He had held out long enough to get the information he needed—some idea of the layout of Krowl’s Torture Island complex, the number of people here, and the nature of the security. He’d had his guided tour of the facility, and had survived relatively intact, with no permanent damage.
Now it was time to go to work.
There were no television cameras in the cell, and Chant had seen none in the outer corridor. Nor had there been a guard posted outside the cellblock—at least there hadn’t been when Bernard had wheeled him out. Still, as a precaution against someone looking in on him, Chant rolled over on his side, facing the wall, before starting to recover the weapons and tools planted on and in his body before he had returned to Amsterdam. He unzipped the front of his coveralls, searched in his thick chest hair with the tips of his fingers until he found a small nub of glue. Gripping the nub of glue between thumb and forefinger, he plucked it off his skin, then proceeded to unravel the two yards of fine, ultrastrong piano wire that had been woven into the hair and spot-glued to the flesh. This done, he wrapped the length of wire loosely around his left wrist and secured it in such a way that it could be whipped off almost instantaneously. He did not need the extra yard of wire woven into his pubic hair, and he left that in place.
Using the hardened fingernail on his right hand, he slit open tiny, flesh-colored sutures in the calluses beneath both big toes. Beneath both of the calluses was a square of steel comprised of jointed, collapsing sections. When pulled apart, each section became a strong but flexible two-inch steel pick, and an interlocking joint at the end of each made it possible to double the length of the pick. Chant used one section to pick open the locks on his wrist and ankle shackles, then joined the sections together and set the larger pick aside.
With his sharp, hardened nails he cut off two strips of the mattress covering, wrapped these around his right wrist.
Next he slit open the callus beneath his left heel and removed what appeared to be pressed seaweed sealed in plastic wrap. In fact, the substance was a mixture of herbs that, when ingested, acted upon the nervous system with speed and power greater than that of the most powerful amphetamine. He chewed slowly on the herb mixture, then washed it down with coffee. Immediately, his head cleared, his exhaustion left him, and his nerves and muscles leapt to life.
There were more items, but Chant saw no need for them at the moment, and he left them in place.
He quickly ate the cold cuts on the tray, drank half of the coffee in the thermos. With the long pick in hand, he rose and went to the heavy wooden door. He put his ear to the peephole and listened, but heard no one moving outside. He dropped to one knee, inserted the pick in the lock, and in less than a minute had opened it. He rose, pulled the door open.
With the powerful stimulant galvanizing his muscles and sharpening his senses, Chant glided, silent as the night that shrouded him, to his left down the corridor, up the wheelchair ramp. He listened for a few moments inside the swinging doors. When he heard nothing, he quickly pushed through the doors, darted to his right, and pressed back against the building. The full moon was partially obscured by scudding clouds. Chant waited and watched, but could detect no movement in the direction of the main complex, nor in the direction of the shark lagoon.
Chant scooped up a handful of loose dirt from the base of the building, rubbed it over his face, his hands, and the tops of his feet. Then, keeping low, he darted away from the building to his left, down the grade leading to the shark lagoon.
The stimulant had erased his fatigue and given him strength, but it also severely magnified the pain from both his bite and burn wounds. Chant used po-chaki to isolate the pain, then—free at last and hidden in night—allowed himself to indulge the emotions he’d had to keep so carefully in check from the moment he’d walked out of Hugo VanderKlaven’s office in Amsterdam to the waiting Bo Wahlstrom.
What he felt most was an almost overwhelming rage—never experienced more strongly than when, strapped into the wheelchair, he had been forced to mask his emotions, sit and listen to the torture doctor who had crushed, burned, slashed, and twisted the life out of Harry Gray describe himself as a “researcher.”
He was going to enjoy giving Richard Krowl his heartfelt reaction.
Somehow, Chant thought, his friend had found a way to get on the island, then off again—after pocketing one of the Krowls’ black pearls. How Harry had done that remained a mystery, but it indicated to Chant that, despite Gerard Patreaux’s description of the island, there might be a way to navigate a boat in and out through the coral reefs. It was what Chant intended to check out now. He was not concerned about time, his escape being discovered, or of being hunted. The combined forces on the island were not capable of finding, much less capturing, him. Indeed, Chant preferred that Krowl spread out his men to search for him; it would make it easier to pick them off one by one. But it didn’t really make any difference to Chant whether they came to him, or he went to them. Krowl would not think to radio for help until it was too late.
Tonight, Torture Island would be his killing ground.
Although Chant intended to explore the possibility of escaping the island by sea, he fully expected to leave the way he had originally planned—by air, after he had commandeered the transport helicopter that shuttled men and supplies back and forth from the Chilean mainland. Judging from what Krowl had said to his guests, Chant assumed that he had three—perhaps four—days to wait for the helicopter’s scheduled arrival. That was fine with Chant, who was quite willing to wait, enjoying the sun and the sea with the only other people he intended to see survive this night—Krowl’s broken people, and any other prisoners he might find. If anyone came earlier to investigate why there was no longer any radio communication with the island, so much the better.
