“Do you wish to die, Artie?”
Beeman slurred in reply, his nostrils clogged with coagulated blood. “Death is inevitable.”
“Do you fear pain? Or do you enjoy it?”
“Why do you ask?”
When a subject answers a question with question, it was a sign the drugs had not fully taken effect. Kim looked at his watch. It had been twenty minutes since the injection. He would give it a while longer before considering an additional dose. “I am simply curious.”
“Yes, I know you are. A very curious fellow.” Beeman giggled softly.
“As are you,” Kim whispered into Beeman’s ear. “What are you curious about, Artie? What is it you wish to learn?”
After a deep sigh, Beeman intoned, “The knowledge of death.”
Kim paused, now more confident of his path into Beeman’s psyche.
“The knowledge of death,” Kim repeated thoughtfully. He drew deeply on his cigarette. This man was truly a rarity—an absolute, utter psychopath. Kim had supervised and conducted the brutal, violent interrogations of many men and women. He’d seen human beings succumb to pain and fear. He’d watched trained soldiers beg frantically before falling into hysteria and shock.
None of the truisms of interrogation applied here; Kim knew that Beeman feared neither pain nor death. Hypnosis would not affect him; drugs sufficient to open his mind would put him completely under. He would not succumb easily.
It was not a matter of courage. It was something else—a mental sickness akin to what Kim had seen in the devoutly religious, but stronger. In Beeman’s case it was not a question of having the willpower to resist the horror of interrogation but rather a willingness to experience it. Beeman simply did not care, for he would embrace whatever came.
Or so Kim thought.
What drives this man?
“I take it you would find a quick death to be a disappointment,” Kim said, breaking the silence as his cigarette smoke swirled upward through the slats of light that splashed across his shirt.
“I would not find a quick death to be anything,” Beeman said, his voice a childlike murmur, as though talking to himself, working out a problem. “If the act of dying is sufficiently truncated, there is nothing to experience.”
“And what of pain?”
“Pain is pain. But pain does not carry knowledge.”
“And what does?”
“The architect of death.”
“And that is you?”
“No, not only me.” Beeman’s voice was monotonous and empty of emotion. “I don’t know who or what it is. The creator of death, which is the creator of life. The creator of death is the source of all life.”
“Is that God?” Kim asked. The man’s pedantry was becoming tiresome.
“It is a mind of sorts, which resides where the predator and the victim consciously share the experience of death. That experience remains in the awareness of the creator.”
Kim juggled these ideas, seeking a common thread of logic.
“And that is why you have the women?”
“That is why I have the man,” Beeman corrected. “The women are for dying. The man is for me—to forge into a creator.”
Kim sat silently for a moment, contemplating what he was learning and how it would translate into the kind of reliable knowledge Young demanded. It confirmed there was more to this man than a sadist with an unrestrained libido. Kim had traction now. A few more milliliters of serum might be appropriate.
He gestured to Chul for the kit. As he was unzipping it, Beeman spoke.
“Please, no more drugs.”
Kim ignored him and worked the needle of the syringe into the vial.
Beeman shook his head. “That isn’t necessary.”
Kim was intrigued; he’d not expected Beeman to show any evidence of obedience, to plead or submit. The threats of prison, torture and death had no discernible effect on the man, but now he was pleading to avoid a second dose of a mere injection. Interrogation was more art than science, as he’d learned at the Beong-shik Academy outside Pyongyang, where most of the DPRK elite-echelon operatives live and train for years before being sent abroad. What opens one mind will break another and bore yet another.
Kim turned to Chul and Pak, snapping an order in Korean. “Bakeseo gidalisibsio.”
The men nodded respectfully and stepped outside.
Kim held the syringe in front of Beeman’s face. “What are you saying?”
“Drugging me is not the way to get what you want.”
Kim knew at that moment that he had been correct when he’d predicted that the only way to control Beeman was to use methods other than the traditional ones, such as coercion and bribery. He did not fear the drug but rather the loss of control over his faculties, which was not a practical sword to hold over his head, for without his faculties he was useless to Kim. Beeman’s response fit Kim’s evolving psychological model. But was Kim correct in predicting that Beeman might steal the virus and technical data, and defect voluntarily, merely to see his weapon devastate a large population? And even if he claimed he would do so, how could Kim be sure Beeman would follow through rather than engineering a clever betrayal?
Could they trust this man?
Of course not.
But what choice did they have?
Beeman felt the drug wearing off as though a hard wax that was now melting away had encased his mind. His arms and wrists were numb; he was concerned about the possibility of nerve damage if he couldn’t restore blood circulation to them soon. An electric tingling rampaged throughout him, a pins-and-needles itching with unpleasant waves of apprehension and claustrophobia. He wanted desperately to stand up and move about.
The drug is metabolizing, he thought. This will pass.
Kim was obviously deciding whether to drug him again or even whether to kill him. His power play with the car had been stupid and had backfired badly.
