Fear City

by F. Paul Wilson

  Sure enough, no more than twenty minutes later the Chevy reappeared, heading her way on Claremont. It then made a right onto West Side Avenue and roared south. She didn’t bother chasing it. She was going to be late returning to work as it was.

  What she needed was a map. Maybe her uncle Ferran had one at the bakery.

  8

  After spending an hour or better alone and facedown in the rack, Nasser heard La Chirurgienne and her dog return.

  “Here you go, Charlot. Have some more.”

  And then he was rotating again. He ended faceup, squinting into the surgical lamp again.

  “So,” she said. “You have presented me with a challenge. This does not cause anger or resentment in me. More like admiration, if you will. Because I am one who loves the challenge. I will confess that sometimes these interrogations get boring, at least for me. Mine rarely last more than twenty minutes. I spent most of the morning on you with no result. That, monsieur, is a challenge. You have energized me. I am feeling very much alive today.”

  Nasser wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this. No, he was quite sure he didn’t like it. He noticed her hanging a bag of clear fluid from a pole beside the frame. He liked that even less.

  “Like anyone else, I am left-brained and right-brained. The left side of my brain is my nociresearcher side, all science. My right brain sees the infliction of pain as an art form—how to maximize pain while minimizing tissue damage. To that end I have been developing certain neurotropic infusions.”

  She punched the end of a length of clear plastic tubing into a receptacle in the base of the bag.

  “I doubt you understand the neurophysiology of your blocking technique. It is probably something you were simply taught to do through intense coaching.”

  She was right about that. He had no idea how the Entungfer technique worked.

  “I shall explain what we scientists know: Certain lobes of your brain—the frontal and temporal lobes, plus an area call the amygdala—connect via a circuit to the brain stem that moderates the pain perception. The circuit, however, is bidirectional. That means it can be manipulated not only to reduce pain—as you are doing—but it can be reversed to enhance it.”

  He felt a faraway prick in his arm. He couldn’t move his head to look, yet he was pretty sure she was starting an intravenous infusion. But of what?

  Again, she seemed to read his mind.

  “Merely a saline drip, in case you are wondering.”

  She fussed at the counter to his right, then returned to view holding a syringe filled with amber fluid.

  “This is my own concoction. If it works, it will block your blocking technique and allow you to perceive the full brunt of the pain I am inflicting. If it does not, I have others I can try. You, dear man, are a perfect test subject.”

  She jabbed the syringe’s needle into an injection port in the tubing, then emptied the barrel into the flow. Nasser watched with dread as the amber fluid crept toward his arm. Unable to watch it any longer, he closed his eyes and waited.

  Slowly he became aware of a growing agony in his right arm.

  “I do believe you are feeling something, monsieur. The exposed portion of your brachial plexus must be quite painful. Excruciating, really. Even without stimulation.”

  He clenched his teeth against the pain and worked his Entungfer techniques harder to block it, but they no longer seemed effective.

  “You have broken out in a sweat. Let us test this further by applying a little current to the plexus.”

  He heard a faint buzz and it felt as if someone had ripped off his arm.

  Nasser al-Thani screamed into his gag.

  And behind that sound, muffled in the room but clear and loud in his ears, he heard La Chirurgienne say, “I do believe it is time to turn on the tape recorder.”

  9

  La Chirurgienne returned to the waiting room a little after three holding a sheet of paper.

  “Here are your questions, with his answers.”

  Jack shot to his feet. At last! “Who did it?”

  Her penciled eyebrows lifted. “Pardon?”

  “Who ordered her killed?”

  She consulted the sheet. “Someone named Roman Trejador.”

  “He’s on the list!” Jack said. “One of her regulars. Why?”

  She frowned. “That is a bit confusing. This Roman Trejador was concerned that she had overheard a plan to blow up the United Nations.”

  Burkes was on his feet now. “Are y’daft? Blowing up the UN?”

  “These are not my words, monsieur.”

  “Well, then, is he daft? Have you done something to the minger’s brain?”

  She lost a smidgen of her icy reserve. “Well, I did have to try an experimental infusion to break through his defenses. It worked, but he is somewhat confused … tends to ramble in his speech.”

  “Wait-wait-wait!” Jack was trying to wrap his brain around this. “This Trejador guy thought Cristin knew about a bomb plot and so he had her tortured and killed?”

