Calypso Directive

by Brian Andrews

  Isabella began to tremble. “I don’t understand why you are doing this. I own a little wine bistro downstairs.” She began to stammer, “I, I, I, don’t understand what you could possibly want from me!”

  “I don’t think you were listening. It is very important that you listen to me. I ask the questions. You answer truthfully. Do you understand? These are the rules.”

  “Yes, yes, but, I have a question.”

  “Okay,” Raimond replied, exasperated. “One question.”

  “How do I know that you won’t kill me even if I answer your questions?”

  “Because, number one, I am a man of my word. Number two, because I am not here to kill you—I am here to gather information. Let us return to the rules one final time. I ask you questions. You answer them truthfully, and you live. If you choose not to answer my questions, or you lie to me, then you will be tortured until your slow and painful death,” Raimond expounded. “What is your name?”

  “Isabella.”

  “That was very good Isabella, you answered the first question truthfully. You are a very nice young woman, Isabella, with a long happy future ahead of you. If you cooperate, you can return to your wine bistro and you will never see me or my colleague again. If you do not cooperate, then I can make no such guarantee.”

  Isabella began to sob. She could taste fear in her mouth. Her throat was tight. Her heart pounded. She could not believe this was happening to her.

  Raimond maintained his station behind her. It was a technique he had developed by accident during an interrogation many years ago; it proved so effective, that he had used it ever since. First, he found it much easier to be brutal without having to look into the victim’s eyes. Second, the victim could not see his face. Pain sears powerful memories in the brain, and he did not want his face to be recalled. But most importantly, standing behind the victim seemed to magnify the terror of the experience more than any other technique he had experimented with. Over the years, he had learned that interrogation was like baking; it worked best when one followed a recipe. His recipe was two parts fear to one part pain.

  “Okay, let’s move on,” he announced casually. “Tell me, where can I find your roommate, Julie Ponte?”

  “Um, Julie?”

  “Yes, Julie Ponte. Where can I find her?”

  “I don’t know. Why? What do you want with Julie?”

  “Isabella, you have broken the rules. Now I am forced to have my colleague demonstrate what happens every time you break the rules,” Raimond reprimanded. Still standing behind her, Raimond grabbed her forehead and her chin and pulled her jaw open. Udo swiftly stuffed a balled up kitchen rag deep into her mouth. Isabella tried to scream, but the sound was almost completely muffled by the wad of fabric pressing against her tongue, checks, and soft palette. Udo then walked around to her left side. With his massive hands, he effortlessly peeled her clenched left fingers free from the end of the armrest. Before she knew what was happening, he gripped her left pinkie finger and snapped it like a fresh carrot at the knuckle joint. He released her broken finger at the angle he broke it—protruding ninety degrees to the side—for her to see.

  Isabella shrieked in agony, but the gag in her mouth deadened the volume and pitch of her wail to a level undetectable outside the apartment. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Isabella, I want you to listen very carefully. This is the best that you will feel during the rest of this experience. From now on, it only gets worse. Now, I am going to ask you some questions with the gag in your mouth. You are going to nod your head up-and-down for ‘yes’ and shake your head side-to-side for ‘no.’ Nod your head if you understand,” said Raimond.

  Isabella nodded her head, trembling. She stared off into space, averting her gaze away from her left hand.

  “Good girl. I am going to remove the gag from your mouth. If you scream, I will reinsert the gag, and break another finger. Do you understand?”

  Nod.

  “Are you ready to cooperate?”

  Nod.

  “Good. Let’s try again. Where can I find Julie Ponte?” asked Raimond. He then motioned to his brother to remove the gag.

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  Raimond was silent for several seconds, and then suddenly grabbed her forehead and chin. Udo stuffed the gag back into her mouth. Isabella shook the chair and screamed a muffled scream. He nodded at Udo.

  Udo gripped her left ring finger in his hand and twisted, snapping the bone between the second and third knuckles. Isabella shook the chair violently as tears gushed down her cheeks. Mucus was beginning to fill her nose and clog her throat.

  Raimond tenderly stroked her forehead and dark brown hair, like a lover would do. “Isabella, I am very disappointed in you. You’ve broken the rules again. This time you lied to me. Look at your fingers.”

  Isabella continued to sob and looked up at the ceiling, resisting the urge to see her mangled left hand. Raimond grabbed her face between both hands and jerked her head down.

  “LOOK AT IT!” he shouted.

  The power of his voice dominated her will, and she looked at her left hand, two of her fingers protruding at unnatural, oblique angles. She began to hyperventilate. The rag stuffed in her mouth exacerbated the problem, causing her to panic. The veins in her neck and forehead bulged. Her face flushed red.

  Raimond sighed. He pulled the rag out of her mouth and waited while she panted in terror, trying to catch her breath, sweat now pouring from her brow.

  “Isabella. Isabella, listen to me. This is not going very well. I’m going to ask you the same question again. This time, I want you to tell me the truth,” Raimond said to her. “Where can I find your roommate, Julie Ponte?”

  Isabella struggled to answer him in between sobs and gasps for air. “I told you . . . I don’t know . . . she left the apartment this morning . . . and she didn’t tell me . . . where she was going.”

  Raimond stood silently behind her. Udo watched Raimond, like a guard dog stares at his master, awaiting the order to attack.

  “I swear! I don’t know where she was going . . . she didn’t tell me . . . and I didn’t ask.”

  “Okay. I believe you. Was she alone or was she with someone? An American man perhaps?”

  Isabella paused. She had not betrayed Julie. Not yet. Now, he was forcing her to make a choice: self-preservation or self-sacrifice to protect a friend. She liked Julie, but she was not family. They had known each other not even two years. These crazy Germans would break all her fingers if she did not cooperate; she was certain of that. She had no choice; she had to look out for herself.

  “She was alone,” she said and could not believe the words as they came out of her mouth.

  Raimond nodded at Udo, who moved to stuff the rag back into her mouth.

  “Wait! No. You’re right. There was an American. He went with her,” Isabella blurted.

  Raimond nodded again, and Udo pressed the gag back into her mouth anyway. “Break another finger. She lied to me.”

  She wailed as Udo grabbed her middle finger on her left hand and broke it as he did the others.

  “Isabella, you are beginning to make me very angry. This is not a game. Do you understand? DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS IS NOT A GAME?” Raimond shouted in her ear.

  After giving her a few moments recovery, Raimond removed the gag.

  “I told you the truth,” she stammered.

  “But you lied to me first,” he said. “That is not a good strategy, Isabella. We are going to run out of fingers soon, and then I have to start breaking bigger bones.”

  Udo snorted happily; he quite enjoyed the middle portion of interrogations, and this one was no exception.

  The pain in her left hand was unbearable. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else beside the pain. Fear of pain consumed her now. Her will was broken. There was no chance she could persevere against these devils.

  “This American—what was his name?”

  “Bob. Julie said his name wa
s Bob,” Isabella answered nervously, watching Udo to see if punishment was forthcoming.

  “I believe you are telling the truth, but I believe Julie lied to you. Was he tall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he ill with fever or cough?”

  “No, he was not ill,” she panted. “Not that I could see.”

  “How much time did you spend with them?”

  “I only returned to Vienna this morning. I arrived at the apartment as they were leaving. I only spent a few minutes with them.”

  “What did they say to you before they left?”

  “Julie introduced him to me as her American friend who was in Wien on business. She said they were going out for a coffee. That’s all.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “What else can I say? I just met this man for the first time in my life. They left, and I unpacked my luggage.”

  “You’re hiding something. Tell me now, or my colleague breaks another finger.”

  “Sir, there is nothing else to tell!” Isabella begged.

  Raimond nodded at Udo who gagged Isabella and snapped her left index finger. This time he broke it to the right, opposite the others—a little variety to amuse himself.

  The intensity of the pain radiating from her broken index finger was more severe than the others and caused her to hyperventilate. Mucus flooded her nose and throat, blocking her airway. Her eyes bulged with panic; black curtains eclipsed her field of vision. She tried to cough and blow the mucus clear, but it didn’t work. The movement of her tongue only made her predicament worse, drawing the rag deeper into her throat. She was suffocating and powerless to stop it. Raimond let her writhe—to the brink of unconsciousness—before pulling the gag from her mouth.

  In between lurching gasps for air, she coughed and spat a thick and frothy mucous all over herself. It took several minutes, but eventually she gained control of her breathing and felt her wits returning to her. Her left hand was swelling and port wine-colored bruises flourished under the skin. Inadvertently, she looked at the mangled hand. The irregular angles of her fingers were grotesque. Nauseating.

  She vomited.

  A splatter of gastric juices and partially digested food painted Udo’s right shoe as he tried to jump out of the way. Angered, he slapped her across the mouth with an open hand. Blood trickled from her lower lip, and coated her white teeth with red.

  “You are evil, terrible men. Both of you. Devils,” she sobbed.

  Raimond smoothly caressed her hair again, which was now saturated with sweat.

  “Isabella? You are a very brave, very strong woman. But it’s time you stop this foolishness. What did Julie say to you when she left? What are you hiding from me?”

  Isabella sobbed and did not answer.

  Raimond waited for a moment and repeated the question.

  In between sobs, she said, “She told if anyone came by the flat looking for her . . . to tell them . . . that I had not seen her recently.”

  “Good. Very good, Isabella. What else did she say?”

  “Only that she needed some time alone with him.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “Did they take luggage with them? Like they were going on a trip?”

  “No . . . only a backpack.”

  Raimond rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I believe you are telling me the truth at last. I have only one more question before we go. Where can I find a picture of Julie?”

  Isabella trembled. “You know the answer to that question.”

  “I suppose I do, but I want you to tell me anyway. So you remember betraying your friend.”

  “Look in her bedroom, you’ll find pictures of her there,” she mumbled, her head down.

  Raimond wandered out of the kitchen and found Julie’s bedroom. He walked over and stood by the window. He checked the signal strength on his mobile phone and dialed Stefan.

  “We’re at Ponte’s apartment, but she’s not here. Do you have any ideas how we can locate her?”

  “Give me a little time and I’ll find Ponte for you. I’ll have my contact at Orange Telecom look up Ponte’s mobile number and ping her phone. With three towers pinging, we can easily narrow her position within a fifty-meter radius. But remember Raimond, we pay five hundred euros per ping, so I hope we’re making a big fee on this job,” Stefan replied.

  Raimond smirked. “Don’t worry about the fee. I’ve got that covered. You just worry about finding Ponte. Text me when you get the first triangulation.”

  “Ja, okay.”

  Raimond ended the call and walked over to Julie’s dresser. Neatly arranged in three rows, stood a variety of pictures, each mounted in a unique frame that complemented the mood and color palette of the photograph. His eyes darted from one image to the next as he methodically dissected her features, burning her face into his memory. A serendipitous encounter on the sidewalk, a backward glance in a crowd, or a glimpse in a passing car window . . . no matter how fleeting the opportunity, he would be ready. After several minutes, he chose a picture for the taking. Careful not to knock over any of the others, he selected a picture of Julie and Isabella hugging each other, laughing, and wearing silly cone-shaped birthday hats. He walked back into the kitchen and showed the picture to Isabella.

  “Remember this moment, because you may never see your friend again,” Raimond taunted, showing her the picture.

  Isabella began to sob. “Are you going to kill me now?”

  “I told you, we are not killers. And I am a man of my word. You cooperated—eventually. So you will live,” Raimond said. He then looked at Udo. “Let’s go.”