Then it would be back to Switzerland, along a carefully prescribed route already prearranged and being set up by Gerard Patreaux. With Krowl’s computer tapes and files in Patreaux’s hands, it was most unlikely that any nation or organization named in them would ever finance or use a facility like Torture Island again. Amnesty, Inc. would be allowed to pick up, and care for, the broken people.
It seemed a simple and effective plan, Chant thought as he loped along the edge of the precipice. But no plan was foolproof—which, in his mind, necessitated this search. If there was an opening in the reefs, there was a possibility that Krowl kept a power boat, or even a sailboat for recreation, anchored in a cove.
He passed along the rim of the shark lagoon. Below, shapes moved like black clouds in a liquid sky of midnight blue. Just beyond the comma of the lagoon, the cleared area ended abruptly at a border of waist-high scrub brush and dwarf trees scoured and bent into twisted shapes by the incessant wind. Chant had still sighted nothing at the base of the precipice but jagged reefs and crashing surf, which also guarded the mouth to the shark lagoon.
Chant kept going, stepping carefully through the brush and around the trees, gliding as silently through the dense overgrowth as if he were on open ground. A hundred yards from the border of brush, the terrain became hillier, and he slowed to ease the pressure on his wounds. His belly wound had begun to bleed from his exertions, but not enough to concern him.
He deviated slightly from his path along the edge of the precipice to climb a steep hill, pausing at the crest and looking out over the expanse of the island. From here, he could see to the other side. There was plenty of cover for him to hide in, if necessary, but no sign of any trails—which indicated to him that there was no boat anchored anywhere around the perimeter of the island. He’d seen enough.
He turned to go back, caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He moved a few yards to his left along the crest of the hill, stood behind a tree and looked down the opposite side of the hill.
Feather was standing, unmoving, on the very edge of the precipice, staring out to sea. The wind was blowing hard where she stood, whipping her raven-black hair back around her face, but she gave no indication that she
was cold—or that she even noticed the wind at all. She simply stood still and stared.…
His first victim, Chant thought as he glided silently down the hillside. The woman was not armed, and the wind would carry away any scream she might utter, so there was no reason for him to stop a few yards behind her, as he did. He was not sure why he stopped when all he had to do was walk up and push her to her death. It was not her sex; she was part of Krowl’s staff on Torture Island, had hurt him more than any man ever had, and had undoubtedly done the same to other men—and perhaps women.
But he remembered Bernard’s strange reference to her, as well as Richard Krowl’s almost deferential behavior toward her. There was her refusal to let the torture doctor talk about her.
This woman was the human lie detector who had almost cost him his life, Chant thought. Yet she seemed to be so much more. She was, according to Krowl, a physician; yet, like Krowl, she had turned her skills to produce suffering instead of healing. There was no reason for her not to die—unless she too was a victim, as her muteness and strange, vacant expression would seem to indicate. Gerard Patreaux had spoken of the bizarre relationship that often develops between torturer and victim, and it had occurred to Chant while he was sitting in Krowl’s office that the torture doctor might love the woman, and she him.
Was Dr. Maria Gonzalez, Feather, more tortured than torturer? Chant was not sure. And if he was not sure, he could not kill her.
Neither, considering the agony she had caused him, was he going to forget about her.
Chant glided forward. Feather seemed to sense his presence at the last moment. She started to turn, but by then Chant was directly behind her, his left arm across her shoulder and his hand over her eyes. With his thumb and middle finger anchored firmly on her temples, he could easily have crushed her skull; instead, he turned her around with his left hand and clipped her across the jaw with his right, knocking her unconscious.
Gerard had wanted a torturer to interview, Chant thought with a wry smile as he made his way back up the hillside, leaving the woman sprawled at the edge of the precipice. Because Feather did not talk didn’t mean that she could not. She might well be his gift to the Swiss, along with Krowl’s records. He would decide later, perhaps when he had more information on the woman.
She could still die at his hands this night.
In the meantime, he intended to make certain that Feather, when she did regain consciousness, found herself with far fewer companions on Torture Island.
FIFTEEN
Chant’s first order of business was to secure a sizeable sampling of computer tapes and records, in the event an alarm was raised and he found it difficult to get to them later; he could not risk having them moved, or even destroyed. His initial stop would be the windowless building containing Krowl’s office and the torture chamber.
His first victim was a brown-uniformed guard sitting on the grass outside the building, idly smoking a cigarette and staring up at the stars. Chant killed him instantly with a single, bone-shattering blow to the skull, then dragged the body to a drainage ditch beside the building, where he crouched, motionless, for almost a minute. When he saw and heard no one else, he rose and loped around to the front, walked up the wheelchair ramp and through the swinging doors.
Inside the building it was totally dark, but Chant remembered not only the way but the distance to Krowl’s office, and he moved quickly and with confidence to it, reached to a wall panel on his left and turned on the lights.