  Dr. Moreau nodded. “According to your captive, Trejador—who is his superior in this plot—had hired this young woman for the evening and had her in his suite while they were laying their plans.”

  “Why on God’s earth do they want to blow up the UN?”

  “I didn’t ask that. I mean, you didn’t have it on your list and really”—she shrugged—“doesn’t everybody want to blow up the UN?”

  “Bloody hell not!”

  “Anyway, it is not them actually doing it. They are funding a group of fundamentalist Muslims who want to blow up Prime Minister Rabin—”

  “Rabin?” Burkes said. “As in Israel?”

  “I do not know of another Prime Minister Rabin. Do you?”

  “All right. When is this supposed to happen?”

  “During his visit on Friday.”

  “Friday? Which Friday?”

  She shrugged. “The day after tomorrow, apparently. Isn’t this exciting?”

  “It’s bollocks is what it is! If Rabin was visiting, I’ll bloody hell know about it!”

  Another shrug, accompanied this time by pursed lips. “I am but relating to you what he told me.”

  “It’s still bollocks!”

  “Hold on,” Jack said. “I was talking to the sister of a crazy Moham”—he’d almost let a little Bertel slip through there—“Muslim who thinks he’s up to something big—something serious.”

  “But blowing up the UN?”

  “Why not?” Jack turned to Dr. Moreau. “Did he mention a Senator D’Amato?”

  She consulted her notes. “Oui. He will be there with Prime Minister Rabin.”

  “There you go,” Jack said. “Two guys on the top of any jihadist hit list—probably even ahead of Bush. And they’ll both be in one spot right here in the city. How can the crazies resist?”

  “But I’d have heard,” Burkes said, reddening.

  “Maybe it’s a secret trip.”

  “We have excellent relations with Mossad. Even with a secret trip, they might not have offered details, but they’d have asked us to be on extra alert for anything regarding Israeli interests. Did al-Thani say why he’s coming?”

  “To meet with the Secretary General.”

  Burkes grunted. “Boutros-Ghali? Well, he’s another who’s no favorite of the radicals, now, is he?”

  Jack said, “Sounds like a big bomb in the right place would give them a triple play.”

  “This is all damn bloody strange,” Burkes said. “I’m going to have to do some asking around.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Jack said, remembering his answering machine.

  “Now what?”

  “That Bertel fellow I told you about—the one you say you don’t know.”

  “I still say I don’t. But what about him?”

  “I’ve been helping him watch a mosque—the one where we tracked al-Thani yesterday. He left me a message Monday night about coming across something big—too big for us to handle. He said he wa
s going to disappear for a day or two, then return with help.”

  “Help from where?”

  “He didn’t say. But that ‘something big’ could be a bomb. He may have found proof.”

  “This is too crazy.” Burkes turned to Dr. Moreau. “We need to speak to him straight off.”

  “I’m afraid he’s temporarily … incapacitated.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “The ordeal of the interrogation, the infusion … he will be unconscious for a while. But I taped it all. You can listen for yourself.”

  “Let’s do that,” Burkes said. “Let’s bloody well do that. And while we’re listening, good doctor, I have a candidate for your IV procedure.”

  “You mean someone other than Monsieur al-Thani?”

  “Yes. Al-Thani will get his soon enough. I’m calling my man at our safe house. He’ll bring your new candidate.”

  Jack wasn’t following the rest, but knew that “candidate” had to be Reggie.

  “Bon,” she said. “But you do understand this will require an extra fee.”

  Burkes stepped closer and jabbed a finger at her. “No, it won’t. This is less than satisfactory. You’ve messed up the brain of a subject we brought to you. That wasn’t part of the job description. You will make up for that deficiency by performing IV on a second captive—gratis.”

  She blinked in surprise, obviously unused to people getting in her face like Burkes. But she didn’t look terribly put off by the idea.

  “And there will be no mention of…”

  “Al-Thani becoming ‘incapacitated’ under your guidance? No.”

  “Very well.” She smiled and walked away. “I shall await his arrival.”

  “‘IV’?” Jack said. “Like a needle? Like death from lethal injection? Reggie deserves more than—”

  “With La Chirurgienne, ‘IV’ means Infernum Viventes.”

  “Still no help.”

  “It’s Latin.” Burkes’s grin was not a pretty thing. “It means ‘Living Hell.’”

