The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  West’s eyes were rolled back and saliva ran from the corners of his mouth.

  Thorpe went on, “It’s a combination of mild drug doses, coupled with electric shock. I combine this with physical restraint to give the subject a feeling of helplessness.” He yawned, “God, I’m tired.”

  “. . . Ooooh . . .”

  Thorpe seemed not to hear. “Also, you’re given a balanced diet of sugars, vitamins, and protein so your brain won’t start shorting out. Do you realize that starved prisoners can’t remember things they’re being asked about, even if they wanted to talk? I also use some experimental memory drugs. Very advanced technique.” Thorpe put his hand in his pocket and jingled some change. “And, of course, I have the voice and polygraph analyses so that you only get a jolt when you’re lying. ‘The professional interrogator must suppress his natural sadistic tendencies. To inflict pain for its own sake is counterproductive. It builds resentment and resistance on the part of the prisoner.’ You only get it when you deserve it.” He looked at Eva, then at West. “We must be modern. Agreed?”

  West tried to speak, but his tongue seemed out of control and he made unintelligible sounds.

  Thorpe patted West’s thigh. “There, there. Cat got your tongue? Just relax a minute.”

  Eva said, “He is stalling. The electric shock makes him lose his tongue, but he pretends it is for longer than it is.”

  “Perhaps. But within a few days I’ll have my way with him. When he’s broken, he’ll talk and talk and even volunteer information we haven’t thought to ask for.” Thorpe motioned to a video camera suspended on a boom. “And it will all be recorded in color and quality sound.”

  Eva snorted. “Americans are too in love with their gadgets.”

  Thorpe laughed as he pushed the rewind button on a video recorder, then hit the play button.

  Eva grabbed West’s head in a powerful grip and pulled back his eyelids.

  A video monitor above West’s face came to life and West’s voice came out of a speaker: “No! No! N—!” followed by the sound of West’s piercing scream.

  West stared up at the image of himself screaming and twisting in agony.

  Thorpe shut off the player. “You see what I did to you, Nick? How would you like to watch hours of reruns like that? It’s almost as bad as the real thing, isn’t it, pal? Look at you. You’re sweating like a pig.”

  Eva made a noise of disgust.

  Thorpe grinned. “Another refinement in the Thorpe Method is the use of pleasure to reinforce truth. For instance . . .” He poked West in the ribs. “Pay attention. Now, answer carefully. Is anyone other than you familiar with the contents of the Talbot file?”

  West blinked and shook his head, then remembered that he had to answer in complete sentences. “No . . . except Ann. . . . She is familiar with the Talbot file. . . . No one else.”

  Thorpe kept his eyes on the two lie-analyzers. Then nodded. “Very good, Nick. Thank you.” He nodded to Eva.

  Eva loosened West’s chest strap a notch and West took long, deep breaths. She poured mineral oil from a bottle and massaged it into West’s sweaty shoulders.

  Thorpe hit a button on the console and the soft strains of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” filled the room. Thorpe said, “You have such saccharine taste in music, Nick.”

  Thorpe turned to Eva, who was now massaging West’s legs. “I tell you, Eva, I’ve seen it work a dozen times. Everyone tries to avoid pain, but that does nothing to satisfy the human psyche or to get the prisoner on your side. The body and mind also need pleasure.” Thorpe shut off the music. “That was torture to me.” He laughed.

  West cleared his throat. “Monster . . .”

  Thorpe smiled. “Another Thorpe Method, Mr. West, is to let the prisoner vilify you. In the bad old days that would have gotten you a broken jaw. But as long as the analyzers show that you really believe that, you won’t receive any pain.”

  “I do.”

  Thorpe nodded. “Also, I sometimes use sex if I feel the prisoner requires it as a reward for truth.” He bent over West and said in a stage whisper, “Don’t worry. If I use sex, it won’t be her.” He laughed. “That’s no treat. I know—I have to service her once a week.”

  Eva looked flustered, but she smiled tightly as she wiped her oily hands on a towel.

  Thorpe came closer to West. “Okay, Professor, let’s continue. Why did you discount O’Brien as Talbot?”

