COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  Lin worked on the Green Beret sergeant for five hours the first day. Steven made himself watch. Latham and Savak were at his sides. Lin did not use the long wooden whip, nor did he use the pearl handled razor; he used a narrow leather strap, whipping and beating Raden across his stomach. By the time he was finished, Raden’s abdomen was crisscrossed with high red welts and jagged skin tears. He left him hanging there, unconscious, blood dripping from his abdomen.

  Raden’s second day of torture began with a guard emptying a bucket of salt water on Raden’s stomach. Then they scrubbed off the dried blood with rough cloth and crude soap.

  Through it all, Raden kept his silence, staring stolidly at Lin.

  Steven watched Lin’s preparations. The captain reverently opened the gleaming wood case and Steven’s stomach went queasy. He doubted he’d be able to keep down what little rice he’d eaten.

  “Today you tell about mission,” the captain said, unfolding the straight razor. “Today you talk.”

  Raden stared at Lin in silence.

  Lin went to work. He alternated slow and painful slices across Raden’s abdomen and chest with taunts at Raden’s stupidity, offers of leniency, and finally rewards for telling Lin about the Americans’ mission.

  After twenty minutes of torture, Raden passed out. “Thank God,” Steven said.

  “We’ve got to do something,” Savak pleaded. “We’ve got to help him.”

  Latham stared at Savak. “How the hell are we going to do anything?”

  Savak shook his head. “Break out. Get Raden and run.”

  “We wouldn’t make it ten feet.” Steven spoke unemotionally, presenting them with a simple fact. He pointed to the watchtower across from their hut, manned twenty-four hours a day and at the fixed fifty-millimeter machine guns always aimed at their hut.

  “At least we’d save ourselves from that.” Latham nodded toward the window.

  Steven gripped Latham’s shoulders, painfully digging his fingers into his friend’s muscles, forcing Latham to meet his eyes. “They know we were in the North for a reason. They want to know what it was. Arnie, if we try it, they’ll go for our legs and knees, but they won’t let us kill ourselves.”

  “Now!” they heard Lin shout. Steven turned just as another bucket of salt water splattered over Raden.

  Raden woke, writhing. Lin bent over him. “No more play. You give me answers or die!” Lin flashed the razor in the air, waving it over Raden’s stomach.

  Moving the blade quickly, he slashed Raden from hip to armpit. A stream of blood gushed over the edges of the separated skin. Steven saw that Raden had been biting on his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, mingling with the three-week growth of beard.

  “Ah, so brave you are,” Lin said loudly, nodding toward his two assistants. The man with the salt water started to raise it. Lin stopped him with a preemptive gesture.

  “Perhaps your throat. You like that? You want to die here, far from family? Your mother never know what happen to you. She never know you alive or dead. You want?”

  Lin reached into his pocket and withdrew something. He smiled at Raden, and held the object up for Raden to see. It was a photograph.

  “Your family. A happy family, yes? Your mother and father. This your brother? Your wife or sister this one?” he asked.

  Raden looked from the photo to Lin. His eyes were flat. “Go fuck yourself.”

  The captain smiled, pushed the razor against Raden’s throat, and drew it from side to side. A thin red line of blood formed an obscene grin.

  Steven lost his food violently.

  Captain Lin laughed. “A scratch. The next be deeper. But you save self, Raden. End silence!”

  Steven watched Raden work his mouth and try to spit. The man was dehydrated, the attempt useless.

  “You force me to do this.” Lin shouted, again pressing the razor to Raden’s neck. He moved it a fraction of an inch at a time. Raden’s skin parted like stretched nylon against a scissor. “Talk! Talk and you see family again.”

  Blood poured from beneath the blade. Steven’s knuckles were white. He couldn’t catch his breath. Latham was white faced.

  Raden said nothing as the razor crept along. Steven saw the tendons on the sides of the sergeant’s neck bulge outward.

  The razor reached the carotid artery, and hovered. All Lin had to do was push forward a quarter inch and he could end Raden’s life.

