Crooked River(102)

Coldmoon took out the magnetic key and held it to the plate in the door. With a click the light went green. He ducked inside, then turned to face the men.

“I’m here to help you get free. But you need to do exactly as I say.”

The men looked at each other for a moment. Then, in unison, they nodded.





62



THE SOLDIERS WHEELED Pendergast out of the lab, the general following. They passed through another door that led into a dimly lit observation room. It was empty except for a carpeted ramp up to a row of chairs facing the long window, which gave an expansive view of the laboratory.

“Park him right in front,” said the general. He sat down next to Pendergast. “Ms. Alves-Vettoretto, sit over there, if you please. We’ll be comfortable here. As you can see, our view is unobstructed, and we’ll be able to hear what’s happening over the intercom system.”

Pendergast watched as the orderlies wheeled the struggling Gladstone into the center of the room and placed her over a large drain in the tiled floor.

He said, “General, I promise you one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You will not live to see the sun rise.”

The general fluttered his hand as if waving away a mosquito. “No need for clichés. As Ayn Rand said, ‘Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads armed with nothing but their own vision.’ As an FBI agent you are a mere cog in the status quo, a participant in the feckless bureaucracy known as the United States government, designed to impede such men as Rand spoke of.”

“Which would be you, of course.”

The general smiled. “I have a few preparations to attend to, so I will leave you here, Mr. Pendergast, as a witness. And of course Ms. Alves-Vettoretto will remain: she has been asking to observe this for some time.”

The woman nodded.

“The guards will stay, as well. Just to make sure nothing untoward occurs.” He turned and barked out an order. “Corporal, go fetch a parang, freshly sharpened, and bring it to the lab. Smartly.”

A soldier saluted, then exited.

The general smiled at Pendergast. “In our testing, we supplied the subjects with all kinds of weapons: sharp, dull, pieces of metal, saws—the sorts of objects that might be close at hand to someone seized with BIID. Sometimes they would botch the job, with the kind of results you can imagine. A razor-sharp parang is the most compassionate instrument under the circumstances. Normally our subjects simply bleed to death or are put out of their suffering, but in this case we’ll give Dr. Gladstone emergency medical care to save her life.”

“How humane of you.”

“And now, I will take my leave.”

Pendergast turned his attention to the window. Gladstone was in the middle of the lab, above the drain, still immobile in her wheelchair. She looked utterly terrified. The doctor was standing to one side, an eager look on his face, with the two orderlies on the other, waiting. Once again the doctor removed and cleaned his glasses.

Pendergast turned his face toward Alves-Vettoretto. The woman returned his look with a cool one of her own.

“Isabel, you’ve made quite the journey. The last time I saw you was in a most elegant New York office, where you were counselor to a wealthy entrepreneur—now deceased, alas. How interesting to find you here, deep in the swamps of Florida, surrounded by a band of mercenary soldiers.”

The woman merely arched her eyebrows.

“I see you are following your own excellent advice in not conversing with me. Even so, I hope you won’t mind if I say a few words.”

No response, save to look away.

Pendergast went on, his voice gentle. “I can’t help but admire you. You are the ultimate survivor.”

Still no response.

“I imagine you must have experienced a serious betrayal at some point in your career,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have expected you to adopt the general’s views.”

She stroked her pearls.

“I made a mistake back there, however, in saying you were military. I think ‘government’ would be more accurate. Most likely CIA.” He peered at her with curious intensity. “Iraq?”

Her lips tightened.

“I can guess how it went. They were all killed, weren’t they?”

No reaction.

“You were a good handler. I imagine you became quite close to them and their families.”

She stroked her pearls again, this time with a faint nervousness.

“They learned to trust you, and you them. But when the U.S. pulled out, ISIS moved in and killed all the operatives and informants—along with their families. It’s an old story.”

“How do you know this?” she finally asked in a low voice.

“You tried to save them,” he went on. “But they were abandoned by the administration, refused the promised exit visas. This is the source of your disillusionment.”

Now she turned to him. “If you don’t stop playing Svengali, I’ll have the soldiers gag you, as well.”

“And no one in the CIA was willing to help. They told you, It’s war. People die. I heard similar words, once upon a time in a former career.”

“So what?” Alves-Vettoretto said with sudden vehemence. “People do die in war. End of story.”