  West replied, almost dreamily, “He was being set up . . . no real evidence . . . he was being maneuvered into compromising situations . . . by Talbot. . . .”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “They tried to kill O’Brien . . . after the war . . . real attempt . . . hunting accident in Utah . . . bullet in the stomach . . . almost died. . . .”

  “I never knew that.”

  “Secret . . . in the files. . . .”

  “So why can’t you deduce who it was who tried to frame O’Brien during the war? Why don’t you know who Talbot is?”

  “Guess . . . guess . . . three people . . . not one . . . Trinity . . . probably unknown to each other.”

  Thorpe rubbed his chin, then bent closer to West. “Could one of them be my father?”

  West stared at Thorpe for a long time, then closed his eyes and drifted off.

  Eva passed a vial of smelling salts under West’s nose. West turned his face and Eva slapped him.

  Thorpe repeated the question.

  West nodded. “Yes . . . yes . . . it’s possible. . . .”

  “How close was O’Brien to the truth?”

  “He thought he was close.”

  Thorpe glanced at the analyzers. “That was a tricky way to answer, Nick. Don’t get tricky on me.”

  Eva said, “You see, these gadgets can be fooled.”

  Thorpe smiled. “For a while. That’s how I beat the Company’s yearly interrogation. But coupled with torture, time, and technique, the Thorpe Method works.”

  Eva picked up a surgical scalpel from the instrument table. “If I remove one testicle, he will do whatever is necessary to protect the other one.”

  West turned his head toward her. “No!”

  Thorpe said impatiently, “I’m the interrogator, not you, Eva. Leave.”

  Eva threw her scalpel down and stomped off.

  Thorpe glanced at West and could see the terror in his eyes. Thorpe smiled. The final refinement in the Thorpe Method was this Damocles sword, or scalpel, hanging over the prisoner.

  West said softly, “Peter, please . . . I can’t think straight with her near me. . . .”

  “Now, now.” Thorpe put his hand on West’s arm. “We won’t give her any reason to use the scalpel.”

  West nodded.

  Thorpe pulled up a stool and sat beside the gurney. “All right, Professor, another method of mine is to let you ask some questions. Shoot.”

  West stared at Thorpe for some time, then asked, “Who do you work for?”

  “The KGB, of course.” He smiled. “I’m actually a major. The Russians love ranks. They think I’m honored to be a major. They’re more rank conscious than the Nazis were.”

  “If you’re a KGB officer, why don’t you know who Talbot is?”

  “They won’t tell me that. They want me to see if I can discover it. If I can, then the CIA, or you, or O’Brien, can also.”

  “Who do you suspect?”

  Thorpe smiled. “My father, for one. But I think Pat O’Brien is—was—on to someone else, who, as farfetched as it sounds, may also be Talbot.”

  “O’Brien—”

  “Is dead, Nick. Next question.”

  West stayed silent for some time, then asked, “Carbury . . . ?”

  “I confess.” Thorpe lit a cigarette. “After I had the double lead off Kate’s private detectives, he was vulnerable. I picked the lock in his room, and when he returned to dress for dinner, I bashed his head in with a walking stick. I stuffed him in a plastic trash bag, along with the stick and his tuxedo, and drop
ped him out the window into the alley. He was collected later by friends of mine. Fortunately, he had his briefcase with him. I’ll show you what was in it later. Unfortunately, however, I overlooked the blood on my cuff. Mr. Abrams did not overlook it. Mr. Abrams will pay with his own blood. Next question.”

  “You . . . madman . . .”

  “Question!”

  West licked his lips, then said, “Why is Talbot so important. . . . Why is Moscow ordering murders on American and British soil to protect him? . . . Why not get him out of the country . . . ?”

  Thorpe replied, “Obviously, Nick, they need him in the country.”

  “Why?”

  Thorpe shrugged. “I’m not certain. But I do know that America’s days are numbered. Most probably the end will come on the July Fourth weekend. That much I had to be told so I’d be prepared . . . and safe.”

  “First strike?”

  “No.” Thorpe dropped his cigarette on the floor. “I thought perhaps you knew something.”

  “No.”

  Thorpe’s hand was already on the dial and he gave West a massive electrical shock.

  West bellowed at the top of his lungs and his body strained against the straps. He bit his tongue and blood ran over his lips. “Oh . . . oh . . . no . . .” Tears formed in his eyes and Thorpe wiped them away with a handkerchief. “There, there . . . why do you make me do that?”

  West was sobbing. “Peter . . . please . . . try to understand . . . I’m conditioned to respond . . . give me a second chance . . . before you do that. . . .”

  Thorpe shook his head. “I’m reconditioning you, Nick. The child psychology books and animal behavior books all say that one must be consistent with rewards and punishments. The Torturer’s Handbook—yes, there is such a thing; I helped rewrite it—says the very same thing. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “And I promise you, I’ll stick to the book. I’ll never lose my temper with you, never act out of personal motivations, whether they be evil or benign. I’ve had other friends on this table.”

  “My God . . .”

  “Now what do you know of the Soviet plan?”

  West drew a deep breath and replied, “I think . . . it has to do with . . . Peter, listen . . . listen to me. . . . They’re going to kill you . . . they won’t let you live knowing . . . this . . .”

  Thorpe stared at the analyzers, then said softly, “You believe that, don’t you?” He looked at his watch. “I don’t have any more time for you right now.” He slid off the stool. “First things first, which is one of Katherine’s favorite aphorisms. The first thing I have to do is finalize the plans to kidnap her.”

  West managed to raise his head. “Who . . . ?”

  “Katherine. While I’m at it, I’ll kill Abrams.”

  “Tony Abrams . . . ? Why?”

  “I don’t like him. But from a practical standpoint, he could become a problem. Anyway, you’ll have company soon. Kate will be lying next to you by this evening. What a chorus you’ll make. Stereophonic singing.”

  “You’re sick. Everyone knows it. Ann knows it, I know it—”

  Thorpe reached for the dial, but hesitated, then took a deep breath and moved his hand away. “You will not bait me, you little shit.”

  “Temper . . .”

  Thorpe leaned over West so that their faces were inches apart. “Let me give you a little news about your beloved Ann—”

  “Ann . . .”

  “Is dead.”

  “No. No.”

  “Yes. . . . And I’m going to kill you, too. And I don’t care that you know, because your knowledge of Ann’s death, and your own forthcoming death, will in no way alter the outcome of your debriefing.”

  “You . . . you didn’t . . . couldn’t. . . . She is not dead.”

  “She is.” Thorpe put his finger on West’s forehead and pushed. “That’s where I’m going to put the bullet in your head. Do you believe that?”

  “Y-y-yes.”

  Thorpe looked at the polygraph and voice analyzer. “That is one of the few questions that will produce an inconclusive response.” He tapped West’s forehead. “Believe it. Right here. Bang! And that’s a favor because I have nothing against you personally. For people who’ve crossed me, death takes two weeks.”

  West stared at Thorpe, then said, “How could you . . . to Katherine . . . ?”

  Thorpe straightened up and began moving away. “On a professional level, she has information that I’d like to have. Personally, I’d like to see the arrogant bitch strapped on a table howling her guts out. What a film that would make.”

  “Peter . . . if you have any soul . . . any heart at all—”

  “I don’t. And speaking of balls, keep an eye out for Eva.”

  “Peter . . . Katherine doesn’t know anything I don’t know.”

  “We’ll find out. By tonight you’ll both be trying to outscream each other to get my attention.”

  “Ann is not dead!”

  “Stop worrying about the Kimberly girls, West. There’s nothing you can do for them. Or for anyone, including yourself.”

  Thorpe walked to the doors then turned back. “Within a few hours I’ll have the first edited videotapes of you and Katherine delivered to Glen Cove. My Russian friends will be both enlightened and amused by them. They wanted you themselves, but as with most things they do, they torture badly.”

  West’s voice carried across the room, surprisingly strong. “They’re going to kill you, you fool.”