  Raden’s eyes flicked toward the prison hut. Steven felt them lock with his. An arc of knowledge passed between he and Raden like a blue spark of static electricity.

  Suddenly Steven knew.

  “No!” Steven screamed, grabbing onto the mesh wire of the window and shaking it with all his strength as his cry turned into an elongated howl of pain and fury.

  Raden rammed his head forward and then twisted it to the side.

  Blood spurted in thick belches, splattering Lin’s face and uniform. As his life blood drained from his body, Sergeant Jeremy Raden stared at Lin.

  They took Savak the next day.

  Lin was taking no chances the three remaining prisoners would revolt. Lin and five guards burst into the hut before the morning meal. Four of the guards beat Steven and Latham to the floor while Lin and another guard grabbed Savak and rushed him out.

  As soon as the door closed, Steven and Latham ran to the window, ignoring the pain from the blows. They watched the guards tie Savak to the same bamboo cross that Cole and Raden died on.

  Lin paced back and forth impatiently while they spread-eagled Savak onto the bamboo beams. They secured his wrists and ankles to the wood with wire that bit into flesh at the slightest movement.

  Lin’s pearl handle straight razor was in his right hand. Lin’s two assistants stood attentively by: One held a bucket of salt water; the other held plain water and a rag dripping with ammonia—the prison camp version of smelling salts.

  When Lin was satisfied with Savak’s position, he began.

  The Vietnamese captain didn’t bother to ask any questions, or even use the branch whip or leather strap. He went right to work with the razor. Within minutes, Savak’s abdomen and chest were slick with blood from the slashes Captain Lin had engraved so freely upon him.

  Then the captain leaned over Savak. “This only the beginning. You talk. I stop. Much better for you, yes?”

  Savak shook his head.

  “Foolish Captain Savak. Why you bother? Pain end now. We care for you, treat you with respect of officer. All you do is tell what is mission.”

  Savak glared stonily at his interrogator.

  With a smile, Lin positioned the razor just below Savak’s left nipple. Slowly, in order to induce the maximum amount of pain, Lin drew the razor down and across Savak’s abdomen, ending at the right hip.

  The low guttural sound emanating from between Savak’s caked lips sent shivers along Steven’s back and churned his stomach with revulsion. He wanted to close his eyes, to shut out and deny what was happening, but he could no more leave Savak alone than he had Cole or Raden.

  Lin stepped back. He motioned to the guards to continue with the ritual. The man holding the bucket of salt water emptied it over Savak’s stomach. Savak’s body arched away from the wood. The wire holding his ankles and forearms bit into his skin, slicing deeper into his flesh and drawing fresh blood.

  “What mission? Why you here?” Lin shouted, his mouth an inch from Savak’s ear.

  Groggy, Savak lifted his head. His eyes were pain glazed yet defiant. “No.”

  The captain spat at Savak and went back to work with the razor.

  Latham fell to his knees and threw up. When he was able to stand again, he grabbed Steven’s wrist in a death grip. “He’s going to kill Arnie. Steven, how much more of this can we take? That madman’s already killed two of us.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Steven’s voice was dull and listless as he watched the captain open a new gash across Savak’s stomach. Bile rose into his mouth. He swallowed. The bile burned the back of his t
hroat, triggering a retching response. He didn’t give in; he kept swallowing.

  He looked at his friend, at the dirt on his face, and the vomit on his chin. “We can’t tell them, Chuck. God damn them!” he shouted, unaware he was crying. “Why did they take our clothing?”

  The guard threw another bucket of salt water on Savak. This time Savak screamed.

  Steven closed his eyes. He bit hard on his lower lip, letting the pain wash away his friend’s cries.

  He opened his eyes just when the second guard dumped the bucket of fresh water on Savak’s face. The captain leaned forward and slapped him twice. Savak groaned.

  “What was mission?” the captain screamed, moving the razor in a zigzag motion down Savak’s chest and stomach.

  Above Savak’s moaning cry, Steven heard the distant drone of a large helicopter. The sound increased steadily, and even Captain Lin looked over his shoulder.