  Disappointed that the interrogation session was over, Udo let out an angry grunt, and then turned and shuffled toward the door. Raimond followed behind in silence, waiving goodbye to Isabella casually over his shoulder.

  “Aren’t you going to untie me?” she called out after him.

  Raimond laughed. “Brother, please go untie our little fräulein.”

  Udo turned and walked back into the kitchen. With the flick of his thumb he opened a stainless steel pocketknife, and cut free the duct tape that bound Isabella’s mangled left hand to the chair, leaving her other limbs held fast.

  “There, you are free,” Udo said to her. “Now, we really must be going. We have a date with Fräulein Ponte, and we don’t want to be late.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  PROFESSOR JOHANSEN SHOOK his head in disbelief. “What Vyrogen did to you violates the Hippocratic oath. It makes me ill. It is like a war crime, only you were not a soldier of any war.”

  “I think we may dealing with a different kind of war, Professor, but a war nonetheless. A war between powerful multinational corporations, fighting to bring the next blockbuster drug to market first. Will is an early civilian casualty of this war,” Julie said.

  “If what you are telling me is true, then I would agree. Please, Will, if you don’t mind, tell me what happened after the injections.”

  “After the first several rounds of injections, nothing happened. Then six weeks became twelve weeks, and the injections became much stronger. I started to become sick. I think they were ramping up the virulence factor on what they were giving me, you know, trying to find my body’s limit. They probably started with the common cold and ended with Yersinia pestis, but no matter how hard those bastards tried, they couldn’t break me. I always recovered.”

  Johansen was dumbfounded. The irony of the situation was profound. He had dedicated his entire career to researching the role of immunity mutations in bubonic plague pandemics. And now, seated in front of him was a man who appeared to possess the very genetic mutation he had theorized to exist. To discover and decode such a mutation could mean a universal cure for all disease. Except where he would offer the panacea to the world for free, Vyrogen wanted to pirate it. Control it. Make it exclusively their own. They would chop it up and sell a hundred variants to remedy a hundred different afflictions to maximiz
e their profits. But Will Foster had abandoned Vyrogen, and in doing so, stumbled upon him. Fate, it seemed, did have a sense of humor.

  “Professor, I have the Foster files you requested,” Johansen’s assistant said, standing in the doorway to his office.

  “Thank you. You can set the box on the table.”

  She did as he requested, looked at Will and Julie curiously, and then left the office without another word. Johansen picked up the Foster records and paged through them for a minute in silence.

  “Ah yes, now I remember,” Johansen said with a fine nostalgic tone to his voice. “This case dates back almost twenty years ago. It was one of my earlier investigations, only a few years after I decided to keep a genealogical database of epidemic survivors. As you can see, I used to store information in cardboard boxes!” The professor gently parsed through the contents of the tattered box with a smile on his face. He retrieved a small leather bound book and smiled broadly as he set it on the table. “I was looking for germs and I found a love story instead.”

  “What do you mean, Professor?” Julie asked.

  “This is a diary. It chronicles the hopes, dreams and fears of young woman who lived in Eyam, England during the infamous plague epidemic of 1665. I went to England specifically to research Eyam. It’s quite a famous little town in epidemiological circles, because it has such a unique plague saga.”

  Johansen stroked the closed cover of the diary and leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable. Julie looked at Will and smiled. The atmosphere in the office had softened considerably; Johansen’s story was something they all could use.

  “The story goes that in 1665, the town’s tailor ordered some fine fabrics from London. Unbeknownst to him, and to the rest of the town’s residents, the fabric that was delivered was infested with fleas, and the fleas were carrying the plague bacteria, Yersinia pestis. You see, at that time, London was suffering from recurring plague outbreaks. When the tailor opened his package, he released the infected fleas, and he was bitten. The tailor became infected and so did many others as the disease quickly spread through the town. Recognizing the severity of the outbreak, the town rector convinced the elders to do a most unprecedented thing; they enacted a mandatory quarantine of all the town’s residents.”