by Jack Arbor
“That explains a few things. Decide. If you’re not—”
“One condition.”
Oh, boy. Time to pay the piper. By now he was in East Riverdale on his way to downtown Washington, DC. All he passed were signs for liquor stores and strip bars.
“Anything. Tell me,” Max said.
“I want to be part of the interrogation.”
“Of course.”
“And another thing.”
Uh-oh. “What?”
“I want you to apologize for burning down my office.”
You’ve got to be kidding. “Baxter, I’ve got a situation here. This hardly calls for—”
“Okay. Good luck.” The transmission ended.
Fuck. Max gaped at his phone.
Outside the van window, the neighborhood was worse. Groups of men in oversized down jackets gathered around fires burning in fifty-five gallon drums. A homeless man pushed a shopping cart laden with duffle bags. A lowrider slid by, the men inside watching his van. The general will die without medical help, and whatever knowledge he has will die with him. He redialed Baxter’s number.
It was answered after several long rings. “I’m listening,” Baxter said.
Max swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for burning down your office.”
No response from Baxter.
“Are you there?”
“That didn’t sound very sincere.”
“For Chrissake, Callum. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I burned down your office. At least I paid for a new one.”
Several seconds ticked by until Baxter cleared his throat. “What do you need?”
Staying under the speed limit, he made his way through the dark and wet city streets past homeless drunks and by hookers in fur jackets open to reveal too much. More than once he held his breath as a DC police cruiser roared by, its red and blue lights blazing.
Max approached his destination from Connecticut Ave NW, turned into an alleyway, and backed the van close to the rear door of the Russia House restaurant. Stepping from the van, he scanned the alley to make sure no one was around and glanced at the CCTV camera to confirm one of Rodion’s men had spray-painted the lens black. Done.
From half a block away came the sounds of a boisterous crowd at McClellan’s Retreat, a bar named after a civil war general. Max rapped on the rear metal door of the Russia House before opening the van. A dim yellow light spilled into the dark alley as one of Rodion’s men stepped out.
Headlights appeared from around the corner, and the MI6 SUV pulled up next to the van. Max put his hand on the butt of his pistol but relaxed when Baxter stepped out and was followed by another man Max didn’t recognize.
He addressed Rodion’s henchman, an old Russian named Pavel, who had a craggy face and the haircut of a man who spent most of his life in the military. “Quick, help me get this coffin inside and downstairs.”
The two men slid the wooden box from the van and carried it through the door and wrestled it down the narrow stairs into the dank cellar where they set it on the dirt floor. Max flicked on an overhead light and swept cooking utensils, pots, and food stuffs from a long prep table. With a heave, Max and Pavel lifted the general from the coffin onto the metal surface. Max was fixing Brown’s ankles and wrists to the metal table legs with plastic zip ties when Baxter and the second man entered the basement.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Baxter exclaimed when he saw the unconscious general with his shirt saturated with blood. The second man, pudgy with tiny round glasses and a balding head, snapped on latex gloves, extracted a pair of safety shears from a brown leather bag, and cut away the general’s shirt.
Mildew, rotting vegetables, and raw onions pervaded the room. Cockroaches scurried underfoot, and rats scattered to the dark corners. Max stooped to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling’s cross beams. Boxes of vegetables were stacked in a pile, and a cobweb-covered wine rack took up the opposite wall.
After removing the general’s shirt, the doctor poked and prodded around the wound while muttering to himself in a British accent. “Lost a lot of blood. Bullet hole in the upper pectoralis major just below the clavicle and two millimeters from the deltoid. Missed the bone. Help me roll him.”
Max helped the doctor roll the general on his side to examine his back. “This man can’t die, doctor. It’s important.”
“No exit wound.” The doctor held out his hand. “Forceps.”
Baxter fished in the bag for the surgical tool as the doctor poured antiseptic into the bullet hole and felt around inside the wound. “Bullet lodged in the subscapularis.”
Baxter slapped the tool in the doctor’s waiting hand. The doc held the wound open with one hand while reaching into the man’s shoulder muscle with the forceps.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs and Rodion appeared, his girth taking up the rest of the available space in the tiny basement. “What the hell, Mikhail? Who are all these people?” He leaned over to see what the doctor was doing and let out a string of curses in Russian. “This wasn’t the deal, Mikhail.”
“These things happen.” Max shrugged as the doctor extracted the slug from the general’s shoulder.
“His favorite phrase,” Baxter mumbled.
The doctor dropped the tiny hunk of metal in Max’s hand, and he rinsed it off in the sink before examining it and slipping it into his pants pocket.
Rodion pounded his fist on a wooden pillar. “Who are these people, Mikhail?”
Max reached into his pocket and rolled the slug between his fingers. “Don’t worry. They’re MI6.”
Raw Russian expletives flew from Rodion’s mouth before he switched to English. “Just what I needed. A dead body and British intelligence in my basement.”
Max smiled at his friend. “He’s not dead. Yet, anyway. Got any of that famous borscht of yours?”
The doctor waved a finger in the air. “Bottled water, too. Quickly.”