  Within moments, the camouflaged belly of a large helicopter broke above the treetops. Steven recognized the symbol of the People’s Republic on its belly.

  Soon the walls of their prison hut were vibrating.

  Outside, all activity stopped while the copter to landed. It settled on the ground, a hundred feet from the hut, and the rear door opened to disgorge three uniformed men.

  The man in the lead carried a medical bag. The two soldiers behind him hauled a varying assortment of cases. Steven stared at the officer when he passed the hut. The newcorner’s uniform was Chinese, not Vietnamese. His rank was colonel.

  Reaching Lin, the Chinese officer spewed out a burst of Vietnamese. The captain stiffened, threw a sharp salute, and replied while gesturing at Savak with the bloody razor.

  Steven made out most of their shouted talk. The colonel was censuring Captain Lin for acting like a barbaric fool. Didn’t he comprehend how valuable these men are? The officer asked acerbically. Was Lin trying to sabotage the People’s war efforts or was he just stupid?

  Lin defended himself by citing his orders to break the captives immediately. The newcorner spat a slanderous epitaph about Lin’s ancestry before ordering Savak taken to the prison camp infirmary, situated in the two-story headquarters building.

  Steven squinted in an effort to make out the smaller insignias on the colonel’s uniform. When he did, his shock was as much physical as mental. He stumbled back, sat heavily on the damp dirt floor, and lowered his head between his hands.

  “What’s wrong?” Latham’s voice rode the edge of panic as he crawled closer to Steven.

  Steven swallowed hard. He couldn’t look at Latham. He stared at his shaking hands. “God can’t even help us now, Chuck, they’ve sent a Chinese intelligence specialist.”

  Latham stared at Steven’s confusion. “Chinese? But I thought the Soviets...”

  Steven took several deep breaths. When he had himself under a semblance of control, he looked at Latham. “Since Ho Chi Minh’s death, the new regime has been accepting more outside help. Whom they call on for help depends on their needs at that moment. Jesus, Chuck, the Chinese wrote the book on interrogation.”

  “Arnie won’t break!” Latham swore.

  The tight set of Latham’s mouth, so at odds with the fear burning in his friend’s eyes, made Steven want to agree. His experience told him to prepare Latham for what would be coming. “You’ve heard the rumors, everyone in the field has. They aren’t rumors, Chuck. I’ve debriefed enough men to know. Arnie will break. So will you, and so will I. And it won’t be our fault.”

  “We’ll work it out. We’ll fight it!”

  Steven stared at Latham, understanding that his friend could not accept the truth. Instead of telling him more, Steven put his arm around his friend’s shoulders, drew him close, and held him tight. “You’re right Chuck, we’ll fight it.”

  On the heel of Steven’s words, the door to their prison hut flew open. Captain Lin and his five guards entered. “Up!” Lin ordered.

  When Steven and Latham stood, Lin motioned to his men. They broke up into two sets of twos. The fifth covered them with his rifle.

  “You go with them,” Lin said.

  “Where?” Steven asked.

  Glaring at Steven, Lin swung his hand upward. Lin’s open palm caught Steven on his cheek, rocking him backward. “You no speak unless permission given! Move!” he commanded as the two guards took his arms.

  “Fight them, Steven! Don’t give in!” Latham cried.

  The guard to Latham’s left rammed his rifle stock into Latham’s stomach, doubling him over. Working in unison, the two guards dragged Latham out.

  Lin motioned to the guards holding Steven. They took him out and marched him to a hut three away from the one he and Latham had been in since arriving at the camp.

  The guards stopped at the door of this new prison hut. They pushed Steven hard, knocking him off balance and propelling him into the hut. He landed on his hands and knees. Turning, he rose just as they closed the door.

  He looked around. The hut was empty. Three rolled bed mats were in a corner. Slowly, the understanding came. The Chinese colonel was nobody’s fool. He had done what Lin should have done from the beginning. Separate them. Leave them alone and let them fall prey to their fears.

  When those fears began to leech at their minds, he would break them.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Nothing happened for the next forty-eight hours. Food came once a day. The area between Steven’s hut and Latham’s remained empty.