There were others at DataHelix with access to the virus and the technical data whom they could co-opt. That notion distressed him. His own death, in the abstract, did not trouble him excessively; for a long time, he had harbored a desire to die, but to die now, when he was so close to the fruition of his plans, would be unacceptable. He was panting, and his lungs felt congested. “I want my virus unleashed,” Beeman heard himself say. “And I will gladly help you do it.”
“You must realize,” Kim said, “that if you do help us, you will be at great risk.”
“I don’t care,” said Beeman, shifting his weight once again.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“Somewhat.”
Kim lifted the cuff of Beeman’s trousers and withdrew the man’s hunting knife; then he reached behind him to cut the plastic restraint. Beeman looked at his hands as Kim stepped back. They were purple, and there were deep grooves in his wrists where the tie wrap had bitten into the flesh, but there was very little bleeding. It had cut his skin in places, but the cuts were shallow. Beeman flexed his fingers slowly, looking at his watch. He checked his shirt. He expected to see large bloodstains, but there were none.
“Your discomfort will pass soon. The next hour will be unpleasant. We will leave you here with your car. Do not try to drive for a while.”
“How will I contact you?”
“I have the number for the phone at your cabin, and I have your cell phone number. I will call you within two days. If I do not, get the virus and the data and fly to Buenos Aires; stay at the best hotel you can find, under your own name, and wait for us to contact you.”
“Five million dollars, logistical support and a way to guarantee my future safety?”
“All of that, and much, much more, Dr. Beeman, if you serve us well.”
Beeman tipped his head back. “Fine. I look forward to our next meeting.”
“As do I. And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Be very careful. Do not speed. You mustn’t risk the police stopping you again. And keep Pessoa under control.”
“I don’t smoke, and I don’t speed, Mr. Kim.”
“Of course not, Dr. Beeman. You are a law-abiding citizen.”
An hour later, a man dressed in a Colorado State Patrol uniform picked cigarette butts from the dirt and deposited them into a clear plastic evidence bag. He had pulled Beeman and Kim over a while ago, but he was in fact a federal agent—call sign Skunk Two. He’d lifted fingerprints and DNA from Kim’s driver’s license and the butts, and he and his team had scoured other forensic evidence from the shed during the past month. He had a lot to add to the database the JTTF was building on the Wallies. His team would soon know more about the three DPRK agents—and hopefully the other members of their cell—than the North Koreans knew about Beeman from hacking DataHelix servers and other less secure federal databases. They had recently detected and monitored those penetrations, which was how the JTTF, FBI and NSA had discovered that the North Koreans had Beeman under surveillance.
Lastly, Skunk Two checked the hidden microphones. Then he departed.
He had a report to make before returning to the team’s concealed overwatch position. It was going to be another long, tense day.
Chapter 27
Jackie’s horrific screaming outside the window well had left Christie trembling with a horrible pain in her stomach. The sound was like nothing she’d ever heard. What had happened to her to make her scream in such abject terror? Was she still alive?
She froze when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She saw Jackie, still naked, guided by the older man to stand outside the door to the cage. Jackie’s vacant stare carried the echo of the horror she’d endured—whatever it was. Unlike Christie—covered in dirt and grime with her filthy hair pasted to her scalp—Jackie had obviously bathed, and someone had blow-dried and curled her hair. She had lipstick and eye shadow on her face, but her expression was utterly empty. Her eyes were dead.
What had she been through?
Would she be next?
Could she survive the ordeal without permanent psychological damage?
The older man unlocked and opened the cage and ordered Jackie to step inside and kneel on the mattress. She obeyed instantly, never looking at Christie, keeping her eyes downcast.
“I’ll be back for you soon, Kitten.” The man’s voice was a frigid whisper. “Don’t let your hair or makeup become spoiled.”
Christie’s heart pounded. “What have you done to her?”
The man smiled. “Made her pretty, and useful.”
Christie expected him to order her out of the cage, but instead he simply relocked the door and walked away. She heard him climbing the stairs. She knew it was only because he wanted her to; when he wished, he could approach in utter silence. She turned to Jackie and touched her on the shoulder. Jackie recoiled as if Christie had shocked her with a cattle prod, finally making eye contact with her for the first time. Her eyes were wide, and she had started hyperventilating. Soon a terrible keening whine accompanied each breath.
“Jax, honey, it’s okay. It’s just me, baby. Just me.” Although she wanted to hug Jackie and comfort her, Christie gave her space to regain her bearings. “I’m here for you, Jax. I’ll always be here for you,” she said soothingly.
Jackie knee-walked around Christie and grabbed a bit of toilet paper and gently dabbed her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara.
“I can’t cry!”
“Why not?” Christie asked.
“Because if I mess up my eyes, he’ll take them out!”
And with that, Jackie would say no more. She started hyperventilating and sat back on her heels, staring vacantly into space. She was somewhere else. Christie thought she might pass out.
Christie tried to force herself to focus. She felt guilty for not having been the one who had to go through whatever had happened to Jackie. She had to find answers to engineer a way out of the trap. She had little to hang on to, but she couldn’t let her mind wander down endless dark stairways that led only to hell. She thought of the Saw movies and the puzzle houses they’d inspired.
If I’m smart enough, we can get out. I can solve this puzzle.
