The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(5)
The arms and legs of the man sitting before him were taped to a metal chair. A wire snaked into the mouth and down the esophagus, its gauge carefully chosen, fine enough not to trigger any gagging reflex, but thick enough to do the job. At its end hung a metallic, conductive beak, while the other end connected to a DC transformer. Amateurs would have worked on the exterior, prying, twisting, beating, or kicking the information out. He preferred a more refined approach. This technique administered a much deeper and more painful discomfort, and came with the added benefit of not leaving a mark.
He pointed. “Who sent you?”
No reply.
He glanced at his associate. Vic DiGenti had worked with him a long time. Their paths had first crossed in his former line of work, where he’d learned that Vic could handle almost anything. And thank goodness. Everyone needed a sidekick. Laurel had Hardy. Martin, Lewis. He had Vic. A thin, gnarly man with straight black hair and narrow gray eyes. A person of few words, but with great discretion and absolute loyalty, all with a total lack of greed.
He motioned and Vic twisted the transformer control.
The eyes of the man bound to the chair went wide as electricity surged through the thin line and down his throat. The body convulsed against the straps. Not a sound was made, as one of the side effects of this particular method of persuasion was an inability to scream. Vic knew when to stop and, after five seconds, he switched off the current.
The convulsions ended.
Spittle drooled from both corners of the man’s mouth.
A bit disgusting, but expected.
“Do you require another demonstration?” he asked. “I can certainly provide it. But I beg you, please don’t make that necessary.”
The man’s head shook from side to side, his breathing hard and labored.
The whitewashed walls around him smelled of damp and rot, and he wanted to be gone. “I’m going to ask my question again. It’s vitally important that you answer. Is that clear?”
The man nodded.
“Who. Do. You. Work. For?”
More silence.
He let out a long exhale of exasperation.
Vic sent another five seconds of electricity through the man’s body. They had to be careful since DC current, if not delivered correctly, killed.
This spy had been caught yesterday in Bratislava. He and Vic had been there, ironing out a few last-minute details. They’d both noticed the attention, then used reflections off cars and an occasional glance to identify the pursuer. They then joined a throng of window-shoppers and confirmed that they had a tail. Vic, being ever vigilant, managed to snag the problem without drawing attention.
“Surely you must see that you’re on your own here,” Jonty pointed out. “No one is coming to save you. Do I have to give you another demonstration?”
“I was there to check on … you. To find out … what I could.”
The words came out choked from the wire down his throat, and with an Eastern European accent to the English.
“That’s obvious. What did you discover?”
“Nothing … at all.”
He doubted that. “Did you report your finding of nothing?”
“Not yet.”
All lies, surely.
“Who do you report to?”
No answer.
This one was stubborn.
He motioned and Vic again turned the knob. The body pulsated hard against the restraints, bucking and stiffening. He allowed the agony to linger a few seconds longer this time, but not enough to paralyze the heart. He nodded and Vic killed the current. The man went limp in the chair, unconscious. Vic brought him around with two hard slaps to the face.
So much was about to happen. Seven invitations had been extended. Nearly all the invitees had shown interest. Only three RSVPs were out standing. And the deadline loomed at midnight tomorrow, a little over twenty-four hours away.
“I don’t like spies,” he said to the man. “They obtain information, then simply give it to their employers. They are my chief competition. Thankfully, you’re not a good spy. I’ve asked three times. If you force me to ask who you work for again, I will leave the current on until you are dead.”
He allowed his bluff to take hold.
One rule he always adhered to, though never advertised, was that he killed no one. But he would make this man wish he were dead.
The coming operation was the most complicated he’d ever undertaken. Two in one, actually. Both intricate, with lots of moving parts, the one dependent on the other. But the rewards? Oh, the rewards. The one deal could yield twenty million euros or more. The other? Hard to know for sure, but it could approach a hundred million euros. Enough that he could do whatever he wanted for the rest of his life. But everything could be in jeopardy thanks to this spy.
His eyes met Vic’s.
“No. Please. Don’t,” the man begged.
His gaze shifted back to the spy. “Answer my question.”
“Reinhardt sent me.”
The name sent a shiver down his spine.
His nemesis.
The last person he expected to be watching.
His gaze caught Vic’s.
And the knob was turned again.
CHAPTER THREE
Cotton fled the smoky chapel through the side door and entered a small anteroom. Ecclesiastical robes hung on a rack, which meant this was where the priests dressed before mass. He’d been an altar boy himself until age thirteen, when all of his questions surfaced. Catholicism was really good at explaining what, but not so much on why. Teenagers were full of questions, and when the answers never came he decided that being Catholic was not for him. So he drifted away. Now, when asked about religion, he always said he was born Catholic but not much of a practitioner. Maybe that explained why he’d jumped into the middle of this mess.