He went first to the metal filing cabinet behind Krowl’s oak desk. It was locked, but Chant was able to open it with his pick within moments. From the top drawer he removed three reels of computer tape and set them down on top of the desk, which was bare except for a single manila folder. Out of curiosity, Chant turned on the desk lamp and opened the folder.
The papers inside the folder were written in Russian, with an accompanying English translation. The documents concerned Viktor and Olga Petroff, the Soviet dissidents who had been objects of Amnesty, Inc.’s intense curiosity for months.
Chant scanned the documents in the original Russian, found nothing that was not known, or was not guessed. Three years before, for reasons that remained incomprehensible to the Soviet leaders, the brilliant, internationally famous scientist and his wife had become extremely vocal activists for human rights inside the Soviet Union, incessantly lobbying for Russian adherence to the Helsinki Accords. There had been meetings with Western reporters, written manifestos. The Soviet leaders had not been pleased.
Finally, there had been the banishment to Gorky. Hidden from the eyes of the world, the man and wife had been subjected to labor camps, and even to two months of intensive “psychiatry” in a Russian “mental hospital,” in an effort to force them to publicly recant their views and accusations. Nothing had worked, and the Russians were not willing to risk being caught physically harming the two international cause célèbres. Now, while the Soviet Union continued to claim that the dissidents were alive and well in Gorky, they were to be sent to Torture Island, where Richard Krowl was to apply his methods to convince the Petroffs of the error of their ways so that they could be safely, publicly, returned to Soviet society, with no further fear of embarrassment; and if they appeared a bit glassy-eyed or absentminded to Western reporters, this was an acceptable risk. They were to be brought to Torture Island at the end of the week.
Good, Chant thought as he closed the folder and pushed it to one side. He would take delivery of the Petroffs when they arrived, and he was certain the man and woman would be happy to accompany him back to Switzerland.
Chant opened a second drawer in the file, began removing files and stacking them on the desk.
The Petroffs.
There could be a problem, Chant thought. Rescuing them might not be so easy; in fact, it might not even be possible. Breaking the collective will of the Petroffs had to be the most sensitive, and potentially explosive, assignment Krowl had ever been given. Certainly, special arrangements were being made all along the line: for the couple’s transportation, in absolute secrecy, halfway around the world, as well as for their transfer to Torture Island. The numerous right-wing dictatorships in South America were not exactly friends of the Soviet Union, and it was a measure of the Russians’ desperation that they would be willing to deal with Krowl in the first place.
Chant found the switch beneath the desk that opened the wall separating the office from the torture chamber. He flicked the switch, went into the other room and began to look around.
He knew that the transfer of the Petroffs would be accompanied by the strictest security—Russian security. KGB agents would undoubtedly travel with them all the way, no matter what route was taken. There wouldn’t be many, for they wouldn’t want to attract attention, but they would be top men, very well trained. They would know there could be no slipups, and they would take no chances.
There was nothing in the torture chamber Chant considered worth taking, and he went back into the office, where he began looking for something to carry the materials in.
The Russians might or might not use Krowl’s regular shuttle helicopter, but they would certainly conduct a radio check before bringing the Petroffs over from the mainland. Perhaps there were codes. Without doubt, the KGB would insist on radio contact with Krowl. But Krowl would be dead, and the radio would not be operating.…
Chant removed the slipcovers from the two cushions on the divan behind Krowl’s desk, noting with some amusement as he did so that he had not stepped on a single loose pearl since entering the building. All of the pearls that Krowl had spilled had been carefully collected and returned to one of the larger earthenware pots.
The Petroffs were not going to be delivered.…
Chant put the computer tapes and manila folders in one of the slipcovers, poured all of the pearls into the other, zipped up both.
The couple would be returned to Russia—to permanent internal exile, more hospitals and mind-bending drugs, separation, or even execu
tion. The Russians might well write them off, and then simply ignore the rest of the world.
There was nothing that could be done about it now, Chant thought as he picked up the two full slipcovers, went out of the office, and started down the long corridor. He could not undo what he had already done, even if that were a reasonable alternative. Infiltrating the island as a prisoner had been, to say the least, extremely risky, and had been done because it seemed his only option. He had been lucky to survive, and would certainly not have survived another three or four days, assuming he had known the Petroffs were coming and had chosen to wait. It had taken all of his will and courage to subject himself to the hell he’d known he would have to endure. Even if it were possible to go back to his cell before his escape was detected, he did not think he could again achieve the finely tuned psychological state he required for the control he would need. He could not face another three days of torment.
The torment the Petroffs faced would last the rest of their lives.…
Chant reached the swinging doors, stopped and stared at them.
He probably would not survive, he thought.
The Petroffs would definitely not survive …
Maybe there wouldn’t be special arrangements; maybe the couple would simply be flown in on the shuttle helicopter, which Chant would capture; maybe there were no codes, no radio checks; maybe no helicopter would arrive earlier to investigate the radio blackout; maybe everything would still go according to plan, and he could rescue the Petroffs.
Nonsense, Chant thought, and hissed with frustration.
But the genie was already out of the bottle; he’d attacked Feather, killed a guard
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