With an angry grunt, Rodion signaled to Pavel, who squeezed around his boss and went up the stairs.
Forty-One
Washington, DC
They did everything they could for the general, and now it was a waiting game. A check of the dog tags around his neck determined his blood type as AB-positive, a very rare type, and Baxter coordinated with his team at the British Embassy to obtain as many units as possible. Meanwhile, the doctor set up an IV with fluids, and without anything else to do, he went home.
While they waited, Max filled Baxter in on the operation.
When the narrative was done, Baxter shook his head. “Foolish. How did he know you were there?”
Max shrugged. “I must have missed some kind of motion sensor or surveillance cameras. I was moving too fast. He knows where Kate is. I didn’t have the luxury of time.”
A grunt from Baxter. “Next time you’re rushing around, you might not be so lucky. Maybe this is a lesson?”
Max turned his back on Baxter, went up the steps, found a pan of cold borscht in the cooler, and returned to the basement.
As the minutes ticked by, Max devoured the beet root and beef stew while Baxter tugged on his goatee. When Harris arrived with two units of blood, Max set up the IV. After the first bag slowly emptied, Max switched bags and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Baxter put his hand on Max’s wrist. “Don’t. The man is fighting for his life, for God’s sake.”
Max put the pack away. “Where’s Cindy?”
“Embassy. Sleeping on a cot.”
As the second bag slowly drained, Max flicked the lid of his lighter open and shut, each time with a soft ping. “I say we wake him and get on with it. You sure you want to be here for this?”
Baxter moved into the shadows and out of the general’s line of sight. “Don’t let him turn around.”
“Okay. You’re going to see some things you’re not going to like. Stay there and keep your mouth shut. And hold this.” He handed Baxter his Blackphone, which he set to record an audio file of the interrogation. Rummaging in a sac
k, he removed a roll of duct tape and a packet of smelling salts. After slapping a piece of the tape over his captive’s eyes, he snapped the tube of ammonia and waved it under the general’s nose.
The man’s eyes popped open.
Leaning over the table, Max blocked out the light. “Hello, sir.”
Brown struggled, his veins popping out of his neck, until he realized he was secured to the cold table. His eyes roved around before he let his head fall back. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Russia, general.”
Max used the shears to snip along both of the general’s pant legs. “You’ve been shot, and you’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re not out of the woods, so take it easy.” With a jerk, he yanked the general’s pants from his legs and cut through his boxer shorts. A minute later, the general was naked. His pink and hairy chest heaved, and his skin was puckered from the cold.
Through gritted teeth, the general growled. “You’re making a huge mistake. Do you know who I am?”
Chuckling, Max said, “I know exactly who you are. And you know who I am, so let’s get down to business.”
General Brown’s teeth chattered while Max filled a pot with water from the industrial sink in the corner and poured it on the man’s chest, letting it drip onto the metal table. “Chilly down here, isn’t it?”
General Brown sputtered. “What…the…”
Max put his face over his captive’s. “Here’s the situation. You have information I want. In exchange for that information, I’m willing to let you live. If you insist on delaying or holding out or deceiving me, I’ll kill you and bury your body where no one will find it. Do we understand each other?”
The general’s lips quivered. “What…information?”
Max drizzled more of the cold water along the man’s torso. “You know where a friend of mine is. A friend I want to find very badly.”
Brown grimaced. “What makes…you think—”
A wall of water hit the general when Max tossed a full pot of ice water at his face. “No time for games. You’re slowly dying from shock. You need a hospital. The longer this goes on, the longer it takes us to get you there.”
After spitting and shaking the water from his head, Brown set his jaw. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I can always use a contact in the United States Cyber Command, sir. We can work out a deal where you walk out of here.” Max filled the pot again.
As the general’s body shook uncontrollably, Max dribbled some water on the general’s chest. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Shock can kill, you know.”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
Max splashed water on the man’s genitals and went back to the sink for more water before setting the pot on the table next to his captive’s elbow. “By now your pulse is weak and rapid, and you’re thirsty. You’re feeling confused. Soon you will black out.”
The general’s lips were blue as he quaked uncontrollably on the table.
Max dumped the water on his face and chest and refilled the pot.
The general coughed. “You might…as well…kill me.”
“Why do you want me dead so badly?” Max asked.
Brown whipped his head back and forth.
Leaving the general shivering on the cold metal table, Max returned with a blanket. He ripped the tape from Brown’s eyes and waved the covering at the general. “All you need to do is tell me where she is and you’ll get the blanket instead of the water.”
The general tightened his jaw and stared at the ceiling.
Max stepped into a back room and returned with a bag of ice. He ripped it open and poured some of the cubes on the general’s skin. Max waved the blanket as the table creaked underneath the Brown’s trembling body.
It took another thirty minutes of alternating water and ice treatments before the general opened up and gave them Kate Shaw’s exact location. No amount of threats or continued torture revealed the identity of Kate Shaw’s captors.
He must not know.
Max fired the audio file off to Goshawk and did a quick Google Map search on his phone to see the location. In the dark shadows in the back of the room, Baxter typed furiously on his phone.