The key was to notice everything—what had she missed?
Why did he leave me here? What is he doing with Jackie?
Of course, the man could come back at any time, but why had he chosen Jackie first? Was it because she was sexier, with bigger boobs? Christie’s intuition told her there was more. That man was darkly, sickly brilliant, so nothing was what it seemed. He had designed this kidnapping for more than just sexual assault. It was a psychodrama—an exercise in mental torture.
She thought of a story her father had told her one night over dinner. He’d been extolling the importance of studying the brilliant tactics of the great lawyers who’d lived before the age of computers, copy machines or even electric typewriters. He told her about a several-hour-long argument Clarence Darrow had made in the defense of two young boys who had kidnapped and killed Charles Lindburg’s toddler son.
They had called it a thrill-killing.
Killing for the thrill of it? How could something so nightmarish be a thrill?
Will they kill us for the thrill of it? Are they working their way up to murdering us? Toying with us first?
She realized that the difference between Jackie’s treatment and hers might not be a matter of randomly picking one girl to start with and saving the other for later. Something about Jackie drew their attention. Of course, there was her finer looks, overt sexuality and curvaceous figure. But when Christie watched the old man’s eyes, there was no hint of lust. This mysterious nightmare seemed targeted but not sexually driven—their nudity aside.
Maybe they know how much money Robert has. This may not be about me at all, especially if they don’t know how much money Dad has.
She felt guilty for wondering if they’d abducted her only because she’d happened to be with Jackie at that time. Then her mind spun a completely new lot of possibilities: perhaps they only wanted to play with Jax because she wasn’t the valuable hostage they thought Christie to be. Maybe they thought of Jackie as the expendable toy. Maybe they had planned different fates for each of them.
Don’t let your imagination run away. Consider possibilities, but don’t spin nightmares. Stick to what you know and what makes sense. Try a different question. Who are these men?
It was odd how different her two kidnappers were from one another. The older man was clearly very intelligent, the younger one evidently less so. A brilliant predator and a dull-witted pervert? One was in charge; the other obeyed. One was a cat, the other a mouse—like her and Jackie in a way.
We’re they all in orbit around the evil game-master?
Keep going, CJ. What else?
Somehow the younger man was part of the older man’s grand design, just as she and Jackie were, but he was outside the cage, free to leave whenever he wanted.
Or was he?
Maybe we’re holding him here somehow.
Her instincts told her all three of them were stuck in the web the older guy had spun. She doubted he was actually the younger man’s father. But what was the nature of their relationship? Was the younger man just a dupe, a puppet? Someone to take advantage of? If the older man could do it, maybe she could as well. The younger man might be the weak link.
Maybe she could influence him. Along with transient lust, he showed fear in his eyes. And loneliness.
“He says he will cooperate,” Kim said into the encrypted sat phone. He sat in the passenger seat while Chul drove, following Beeman’s car from a discrete distance.
“Congratulations,” Young replied snidely. “What is the likelihood he actually will?”
Kim was disappointed; he’d expected his superior to acknowledge he’d reached an important milestone. Kim was not a vain man; his superiors had selected him for missions of this kind precisely because he required minimal supervision and did not need emotional stroking to continue functioning in hostile territory. Nevertheless, he
felt a pronounced sense of deflation.
He decided to gamble. “I believe him, but I do not trust him. Prisoners make choices that free men discard. When his opportunities change, his goals may change with them. But for now, I sense he sees an opportunity and not just a threat. I believe we can tap into that, but we are far from secure.”
There was a long pause. Small hail pellets peppered the windshield and roof of the car, making a grinding noise the phone amplified in his ear as he strained to hear his overseer’s voice.
“Your scientist is more of a risk than an intelligence asset. He is insanely unpredictable by your own admission.” Kim winced at the accusatory tone of Young’s voice. “What you now propose is that we promise him a fortune and stand by helplessly while we wait for him to infiltrate the facility. This could take days—even weeks. After all, what’s the alternative? We can’t get into the facility; we need Beeman for that. But if he betrays us, he could be a hero. Is he toying with us?”
The line grew silent again, and Kim waited, listening to the hammering of hailstones, watching the trees roll past, their boughs swaying in the building mountain winds. The storm had intensified. His concentration lagged, and he realized his mind was wandering. The stress and fatigue were taking a toll. He realized he’d ignored his superior’s question.
Young moved to a new topic. “The hostages add an unnecessary element of complexity and needless danger.”
“Yes, but they give us some leverage and serve to keep Beeman occupied to some degree, holding him in place for now as we analyze and adapt to what we are learning. Respectfully, sir, I consider this an advantage.”
“You are mistaken. He’s dangerous, and his playthings make the situation much too volatile and far more hazardous than it needs to be.”
Kim was more than a little surprised at the turn the conversation was taking. It was a violation of operational security to use words like “hostage,” even on an encrypted line. The NSA possessed code-breaking supercomputers thought to be capable of intercepting even secure transmissions, and such trigger words could bring their conversations to the attention of human analysts. They were also to avoid words like “danger” and “situation.” What was Young thinking?
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