Terror Ballot

by Don Pendleton

  “So why did your men kill Tessier? Afraid he would make trouble for you?”

  “Yes.” Levesque drew deeply from his cigarette. “But not in the way you think. Tessier was killed by Lemaire’s men. They were sent here to eliminate him and recover his computer’s hard drive for safekeeping. Tessier, you see, manufactured the evidence that implicates Deparmond as my backer. It is thanks to his brilliant work that Deparmond’s political fate has been sealed. Tessier did his work at my request.”

  “So Lemaire killed him to keep him from revealing that fact,” Bolan said.

  “Of course. If you wish to keep a secret, you kill all who may reveal it. Had Lemaire not sent his own people to do it, I was going to kill him myself and for the same reasons. His usefulness was at an end. As it was, we intercepted them just after they murdered him.”

  “Then why put me onto Tessier?” Bolan said.

  “Why do you think?” Levesque laughed. “I know how dangerous you are, Agent Cooper. When your usefulness to me was at an end, I needed a way to pen you in. A predictable way to bring you to ground. What better trap than one you walk into voluntarily? I needed only to stage my men and have them wait. And in the meantime, you very obligingly cleaned house for me.”

  “You suspected Lemaire’s loyalty.”

  “Indeed. When a man ceases to believe in you, Cooper, you feel it. You do not wish to believe it at first. But the patient man, the man of power, he senses the little betrayals. The degree to which a man’s devotion...shrinks, if you will. Dwindles, to one day become nothing. But understanding that Lemaire was losing faith in me, suspecting that he was building troops loyal to him before they were loyal to me...this was not enough. I needed to ferret out those ES members who believed in Lemaire. And I needed to eliminate them. But that presented a problem in itself.”

  “Purging the ranks might not sit well with the members on the fence?”

  “Exactly, Cooper,” Levesque replied. “I needed to give Lemaire a reason to believe that it was time to make his move. For all his bravado he was unsure of himself. Had I remained strong it might have taken him months, perhaps years, to oppose me. So I pretended to be sick.

  “My symptoms progressed gradually and obviously. I made sure Lemaire saw. And saw me unsuccessfully trying to hide them. It was finely calculated, for I needed to make sure he would stay his hand until I was ready for him. Originally I had planned to hire mercenaries and make the defeat of Lemaire’s men look like a military operation. But then you entered the picture.”

  “So you figured I could kill Lemaire and his people for you.”

  “A task for which you proved more than capable,” Levesque said. “And I was aware that Lemaire had me under surveillance. He had been monitoring me closely for some time. It was a simple matter to arrange the drama I wanted him, and you, to see. I fed you the information that would eventually lead you here to be intercepted.

  “And I made sure that Lemaire thought I was dead so he would move forward. You, in turn, predictably moved against him, for Lemaire knows only one way, and that is brute force. It was no great surprise that he would wage an all-out assault once he thought he had control of the ES. Those men loyal to me had orders to fall back and wait, out of sight and safe from any reprisals.”

  “And then you sat tight while we took them out for you,” Bolan concluded.

  “I could not have asked for more.” Levesque laughed again, dropped his cigarette on the floor and crushed it under his shoe. “Your battle with Lemaire’s men even gave me the opportunity to smuggle Deparmond’s body onto the grounds. My team was disguised as special operations officers. We needed only to bribe our way past the cordon...and of course I took great pleasure in killing Deparmond myself. To be honest I always found him obnoxious.”

  “Why eliminate the candidate who would have given you what your group says it wants?” Bolan asked. “You’re working against your own interests. Now that it’s all public, there’s no undoing it.”

  “Am I?” Levesque smiled. “You really are an honorable man. It doesn’t surprise me that you wouldn’t see the obvious political answer. Agent Cooper, it is Gaston who is funding us. I have just handed Gaston victory in the elections.”