Shoving the Blackphone into his pocket, Max placed the pot on the shelf. “You work for us now, General Brown. Next time I call, you answer or we’ll leak this audio file to the FBI. Got it?”
After injecting the general with a powerful sedative, Max dried him off, wrapped him in the blanket, and headed up the stairs to find Pavel.
When he reached the top of the stairs, the door to the kitchen was open a crack. He stepped into the kitchen to find Pavel’s body lying on the tile floor, a crimson pool of blood spread under him. Max checked for a pulse. Nothing.
Drawing his pistol, he ran to the door leading into the alley and toed it open while holding the gun in both hands. The alley was empty except for the white van.
The muted roar of a V-twin engine reverberated in the darkness. Max ran toward the sound and emerged from the alley onto a street next to a sign that read Embassy of Costa Rica. A single red taillight raced away from him. A second later the motorcycle turned and disappeared. The roar faded into the distance.
Forty-Two
Unknown Location
I’m suffocating. Are these hot towels around me? This is one of those herbal wraps like at the spa, isn’t it?
My arms won’t move. Am I tied up?
It doesn’t smell like a herbal wrap. All floral and medicinal. Instead she detected odors of sweat and something that reminded her of hibiscus.
Another effort resulted in the shift of a leg. Her calf felt something soft. Is this a new outfit? It’s soft, like I used to wear to yoga.
Gradually she opened her eyes. At first, everything was fuzzy. Nothing new there. After a moment things cleared. A pale whitewashed adobe ceiling was overhead. The blades of a ceiling fan turned lazily. Can someone turn that up? I’m suffocating here.
A shift of her ankle moved the sheet and exposed her to the thick air before she rolled onto her side. A washbasin sat in the corner next to a white porcelain toilet.
This is a new room. The furniture is strange, but looks nice. Mediterranean, maybe? Worn stone flooring. A plush daybed in muted earth tones. Some ambient lighting. Is that music coming from hidden speakers or is it in my head? Must be a dream. Or I’m finally dead. Please let that be it.
A struggle to prop herself up on two elbows. A swing of her legs. Wait. I’m going to throw up. The feeling passed.
Her feet touched a plush white rug where a pair of sandals awaited. She slipped into them. Aah. Soft and fuzzy.
Where’s the switch to make the fan turn faster? The stucco walls were blank except for a pair of watercolors showing scenes of ocean and sand. Remind me to ask management about that.
The thought made her giggle, but no sound came out. With an effort, she used the headboard to help her stand before letting go to test her balance.
If I fall, please let me fall on the bed.
The room turned around her, but she remained standing. Eventually the furniture stopped moving. When she was confident of her footing, she took a step. And another. Five more steps were taken before she settled on the commode, the cotton pants around her ankles. So this is what it feels like to use a toilet. Aah soft tissue. She stood and flushed.
Let’s take an inventory. Was there a bottle of wine from the previous night? Or three? My tongue feels like it’s covered in fur. She filled a small plastic cup with water and drank it down. Better, but not great. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. This cotton in my head won’t go away. She flexed her bicep. Great, just great. No muscle left, all sponge.
A splash of water on her face sent a chill through her, so she splashed again. And again. Mm-hmm… This towel smells like spring flowers.
Thank you to whoever decided against putting a mirror over the washbasin. One step at a time. I don’t need to see the damage.
An arched wooden door was inset into the far wall. She padded over and tried the latch. Locked. No surprise there.
A series of window vents were spaced out near the ceiling and the fan stirred a breeze through the room. Wait a minute. That’s a seagull. There’s an ocean out there.
Another scan of the room. Nothing I can use as a weapon. Well, that’s random. Where did that come from? What about this glass pitcher? I’ll just keep it here in easy reach.
A bookcase of ratty paperbacks was in a corner. She selected the classic from Harper Lee. I always enjoyed this book. She settled in to read on the couch with her feet curled under her.
A gentle knock sounded at the door and her calm evaporated when a series of hazy visions rushed back at her. The betrayal by Bill, her father’s oldest and closest friend. The snatch in the park by the CIA men in the blue suits. The incarceration in the military prison where she was mistreated by her handlers. The long interrogations where they pulled everything out of her mind. The abduction by the commandos dressed in black. More interrogations and torture until she spiraled into darkness and stopped eating and talking. But I don’t care anymore. There’s nothing left. So why do they keep at it? Just kill me. Death has to be better than this.
When the door opened, the book dropped from her hand. Retrieving it, she knocked over the empty water pitcher, which shattered on the stone floor. Damn it.
A Caucasian man wearing a pressed white Oxford shirt stepped through the door wearing a pair of neat rimless spectacles and clutching a worn leather portfolio. His face was upturned so he looked through the bottoms of his glasses. Two granite-faced guards positioned themselves on either side of the door.
Who is this guy? What happened to that fat man who stank like rancid meat? The one who won’t leave my dreams alone.
The newcomer sat, opened his leather portfolio, and crossed a tassel-loafered foot over one knee while studying her through the bottoms of his glasses. “Hello, Kate. How are you feeling today, hmm?”