  “Not as long as I have you. Not as long as they need me. And I’ll be certain they need me until—”

  “The end. Then they’ll liquidate you. You have no place in their plans.”

  “There’s always a place for a man like me, Nicko.” Thorpe stayed silent for some time, then said, “Within a few weeks, based partly on what you and Katherine tell me, we will know for certain if and how we can proceed. We will know if America is to live or die. But as for you two, you can consider yourselves already dead. Speak to you later, pal.”

  33

  Katherine Kimberly ran onto the Brooklyn Bridge’s boardwalk and began the uphill climb. The morning had dawned clear and cool, and the view was magnificent. The boards beneath her feet were resilient and, as always, she reveled in their springiness. She began the downhill portion and picked up her speed.

  A few vehicles passed in either direction and she found herself looking more at them than at the view. A brown van came up behind her and she heard it slow. She increased her stride and looked back over her shoulder. The van drew abreast of her and kept pace. She began an all-out sprint and caught up to a small group of joggers.

  The van drew abreast again and a man looked out the open passenger-side window. He called out. “Hey! Want a ride?”

  She glanced at him and in a split second, based on instinct and experience, knew he was harmless. She ignored him and kept running. The van pulled ahead and disappeared.

  Katherine stayed with the group and followed the exit ramp around Cadman Plaza, then ran south on Henry Street. A few early risers watched idly. A truck driver whistled. A small boy fell in beside her and asked in the local dialect, “Youse runnin’?”

  Katherine smiled at the obvious question.

  “Hey, can I run witch youse?”

  “Sure . . . no. No, it’s not safe.” She put on a burst of speed and outdistanced the boy.

  The few other runners she had stayed with turned into Cranberry Street and headed for the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Katherine continued alone down Henry Street at too fast a pace, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. She was sweaty, and found her breathing to be much harder than it should have been.

  She saw Abrams’ building ahead, an expensive highrise set among the brownstones. She increased her stride. As the landscaped entrance to the building came up, she cut diagonally across the forecourt and pushed through the glass doors. She leaned against the foyer wall and caught her breath, then glanced at her chron
ograph: 4.62 miles in 39 minutes. Not bad.

  Katherine pushed at the inner glass doors, but they were locked. She turned to find Abrams’ buzzer, but a man inside the lobby opened the door for her. She hesitated, then slid past him and crossed the lobby quickly. She pushed the elevator button and waited. The man stood in the center of the lobby staring at her. The elevator came and she rode up to the sixth floor.

  Katherine rang the bell of apartment 6C. The peephole slid back, then the door opened. “Come in.”

  She exhaled a long breath and stepped into a small foyer.

  Abrams said, “Were you followed?”

  “I don’t think so . . . but there’s a man in your lobby. Brown suit, tall—”

  “Cop.” He glanced at her. “Anything wrong?”

  She forced a smile. “I got myself worked up.” She realized she was glad to be there. She felt safe with him. She looked at his tattered blue sweat suit, splattered with paint stains. The sweat shirt said NYPD GYM. “Is that Brooklyn chic?”

  “Right. It signals to the muggers that I’m poor but armed.” He led her into the living room. She glanced around. This was not what she’d expected.

  He followed her gaze but said nothing.

  She turned back to him. “Are you armed?”

  “Yes. You too. Lift your shirt.”

  She hesitated, then hiked her T-shirt up. Abrams took a nylon gun belt from the coffee table, wrapped it around her waist, and pressed the Velcro fastener together. “How’s that feel?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Fine.”

  He produced a holster and clipped it on the belt near the small of her back.

  She pulled down her shirt.

  Abrams handed her a small silver automatic. “It’s a 7.65 Beretta, unloaded. Play with it.”

  She operated the slide, checked the safety and the trigger pull. “It’s light.”

  “Jogger’s Special. It won’t bother you much.”

  “Will it bother anyone else?”

  He smiled. “It doesn’t have much stopping power, and it’s pretty inaccurate, but it’s otherwise reliable.” He handed her two magazines of seven rounds apiece. “Aim for the midsection, and keep squeezing off rounds. It’s a fast reload.”