China for what we would call in English The Perfect And. The art of torture. The most effective example of The Perfect And is the Ordeal of the Fifth Finger. It is used to persuade the most obstinate subjects only. Very simply, a joint is cut off a finger every eight hours beginning with the little finger. Five fingers, five days. The Chi Sou Han claim that no man has ever resisted them beyond the thumb of one hand.’
Terror seized Sharky. He was drenched in his own sweat. He lowered his head, staring down between his hands. He tried to curl his fingers but his hands were strapped too tightly to the table.
Kershman said, ‘For the last time, where is Domino?
Silence.
Kershman’s pulse thundered and he said, ‘Nung hao la.’
The Chin with the splint on his arm stepped from the room for a few moments and returned carrying a small hibachi only slightly larger than his hand. It was filled with glowing coals. He placed it on the corner of the table. In his other hand he held a sharpening steel and a dirk, its tapered blade about six inches long. He stood close to Sharky and slashed the knife blade down the steel several times, the blade ringing as it clashed, steel against steel.
Sharky clamped his teeth together.
They’re so proud of silence. I’ll give them silence.
Sweat ran into his mouth and he spat it out.
The man with the knife put the sharpening steel on the table and turned towards the shadows.
‘Hai. Tuo ch’ung la,’ Kershman said. He stepped forward a bit, his eyes shining with anticipation as the Chin stuck the point of the knife into the table beside the first joint of Sharky’s little finger. With one swift downward chop he sliced off the end of the finger.
Sharky stifled the scream in his throat. It swelled there, hurting his tongue. He was shaking hard, but he held it in.
The Chin placed the blade over the coals until it was red hot and then held the edge of it against the stump of Sharky’s finger. It sizzled. The room filled with the smell of burning flesh. Sharky stifled another scream, only this time it did not die. It was a squeal trapped behind his lips as pain triggered the nerves to his brain.
He stared at the bizarre sight of his fingertip lying on the table.
My God they did it, he thought. The bastard cut off my finger.
And he fainted.
He awoke with his pulse throbbing in his ruined finger. Every movement of the boat, every sound, seemed like a knife jabbing into it. He used the pain, thought about it, let it clear his head.
He lay motionless, listening. Above him, on what he assumed was the deck, there was movement. At least one of them was up there, maybe all four. He tried to separate the movements, but that was impossible.
There was another sound from somewhere down below, to the right of his prison cabin. He tuned in on it. The nasal voice. The whiner. Talking. Hesitating. Talking. He was on the phone, reporting to someone.
Sharky thought about escape.
How? Where would I go? Where am I? What the hell kind of boat is this?
Immaterial, stupid. Get out first, then worry about where you are.
He focused his thoughts on escape. He thought about weapons. The knife was still on the table and he was tied by only one leg. The bastards were confident enough. But when he checked the knot he knew there was no way to untie it with only one good hand.
Anything else?
Jacket? No. Shoes? Hardly. Nothing In my pockets. My belt? The BELT!
It was a wide leather belt with a large, heavy, square brass buckle he had bought at the flea market. It would hardly make a dent in the skulls of Winkin, Blinkin and Nod, but Whiny Voice, now there was a possibility. He had to get him in close.
He had to make the miserable bastard show his face. But then what? He thought about the three Chinese with their little steel discs. Careful, Sharky.
The thinking had tired him and he closed his eyes and rested. He heard someone in the passageway. He turned his head towards the door, lying with his eyes half-closed, watching the door as it swung open.
The man standing there was short and fat, wearing a rumpled grey suit with the jacket open. His belly sagged over his belt. Thick, obnoxious lips, jowls, frog eyes. So that was the body that went with the voice. Sharky felt better.
Then he saw the 9mm Mauser jammed down in Fat Boy’s belt.
Kershman stared down at Sharky with contempt. DeLaroza had just chewed Kershman out. ‘Five days, hell. I want the answer before morning.’
Kershman had felt humiliated.
He called out to Liung and the Chin with the splinted arm came down from the deck above. A moment later the other two followed.
All three of them are outside. Good.
Kershman handed Liung a tube of smelling salts and nodded towards Sharky. Sharky closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness. He felt his foot being untied. Then the sharp odour of amyl nitrite burned his nose and he involuntarily jerked his head to one side.
‘Wake up,’ Fat Boy said, back in the shadows now. ‘Time for round two.’