  Bolan considered that. While he did, Levesque turned to the men flanking him. At his nod, they removed their masks. One was a gray-haired man with a cataract; he was obviously blind on that side. The other was younger, shaved bald, with tattoos on his neck. He was obviously a street-fighting type, muscle in Levesque’s quasi race war. Bolan, in his mind, dubbed the two guards Graybeard and Skinhead.

  He did so as a means of designating his targets.

  Beneath him, the bench strained under his weight. He could feel his arms and legs pulling the duct tape taut against the resistance of the bench. It was not a particularly sturdy piece of furniture. It creaked and groaned beneath his heavy frame.

  Given that Tessier had not looked particularly fit in death, Bolan had to assume the digital expert had ordered the bench via mail, or on the internet, or whatever people did these days to buy things they didn’t need and that they would not bother to use. Probably the bench had been holding up Tessier’s dirty laundry before the soldier had been strapped to it. There were enough discarded garments lying around the room to prove out the theory.

  “Do you know the old saying,” Levesque went on, “that the greatest deception Satan ever perpetrated was persuading the people he did not exist? So it is with Gaston. He is widely believed to be a moderate. He has the support of your government for this reason. Deparmond, with his hatred of foreigners, his inconvenient nationalism... Ideologically, yes, he was the better fit for my organization. But do you know Deparmond would not work with us? He was the rarest sort of politician. He was an honest man. A true believer in his cause.”

  “I can see how that might get in the way,” Bolan said.

  “Indeed.” Levesque looked away, as if distracted. “But in truth it has always been Gaston behind my organization. It was Gaston who saw the value we could provide. He understood the backlash our terrorist attacks would create. Understood how good we could make him look, how solid would be his hold on the French government once he secured power.

  “If you had to characterize him, Cooper, I think you would consider him power-mad. What is the word...sociopath? He will play any role to get what he wants. He will use any maneuver that will lead to his advantage. And so we struck up a working relationship.”

  “What do you get out of it?” Bolan asked. “Where’s the profit in it?”

  “Power,” Levesque replied. “Power is the only currency of any real value. The ES helps Gaston take power. Politically he was not necessarily going to win. There was a significant chance he could lose to Deparmond...to Deparmond and his damnable honesty. My organization helped position Gaston to earn political and public favor.

  “And then we arranged for Deparmond to be disgraced and to die, an apparent victim of his own ill-considered political affiliations. In the wake of all this turbulent news, Gaston will take the day, and he will reward me with power. The ES will become a force for street justice behind the scenes. We will run Paris and all the major cities of France. Those I choose will benefit. Those I condemn will suffer. That is power, Cooper. That is profit.”

  “Something tells me I haven’t heard the best part,” Bolan said. He felt the muscles of his arms burn as he strained against the duct tape. His bench creaked. Levesque eyed him with something like amusement.

  “Why, yes. You haven’t learned of your ultimate role in all this. It is an important one, American, and one that cannot be faked. I would have thanked God for the intervention of your government in sending you here, if I believed in God. You are Deparmond’s murderer.”

  “No, I’m not,” Bolan said.

  “Really, Agent Cooper? Let us not argue over such trivialities as what is
true and what is not. Reality will be what the news records. And the reality is that you fit nicely into Gaston’s plan. I told you he would play any role that would serve him. Posing as a moderate to get the support of your government simply puts him that much more ahead of the game. But the embarrassment you will cause cements everything.”

  Bolan glared. “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t you?” Levesque spread his hands. “This is the last room you will ever see, Cooper. Gaston waits in his mansion, surrounded by luxury, a wealthy man who will soon be one of the most powerful figures in France. He is guarded by a force of my own men. He is untouchable. He has won. I have won. You are defeated, and after my men interrogate you, you will die. Your body will become another piece of evidence for the public narrative Gaston and I will create.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Levesque asked. “Your corpse will be discovered somewhere conspicuous. Your complicity in Deparmond’s death will be proved by documents found on your body. I am sure something suitable can be drawn up in time. Perhaps we will arrange for one last ES attack on a public place in Paris, where you will be presumed killed in reprisal for your assassination of Deparmond.

  “Just like that, the machinations of the United States will be revealed. An American CIA operative found on French soil, having actively and through murderous violence changed the course of the French elections. How will that look?”

  “You won’t bring down anyone important in the United States,” Bolan said. “I’ll be disavowed. I’m no more an American agent than you are in the eyes of my government.”

  “Of course you will be disavowed. I have seen your ‘improbable directive’ movies. But it will not matter. Publicly your government will deny involvement. Privately they will grasp for any possibility of making amends. They will want the continued support of France’s leader. They will offer concessions.”

  “Concessions?”

  “Financial aid, most likely,” Levesque said. “A few other considerations. A vote here or there in the United Nations, a promise of military support or cooperation in some crucial piece of statecraft. The options are really unlimited.”

  “Did you ever believe in the garbage you spew?” Bolan asked. “The ideology you claim? Or was it all just a means to an end?”

  Levesque looked at Graybeard and Skinhead for a moment, then leaned in over Bolan’s face. More quietly, he said, “Don’t you see, Cooper? It doesn’t matter. I get what I want. I get power. My organization will grow to recoup its losses. The losses you inflicted for me. And one day, with Gaston as our man within the government, we will rise to what you would consider ‘legitimate’ status. We will be a legacy. And in time, a dynasty.”

  Levesque snapped his fingers. Graybeard and Skinhead disappeared into the laundry nook attached to the rear room. Bolan could hear the sounds of metal and plastic as something large and hollow was jostled. Then the squeak of pipes was followed by the sounds of water being poured into a large container, likely a plastic bucket.

  “You’re not going to be a dynasty,” Bolan said.

  “You understand what comes next, I imagine,” Levesque told him.

  “You’re going to interrogate me.”

  “Let’s not mince words. I’m going to have you tortured.”

  “To gain what?”

  “In truth? Probably nothing,” the French terror leader admitted. “But as a highly placed agent of the American government, doubtless given much autonomy to make independent decisions that include the taking of lives among foreign nationals, I imagine there is much you know that would be useful. Perhaps you will part with some of it.”

  “If you’re going to waterboard me,” Bolan said, “you’re not going to get anywhere.”

  “No?” Levesque asked. The sound of running water had stopped. Graybeard and Skinhead appeared on either side of the terror master. Graybeard held the bucket. Skinhead grabbed a dirty T-shirt from the floor and twisted it. He dropped it in the bucket and then followed it with his hand, soaking it.

  “But then, I promised to torture you. According to your government, what my men are about to do is not ‘torture’ at all. It is merely an ‘enhanced’ form of interrogating you. Such a phrase. Cold. Austere. Robbed of truth and of emotional content. This is a politician’s word, yes?”

  “Waterboarding isn’t a new technique. They used it during the Inquisition. It doesn’t kill. It doesn’t even really drown. It’s possible to do it without ever getting water into the victim’s mouth or nose. It’s a psychological technique. You subject the victim to psychological stress in the hope that the simulation of drowning will snap him.”

  “My, my,” Levesque said. “This is the authoritative knowledge I would expect from a Central Intelligence Agent. I wonder, Agent Cooper, if you will be so nonchalant about this when your gag reflex takes hold.”

  He gestured to Graybeard and Skinhead. “Do it.”

  Bolan drew in a breath, careful not to gasp or gulp; he did not want them to know he was prepared. The T-shirt smelled rank. The cloying wetness on his face, as the cloth was draped over him, was both cold and oily.

  “Tell me your orders on French soil,” Levesque demanded. “Tell me why your people sent you here.”

  When Bolan made no sound, Levesque gestured to his henchmen. One of them, whichever one held the bucket, began pouring water over Bolan’s face. The sensation of drowning was immediate. He could feel himself wanting to choke and sputter.

