, everything."
The man grimaced. "Can I go to the hospital first?"
Moktar waved him away. "Go. And shut the damn door."
Rehan scurried out of the room, slamming the door too late to prevent a warm blast of air from invading the place.
Moktar looked up as he heard a voice from the cell door.
“You won't find anything on me, you know.”
"What did you say?"
"You'll find nothing on me. I don't have a wife or kids. Never had."
"Everyone has something."
"There may be one thing," the General said.
"What?"
"I would do anything for a cognac right now."
"Come on, General. You know we're not allowed to drink alcohol."
The man chuckled. "Thought I'd give it a try, one God-fearing man to another."
Moktar sighed. "All right, I'll see what I can do."
They were met at the entrance to the Presidential Palace by a man Alexa introduced as Henrie Duma and were escorted to what looked like a large dining room. Tables had been arranged in a large square, and a white projector screen was placed in the front of the room. There were twenty men seated, all wearing smart business suits or military uniforms.
Bruce felt out of place. He hadn't had time to pack, he left the Mossad HQ with the clothes he had on and whatever he managed to chuck into his duffle bag.
President Rue was there. She marched towards Bruce with an outstretched hand. She was tall, five nine, and lean, holding a phone to her ear. She walked with an energetic bounce in her step. She lowered the phone and greeted Bruce with a firm handshake. He walked to the front of the room and started fiddling with the projector. He glanced up at Alexa and she came to help. A minute later the tablet was connected to the projector. "Thanks baby." She squeezed his hand and took a seat.
He stood in front of the crowd and cleared his throat. "Okay, here is what I have. Feel free to ask me questions at any time."
The crowd murmured in agreement.
"At six last night General Alain Laiveaux was kidnapped at gunpoint. No one has accepted any responsibility for the kidnapping, but we know it's Al Qaeda."
A big guy with a chest full of medals stuck up a paw. "Colonel, Major Jacques Baptiste, Intelligence Services. Do you mind elaborating on your statement? How do you know it's Al Qaeda?"
Bruce stood up straight. "Well, because he's at an Al Qaeda stronghold in the Rigestan desert near Kabul."
The man punched his paw into the air again. "And how would you know that?"
"Because we picked up his GLD signal." Bruce opened the map on the screen and showed them the flashing red blip. A murmur swept through the crowd. "Exactly where we thought he would be."
"But how is that possible?" a scrawny guy at the back of the room asked. He held up a plastic bag containing a small metallic object no larger than a pill capsule. "We found his GLD chip in the back of the panel van that had hijacked Laiveaux. We confirmed the DNA, it was his."
"The General was injured in the Gulf war during Dessert Storm. He broke his tibia, and he had to have metal screws inserted to join the fracture." Bruce surveyed the room, his hands behind his back. "We made use of the opportunity to have his Geolocation device implanted into his bone. It's a part of him now, they would have to amputate his leg to remove it."
"So why didn't we know about it?" Alexa asked.
"Classified information," Bruce said and winked at her.
"Then we need to get going," Alexa said, standing up. "They could kill him if we don't act now."
Bruce held up a hand. "No."
"What?"
He checked his watch. "We extract him at fifteen hundred hours."
"Why?” Neil asked, confused.
"Because that's when he asked me to."
The crowd murmured, a confused buzz sweeping the room.
Alexa stood up, her hands on her hips. "You got Voelkner killed so that Laiveaux could get himself kidnapped?"
Bruce shook his head. "Voelkner's not dead."
Alexa wanted to ask another question,
but Henrie Dumas marched to the front of the room and handed a cell phone to President Rue. "Madam President, here is a call that you must take."
"Who is it?"
"The President of the United states."
The President of the Republic of France marched out of the room and closed the door behind her. "Barry? What is it?"
"Nicole, I heard they got the tower."
"Oui, everything okay over there?"
The man sounded out of breath. "We got an anonymous message a couple of minutes ago. Apparently the Palestinian Liberation Organization planted a bomb in the Statue of Liberty."
"Did you find it?"
"Yes, switch on the television."
She marched to her office, swiped up the remote on her table and pressed a button. She flipped through a couple of channels and found what she was looking for. She saw aerial footage of the Statue of Liberty, other news choppers were circling the magnificent statue at a safe distance as well.
The President of France flinched as a fire ball erupted inside the robed lady's head. It burned for a second or two and was followed by a massive explosion, blowing the head clean off the statue. Next an explosion amputated the arm holding the torch. For a couple of seconds nothing happened, and then the robed lady's chest exploded and she started toppling over as large chunks of concrete splashed into the water.
President Barry Ross was silent as the camera zoomed in to what remained of the statue. What remained of the Statue of Liberty toppled over and crashed into the water.
"Fuck," the President said. "This is an all-out coordinated terrorist attack. Vladimir is on the other line, hold on."
"Nicole, Barry," she heard the Russian President's familiar voice. "The Kremlin has been destroyed by multiple bombs. We suspect the FSB is behind it."
"Al Qaeda here," Nicole said.
"The PLO bombed the statue," Barry confirmed.
"But why all at the same time, is it a coincidence?" Nicole asked.
"No, I talked to Sung-Ho, he said they received a threat from North Korea that the Seoul Tower was going to be destroyed as well."