  For forty-eight hours, all Steven did was think. He spent all his waking hours going over the details of their mission. He backtracked, using the perfection of his photographic memory to replay every word. Still, he couldn’t quite put it together.

  On the morning of the third day, he awakened abruptly, bathed in sweat. His heart raced, and his breathing was shallow. He’d been dreaming about the final minutes of Jeremy Raden’s torture and death.

  Steven remembered the terrible instant when his eyes had met Raden’s, and he’d known what the sergeant was going to do.

  He focused on that precise moment, and the answer came to him in a harrowing flash of insight.

  From behind, he heard voices. He ran to the window and saw three guards open Latham’s door and go in. When they reappeared, two of the guards held Latham between them. The third walked behind Latham, keeping his rifle pointed at Latham’s back.

  They marched him to the central building, where they were keeping Savak since cutting him down from the bamboo poles.

  “It’s okay, Chuck,” Steven whispered, tears tracking down his cheeks. “You can tell them Chuck, it’s okay.”

  Steven slumped to the floor, still chanting his litany. He knew Latham would talk, as he was sure had Savak.

  And so would he. Steven knew so with absolute certainty. Part of his work in Saigon had been spent debriefing escaped prisoners. For five months, he’d heard the horror stories of what went on in the POW camps. Steven knew that he would be powerless to stop himself from talking under the mix of drugs and pain.

  He looked around his cage, desperately seeking a way out. He spotted a cracked strand of bamboo on the door. He scrambled to it, dug his nails into the crack, and began working to loosen the wide splinter. It took him a half hour to get the piece bent far enough back to work free. He broke three nails at the quick, but did not feel the pain.

  When he finally held the slim and jagged shard of bamboo in his right hand, he moved to the center of the hut. He sat cross-legged, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

  He cried for Savak and Latham; for Cole and Raden. He took off his shirt, wadded the end, and stuffed it in his mouth so even if he cried out, no sound would pass the walls.

  Then he began to saw at the skin on the inside of his wrist.

  The pain was intense, made even more agonizing by its reason. Each time he faltered, he brought up the image of Jeremy Raden turning his neck across the razor. He didn’t know how long it took for the dull wood to cut deep enough, but there came a point when the
pain faded into warmth, and his mind and body went numb.

  He looked down at the scarlet stream pumping from his left wrist and knew he’d cut deep enough. He spat out the wadded material, stood shakily, and went to the window. He stared at the building where they’d taken Latham. He watched until his vision blurred, then turned and slid his back down the wall. Sitting on the dirt floor, he transferred the bamboo sliver to his left hand. His fingers had no sensation. He couldn’t feel the wood.

  Carefully, he brought the sliver of bamboo to his right wrist. He pressed down, trying to cut his skin, but the wood slipped from his lifeless fingers.

  He stared at the bloodied bamboo for several seconds before realizing that it didn’t matter. The blood was still coming fast from his left wrist. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  “Soon,” he whispered. Because he so fully understood the necessity for Raden’s death, and for his own, Steven gave himself up to the only salvation possible.

  Thankfully, there was no more pain. A good sign: pain was part of life, not death; peace was part of death.

  With that thought, darkness swallowed him.

  <><><>

  Steven woke sluggishly. He opened his eyes to the sight of a thatched bamboo ceiling, and a light fixture with an incandescent bulb dangling snake-like three feet above him.

  Disoriented, he tried to sit up. He felt pressure across his chest. He fought it, but couldn’t move. He looked down along his chest. There were two leather straps pinioning him to the bed. He raised his left hand as far as he could and saw the bandage.

  He closed his eyes. Self-loathing at his failure to die was swift and bitter.

  Then he heard a husky whisper as someone called his name. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward the sound. Savak was strapped into the bed next to him.

  Dark half-moon shadows accented red-rimmed and haunted eyes. Savak’s thin lips were pale and bloodless. A muscle pulsed on the surface of Savak’s cheek.

  “What happened?” Steven asked after absorbing the despair filling Savak’s eyes.