  He did neither.

  It was well-known in certain intelligence circles that those agencies operating within strict rules for interrogation would not waterboard a subject for greater than a specific length of time. The stricter the guidelines, the more easily the interrogation subject could withstand the procedure. There were documented accounts of terrorists simply counting off their time underwater, waiting for it all to be over, never giving up a word because they had cracked the secret of the game.

  That was the psychological war that was “enhanced interrogation.” It was useless if you couldn’t get inside the subject’s head, couldn’t make him feel fear, couldn’t make him believe the misery would never end unless he caved in, gave up, knuckled under.

  They’d figure it out soon enough, realize that their game had no effect on Bolan because he knew what to expect. He was reasonably sure he could hold his breath long enough that they would worry about suffocating him before he actually ran out of air. He did not kid himself that his life meant anything; they were planning to murder him anyway. But they would want to keep him alive until he divulged something.

  He debated, briefly, offering them some believable misinformation, some carefully concocted piece of intel that could be followed up later by the Farm. It could conceivably give the Stony Man teams some operable intelligence downstream of Levesque. Plant just the right lie and see who acted on it; that showed who was connected to those in possession of the lie that was divulged. It was a very old tactic.

  The problem was that a plausible lie could easily become reality if field conditions shifted. There was no way to be sure, out of direct contact with the Farm as he now was. And there was no real need to resort to such a delaying tactic. Getting them to cease their interrogation would probably lead to them shooting him in the head where he now lay imprisoned.

  That’s what they would do if they were smart, anyway.

  He had spent enough time suffering at the hands of would-be interrogators and, worse, seeing loved ones eviscerated under the scalpels of the criminal underworld’s most brutal artists, to know that they might just go for broke next. If Bolan gave them something they thought represented value, they might dispense with the “enhanced” portion of the night’s floor show and just start carving away on him with butcher knives or tools heated to red hot under blowtorches.

  It was the way thug
s’ minds worked.

  Mack Bolan knew how sessions like that ended, with quivering chunks of once-human flesh lying on tables, in beds, on concrete garage floors. A man or woman cut up by a really talented turkey doctor, as once such men were called, would live only briefly, but in horrific pain. For such a living vegetable, the release of death was a kindness, not a punishment.

  That would not be Bolan’s fate.

  The soldier tested the duct tape holding him to the bench once more. He would need a distraction, something to give him enough room to make his play. Levesque was demanding some new piece of intelligence, but Bolan had tuned out his voice. He heard only a kind of hollow quacking, the sound made by unseen parents on long-forgotten children’s cartoons.

  The cloth was taken roughly from his face. Graybeard held it, red faced, while Skinhead took the bucket back to the laundry area to be refilled. Graybeard told Levesque in French that they were getting nowhere.

  “I agree,” Levesque said. “And he hardly seems impressed. Do you, Cooper?”

  Bolan blinked and glared at Levesque. “I’m terrified,” he told the Frenchman. “You’ve got me just where you want me.”

  Levesque sighed. “I thought as much.”

  To Graybeard, he said, “Do what you will. If you can get something from him, fine. If not, just remember not to drown him to death. Shoot him if you must. We can plant the weapon wherever we dump his body. I do not want to have to arrange some inexplicable drowning scenario only to find some forensics genius has determined the difference between well water and tap water and so on. Or stab him. Carve him up a bit if you choose. That would also work.”

  “And you, sir?” Skinhead asked. He had returned with the bucket, sloshing water on the floor of the late Tessier’s exercise bench. Bolan could feel water soak his thighs through his pants.

  “I am late for a meeting with Gaston. There is much to plan and, I suspect, a bit of overdue celebrating in which to indulge. Carry on. I will leave a detail here to back you up. Although, frankly, if you cannot handle one man strapped to a board, don’t come back into the city, for I will kill you myself.”