After that, Feng had taken some delight in letting her know what was in store for her.

Twenty-two hours. The question, of course, was how long it would have taken the Art Room to put together an op of some sort — either a rescue op, or a military mission to swoop in and grab the nukes. She was pretty sure most of the nukes were already here on La Palma; earlier, she’d listened in as her guards, assuming she spoke no Arabic, had chattered on about how there was only one bomb yet to put into place.

Bill Rubens must be putting together a strike force. Hell, by now he might have the whole U.S. Marine Corps on its way.

Assuming he’d been able to get the President’s support for military intervention, of course. She didn’t like thinking about that part of things.

Three men entered the chamber, Feng, Azhar, and an older man in a Palestinian headdress. He, she thought, must be the “specialist” Feng had promised, a professional interrogator.

“Ah!” the third man said in English, smiling broadly. “This, I suppose, is our subject?”

“It is,” Feng replied. He looked at his watch. “You have eighteen hours to break her.”

“Now, now, these things can’t be rushed. You of all people should know that, Major.”

“Eighteen hours. I want her real name, who she works for, and in particular I want to know how much they know about our operations here.” Reaching out, he cupped Lia’s chin in his hand. “And then I want her to beg me to end her pain. Understand?”

The man sighed, but he was still smiling. “I’ll see what I can do, Major. Although I really need more time with her than that for a thorough job.”

“You should have no problem with this one,” Feng said. “Americans are so squeamish when it comes to torture. Look at how they cripple themselves, unable to carry out the simplest interrogation for fear of violating a prisoner’s rights! They expect the whole world to play by the rules!” He laughed, a harsh sound. “Do what you must, Doctor, but in eighteen hours we are leaving this island. Anyone who remains behind will die.”

Releasing her chin, he stepped back. Azhar watched silently, scowling.

Walking to Lia’s side, the interrogator placed his doctor’s bag on the metal table and opened it. One by one, he began removing various implements, holding them up to the light, turning each as he inspected it. A bone saw. A pair of pliers. Several clamps. An olive drab canvas roll opened to reveal a dozen different scalpels and lancets of various sizes held in place inside small pockets, along with forceps and several long needles and probes. Surgical retractors. Several implements she couldn’t even begin to name. He held up a wood-burning tool with a long electrical cord. “Do you have an electrical outlet in here?”

“Over there by the light.”

“Good.” He plugged the tool in and laid it on the table. “We’ll just get that heating for now. Are you gentlemen going to stay and watch?”

Feng hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I must supervise the placement of the final … package outside. Call me if you get anything out of her.” Turning, he walked out of the chamber, followed by Azhar. The two guards remained, half hidden in the shadows behind the bright lights.

“Well,” the man said. Did that smile never leave his face? “Just the two of us, then. And the guards, of course. Now … we can be businesslike about this. You can tell me what I want to know, immediately, truthfully, and without reservation. If you cooperate, it is possible I won’t even have to resort to the use of these various tools laid out for your inspection. You might even live. If you resist, you will die, and I promise you that it will take you a very long time to do so. Well … eighteen hours, at least, and, believe me, that can seem like a very long time indeed. So … we begin. What is your name?”

Lia had been trained to face torture, and she’d faced it more than once in her career with the NSA. That time in North Korea …

The important thing now was to spin things out as long as possible. The Tangos obviously were facing a deadline. They would push her hard, hoping to break her in a few hours.

Yet, if the interrogation went true to form, they would spend at least some of that time engaged in psychological torture …

They would do their best to terrify her, to try to get her to the breaking point simply through threats, suggestion, and terror. They probably wouldn’t start the really rough stuff for some hours — and might also resort to drugs.

Her training had taught her that spinning things out, pretending to cooperate, even pretending to break, was the best strategy. Later, there might be nothing she could do but try to endure … but she could try to go along with her captors for now. The longer she could hold off the physical torture, the more time Rubens and Desk Three had to put together some sort of a rescue.

She had to believe that help was coming. Had to.

Lia knew that cooperation was her best strategy right now, but when she looked up into that obscenely grinning face, she found she couldn’t do it.

“I asked you a question, woman. What is your name?”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” Lia said.

PRESIDENTIAL BRIEFING ROOM THE WHITE HOUSE, EAST WING WASHINGTON, D.C. MONDAY, 1002 HOURS EDT

Rubens checked through the final security point and walked past the Secret Service guards posted outside the massive red-oak doors. The room beyond was dominated by an immense mahogany table and a number of dark green chairs. General James, he saw, was already seated at the table. So were several other generals, Army, Air Force, and Marine, as well as a Navy admiral, several NSC staffers, the secretary of state and several members of her staff, the director of national intelligence, and a contingent from the CIA. Debra Collins, the Agency’s deputy director of operations, watched him coldly as he walked across the luxurious carpeting and took an empty chair next to her.

“Well, Bill,” Collins said quietly, sat, “I hope you realize just how much trouble you’ve managed to stir up these past few days.”

“And what would that be, Debra?”

“Running gunfights in the streets of Dushanbe? Almost starting a war with the Russians? Kidnapping Russian nationals? Shooting down one of their helicopters? Shooting up one of their freighters on the high seas? Any of that ring a bell?”

“The helicopter, as I understand it, was shot down by Indian aircraft, and it was downed on the Afghanistan side of the border.”

“They were in hot pursuit of your people, Bill. You provoked them.”

“They were trying to kill my people, Debra.”

“And your people managed to kill quite a few of them — twenty or thirty, we think, all told. They also managed to kill a Lieutenant Colonel Pyotr Vasilyev of the FSB Vega Group. He was on the helicopter.”

“That’s ancient history, Debra. Old news.”

“Indeed. Today’s headlines appear to be all about the United States invading Spain. What the hell are you playing at, anyway?”

“As you know well, we are trying to recover a number of tactical nuclear weapons now in terrorist hands. Ah! I wanted to thank you, especially, Debra.”

She looked startled. “For what?”

“Letting us use your conduit into Somalia. That worked very well.”

“I just saw the report on the Yakutsk affair this morning. The Russians are screaming bloody murder, you know that?”

“Let them. We have more serious concerns right now.”

Further discussion was interrupted as a dark-suited man stepped into the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

Everyone around the table stood as the President walked in, followed by more suits who kept pace behind him. He looked angry as he strode to the chair at the table’s head, slapped a manila folder on the table in front of him, and sat down. “General James? What the hell is going on? The pickle this morning says we’re about to invade

Вы читаете Death Wave
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату