Crooked River

by Douglas Preston

  “My poor boat,” he said.

  Constance laid a hand on his forehead. It was clammy. He would be going into shock.

  “Get my cell phone out of my pocket,” he said. “I’ve got to make a call.”

  She reached in and took it out of his slicker pocket. It was smashed to pieces and dripping water. He fished a flashlight out of his other pocket and turned it on.

  “Oh shit. What about your phone?”

  “Gone.”

  “Looks like we’re out of commission.”

  “You’re out of commission,” said Constance. “I’m still in commission.”

  “You?” He groaned. “What are you going to do now?”

  Once again, in a swift movement Constance unsnapped his gun from the holster and slipped it out.

  “What the hell do you plan to do with that?”

  “It’s going to prove more useful than a stiletto.”

  “You can’t go in there alone. It’s suicide. We need to get out of here and call in a massive raid. Which is what we should have done in the first place.”

  Constance tucked the gun into her waistband, saying nothing.

  “Constance, please listen to me. There’s no way you can do this without getting killed. You’ve got to get help. Call Pendergast’s boss at the FBI, what’s his name, Pickett.”

  Constance tightened his slicker around him, making the chief as comfortable as possible. Then she stood up and stared at the lights of the facility rising above the trees. “We’ve been over this before, and there’s no more time. Pendergast is in that compound. If you call in a raid, they’ll kill him. I’m going in alone.”

  “No.” A pause of disbelief. “No, no, that’s totally insane.”

  “I’m sorry to leave you. I expect you’ll survive.”

  “Constance, I beg you for your own sake not to go in there.”

  Without giving any indication she’d heard him, she turned and slipped into the trees, heading for the complex. Perelman’s protests were quickly lost in the sound of wind and rain.

  61

  WEARING THE RAIN slicker and hat of the guard he had killed—the coat unpleasantly sticky inside with blood, the outside washed clean by rain—Coldmoon observed the archway leading to the interior courtyard. The second checkpoint was manned by multiple guards and bristling with cameras. There was no way he could get through that.

  There were other doors in the building’s long façade. He crossed an open area, walking calmly and deliberately, hoping that from a distance he looked unremarkable. He arrived at a walkway along the perimeter of the building. The doors in the façade were locked, with no handles on the outside, but as he reconnoitered, he saw a guard exit one of the doors near the far end of the building, then turn and walk away, his back to Coldmoon. He headed in that direction and paused in an area of darkness just short of the door, wondering if anyone else would come out. The lights from the tower roamed over the outer area and the wall but didn’t seem to stray along the façade itself.

  He waited. He hoped to God that where one person came out, a second person might as well. He waited and waited and then—in a paroxysm of frustration—decided this was a waste of time. He needed another plan to get in.

  At the corner of the building stood a heavy copper drainpipe, carrying rainwater from the roof and directing it away from the building into a concrete drainage ditch. He examined the pipe closely. Every four feet, heavy brackets held it in place against the cinder-block wall; he could use those brackets as hand- and footholds for climbing. There was a narrow ledge along the second floor he could get onto from the pipe—and the windows on the second floor were unbarred.

  However, he would be totally exposed while climbing, a dark figure moving against the beige façade. At least he’d be partially cloaked by the gusting rain.

  The odds weren’t great, but he figured he was unlikely to get any better ones.

  He walked along the building façade until he reached the bottom of the pipe. Glancing around, he saw people at the main gate, a few guards walking here and there, and—goddamn it—the tower with its roaming spotlights. But everyone seemed hunched against the rain, hurrying along. His chances were not bad…as long as nobody went out to relieve the guard whose throat he’d cut.

  He grasped the pipe and swung up, finding a foothold on the bottom bracket and grabbing the one above. The rain made the metal slippery. As he climbed, he could hear the water thrumming through the pipe. Reaching up to the next bracket, he hoisted himself up, then up again. One slip sent his heart rate soaring, but he dangled for only a moment by his hands before he was able to find fresh purchase for his feet. In a few minutes he had reached the ledge. Leaving the pipe, he crept along it toward the first window. Thank God, fear of heights was one phobia he didn’t have. But now he was absurdly exposed—anyone even glancing up in his direction would see him. And yet, nobody glanced; they just hustled along, heads down against the rain.

  He crept to the window and peered inside. Beyond was a bleak corridor, brightly lit—and empty. It was an old casement window, with the latch inside.

  Using the butt of his Browning, he broke the window as quietly as he could, knocked away the shards of glass, reached inside, and lifted the lever to unlatch the window. He wrestled it open and forced his body through the narrow opening. Once inside, he quickly shut the window.

  The corridor ran about fifty feet before turning right. As he waited, he heard footsteps rapping on the linoleum floor. He sprinted forward as quietly as possible, then flattened himself against the corner.

  Almost immediately a guard came around; Coldmoon tripped him while bringing his knife into position, and the man fell onto it, Coldmoon slashing upward and cutting his throat. With a gurgle, the man fell to the floor. Coldmoon paused to look around the corner. Empty.

  Crouching, he rapidly searched the guard, pocketing a magnetic key card and a Beretta 9mm pistol. He pulled off the soaked hat and shirt he was wearing, took the guard’s shirt, belt, and waist pouch, and put them on. Hiding the body as best he could, he moved fast along the second corridor, then took another branching corridor that he figured headed toward the interior of the building, where the tower block was. He passed a couple of workers, but he kept his head down and they were busy with their own business and didn’t take notice.

  The corridor ended in a locked door with a porthole window. He looked through and made out a large open space, with what looked like cells on either wall. He could hear muffled sounds: voices, cries, yelling, sobbing—classic prison sounds.

  When he held the guard’s magnetic key to the plate, the door clicked and the lock went green.

  He pushed it open, the sounds louder now. Reaching an initial row of cell doors with barred windows, he stopped to peer in. Each cell held three or four people—to him, they looked Central American—men and women, all wearing hospital gowns. And those same green shoes. They were filthy and neglected, their beds consisting of plywood boards without mattresses. When he looked in, they shrank from him in fear.

  “Lo siento de verdad,” he said, getting blank stares of terror in return. “Soy un amigo.”

  No reaction: just silent, frightened faces.

  Coldmoon backed away from them and turned, heading toward the exit at the far end of the hall. There was nothing he could do for them now, he thought as he hastened away. He had to keep his mind on the main focus; this horror, however reprehensible, would have to wait.

  But then he paused at the barred window of the last cell. There were three men inside, wearing loose hospital gowns and the same green footwear.

  “Hola, amigos.”

  They stared at him suspiciously.

  “I’m a friend,” he continued in Spanish. “I’m here to help you.” He removed his FBI badge and showed it to them.

  The men looked at each other. Finally, one approached the door. “Yes?”

  “Are any of you gentlemen from San Miguel Acatán?”

  A suspicious silence.
>
  “I’m a friend of the Ixquiac family.”

  This produced a huge reaction. “Ixquiac?” All three rose and crowded around the window.

  Coldmoon placed his finger to his lips. “Quiet. Very quiet now.”

  They nodded.

  “I need information,” Coldmoon went on. “What is going on here? What are they doing to you?”

  They all began speaking at once and Coldmoon pointed to the closest person. “You speak. How did you get here?”

  The man told of the journey from Guatemala across the border into Mexico, meeting with the coyote, the journey to the U.S. border and across—then getting suddenly herded into trucks at gunpoint and driven to this godforsaken place. It was basically the same story Coldmoon had already heard from the coyote’s lips.

  “What are they doing to you here?” he asked the man.

  “I don’t know. Experiments.”

  “What kind of experiments?”

  The man shook his head. “They took our clothes and gave us these. At first, we lived in a dormitory. Then they took us and moved us into these cells. Everyone was given a number.”

  “When was this?”

  “Five weeks ago. Maybe six. That was the time of the first experiment.”

  “The first?”

  “Yes. Every ninety minutes during that experiment, they would come to take someone new. Someone from the last cell. When the last cell was empty, everyone moved up a row.”

  “You’re in the last cell now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were they taken?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And when did they come back?”

  “They never came back.”

  “You don’t know what happened next?”

  “Once, we saw bodies wheeled by. Mutilated bodies. And there were rumors. Rumors of torture. Of a drug that makes you crazy.”

  “How long did this experiment go on?”

  “Off and on for two weeks.”

  “And after that?”

  “Nothing. Except now, they have just begun another experiment.”

  “A second?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many more have they taken?”

  “Only one so far.”

  “From this cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “When are they going to take the next one?” Coldmoon asked.

  “Any moment. They are already late.”

  Shit. “Who’s it going to be?”

  The man paused, then pointed to one of the other two. “Luís. They go according to the numbers.”

  Coldmoon stared at the man named Luís. He was tall and thin, about fifty, with dark eyes and—like the others—a haunted look. He was shorter than Coldmoon, but not by much.

  “I’m coming in,” said Coldmoon. “Move back, please.”

  Coldmoon took out the magnetic key and held it to the plate in the door. With a click the light went green. He ducked inside, then turned to face the men.

  “I’m here to help you get free. But you need to do exactly as I say.”

  The men looked at each other for a moment. Then, in unison, they nodded.

  62

  THE SOLDIERS WHEELED Pendergast out of the lab, the general following. They passed through another door that led into a dimly lit observation room. It was empty except for a carpeted ramp up to a row of chairs facing the long window, which gave an expansive view of the laboratory.

  “Park him right in front,” said the general. He sat down next to Pendergast. “Ms. Alves-Vettoretto, sit over there, if you please. We’ll be comfortable here. As you can see, our view is unobstructed, and we’ll be able to hear what’s happening over the intercom system.”

  Pendergast watched as the orderlies wheeled the struggling Gladstone into the center of the room and placed her over a large drain in the tiled floor.

  He said, “General, I promise you one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You will not live to see the sun rise.”

  The general fluttered his hand as if waving away a mosquito. “No need for clichés. As Ayn Rand said, ‘Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads armed with nothing but their own vision.’ As an FBI agent you are a mere cog in the status quo, a participant in the feckless bureaucracy known as the United States government, designed to impede such men as Rand spoke of.”

  “Which would be you, of course.”

  The general smiled. “I have a few preparations to attend to, so I will leave you here, Mr. Pendergast, as a witness. And of course Ms. Alves-Vettoretto will remain: she has been asking to observe this for some time.”

  The woman nodded.

  “The guards will stay, as well. Just to make sure nothing untoward occurs.” He turned and barked out an order. “Corporal, go fetch a parang, freshly sharpened, and bring it to the lab. Smartly.”

  A soldier saluted, then exited.

  The general smiled at Pendergast. “In our testing, we supplied the subjects with all kinds of weapons: sharp, dull, pieces of metal, saws—the sorts of objects that might be close at hand to someone seized with BIID. Sometimes they would botch the job, with the kind of results you can imagine. A razor-sharp parang is the most compassionate instrument under the circumstances. Normally our subjects simply bleed to death or are put out of their suffering, but in this case we’ll give Dr. Gladstone emergency medical care to save her life.”

  “How humane of you.”

  “And now, I will take my leave.”

  Pendergast turned his attention to the window. Gladstone was in the middle of the lab, above the drain, still immobile in her wheelchair. She looked utterly terrified. The doctor was standing to one side, an eager look on his face, with the two orderlies on the other, waiting. Once again the doctor removed and cleaned his glasses.

  Pendergast turned his face toward Alves-Vettoretto. The woman returned his look with a cool one of her own.

  “Isabel, you’ve made quite the journey. The last time I saw you was in a most elegant New York office, where you were counselor to a wealthy entrepreneur—now deceased, alas. How interesting to find you here, deep in the swamps of Florida, surrounded by a band of mercenary soldiers.”

  The woman merely arched her eyebrows.

  “I see you are following your own excellent advice in not conversing with me. Even so, I hope you won’t mind if I say a few words.”

  No response, save to look away.

  Pendergast went on, his voice gentle. “I can’t help but admire you. You are the ultimate survivor.”

  Still no response.

  “I imagine you must have experienced a serious betrayal at some point in your career,” he said quietly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have expected you to adopt the general’s views.”

  She stroked her pearls.

  “I made a mistake back there, however, in saying you were military. I think ‘government’ would be more accurate. Most likely CIA.” He peered at her with curious intensity. “Iraq?”

  Her lips tightened.

  “I can guess how it went. They were all killed, weren’t they?”

  No reaction.

  “You were a good handler. I imagine you became quite close to them and their families.”

  She stroked her pearls again, this time with a faint nervousness.

  “They learned to trust you, and you them. But when the U.S. pulled out, ISIS moved in and killed all the operatives and informants—along with their families. It’s an old story.”

  “How do you know this?” she finally asked in a low voice.

  “You tried to save them,” he went on. “But they were abandoned by the administration, refused the promised exit visas. This is the source of your disillusionment.”

  Now she turned to him. “If you don’t stop playing Svengali, I’ll have the soldiers gag you, as well.”

  “And no one in the CIA was willing to help. They told you, It’s war. People die. I heard similar words, once upon
a time in a former career.”

  “So what?” Alves-Vettoretto said with sudden vehemence. “People do die in war. End of story.”

  “In the great sweep of history, those lives hardly matter. That’s what you were told—correct? Warfare is about winning and losing. Morality should never be a factor in warfare.”

  “Of course it shouldn’t,” she said. “The goal is to kill.”

  “Which brings me to this weapon of yours,” said Pendergast. “It is, in its own way, admirable in its simplicity. Its capacity to leave the infrastructure intact…if a bit sticky.”

  “What’s the difference between a land mine blowing an enemy’s leg off, or forcing them to chop it off themselves?”

  “Both are equally appalling.”

  “That’s right, and it’s gross hypocrisy to pretend to be horrified by this drug, when war itself is all about killing, burning, and maiming. You think this is somehow less humane than napalming a village, burning everyone alive?”

  “Napalm is certainly as cruel, if not more so.” Pendergast’s voice was calm, almost hypnotic.

  “So why not cooperate? I’m only here because this drug is going to end warfare as we know it.”

  “That’s what Alfred Nobel said when he invented dynamite. But you overlook one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “You can choose not to participate in the cruelty of war.”

  “You mean, be a pacifist? Now, there’s a lame philosophy if ever there was one.”

  “An individual doesn’t have to be a pacifist to oppose the stupidities of war. You, for example. You have the choice to opt out. You don’t have to be here, in this room, observing this depraved act of cruelty.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not making any headway with me, Pendergast, so save your breath.”

  A muffled sound came from Gladstone, a moan as she tried to speak with the gag on. And then another. She was starting to twist in her bonds, snorting, moaning, shaking her head. He could see her eyes had changed. They were wider, deeper, and they carried an odd, chilling look.

  “In that case,” Pendergast told Alves-Vettoretto in a low tone, “you’ll find the next half an hour most instructive.”