  10

  “You’re probably wondering why I called you two here today,” Tony C said from behind his desk.

  Vinny thought he’d heard that line before—a movie, maybe? Anyway, yeah, he was wondering why he was standing here with Tommy in the back office of Tony’s appliance store when he had business to attend to. But when your capo called, you came.

  “Vinny,” he went on, “I know your junkyard’s going real good, but I want your help on something.”

  “Sure, Tony.”

  “For the past week, Tommy here’s been doing a great job putting my money back to work.” He looked at Tommy. “How much we got out now?”

  Tommy said, “Just over forty Gs.”

  His voice sounded funny—low and mean, like he wanted to be here less than Vinny.

  “That’s pretty damn good,” Tony said, nodding. “Pretty damn good. And none of them too big.” He stopped nodding. “Except one.”

  Tommy glared at him. “Hey, if you’re talking about the towel-heads—”

  “I am talking about the towel-heads. Ten grand?”

  Yeah, Vinny hadn’t liked that one either. Coupla shifty-looking mooks. Up to him, they wouldn’t have got a freakin’ dime.

  Tommy wasn’t budging. “You’re the one sent me to them.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t tell you to lay ten grand on them.”

  “Then maybe you shoulda fucking told me that before you sent me out!”

  Tony gave him a look, like, You kiddin’ me?

  Vinny knew what he meant. Tommy had a chip the size of Staten Island on his shoulder. Where’d that come from?

  Tommy took a breath. “Don’t worry your ass about it, Tony. Like I told you last week, I laid it off on both of them. So that’s like really only five grand apiece. I know they both got jobs—I checked myself—and I know where they both work.”

  “I know what you told me, but we ain’t collected any vig yet.”

  “Not due till tomorrow.”

  Tony banged a bony fist on his desk. “What? You think I’m senile or something? I fucking well know that! And I want you to know that I am concerned about the first vig payment. If we get that without any excuses or bullshit, it’ll be a sign they ain’t total-ass deadbeats and I’ll feel better. If you gotta go chasing ’em, it’s on your ass.”

  “Hey, now—”

  Tony karate-chopped the air. “No excuses.”

  Much as he liked to see Tommy squirm, Vinny couldn’t call this fair. Tony had pushed to get his money out there working for him, and so Tommy had done just that, but now Tony was hedging his bets.

  Vinny, though, wasn’t about to say squat. This was between those two.

  “But I ain’t without consideration,” Tony added. “To make sure you get maximum results, I’m sending Vinny along as backup.”

  Vinny was about to protest but Tommy beat him to it.

  “I don’t need no—”

  Another karate chop. “He’s goin’. Check him out. The would-be deadbeats take one look at Vinny and start reaching for their wallets.” He turned to Vinny. “I ain’t expecting somethin’ for nothin’. You’ll get somethin’ for your trouble.”

  Vinny forced himself to say, “It’s okay,” and leave it at that.

  No amount of beak dipping could compensate for a day spent driving Tommy around.

  Tony tapped his desktop. “Right here, this time tomorrow: all the vig on my forty Gs. Got it?”

  Vinny saw Tommy reach into his jacket like he was going for his gun. He couldn’t be serious. But his eyes had an insane glint that made him look capable of anything. His hand paused, and then he scratched his chest and brought it out.

  Whoa. For a minute there …

  He turned his thoughts toward tomorrow. Who knew? Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe everybody’d have their vig ready and he’d be done with Tommy in a couple hours.

  Somehow Vinny didn’t see that happening. Like looking out at a calm ocean on a clear sunny morning and knowing, just knowing you’d be better off staying on shore that day.

  11

  “See?” said the woman with her French accent. “It is out.”

  The bloody barbed tip of the arrow floated into Reggie’s field of vision. His head was fixed, allowing him to follow it with his eyes only, but he recognized it as one of his own. She’d injected his neck with some hellishly painful stuff that was like torture going in, then she’d gone to work on the arrow.

  “I used local anesthesia,” she went on, “because I did not want you moving while I was extracting the tip. One jerk at the wrong time and poof! you are gone. But that is the last anesthesia for you.”

  “But I’m okay?” he said in a steam-leak voice that wasn’t his, was barely a voice at all.

  She laughed. “Well, no, you are not ‘okay.’ It severed your left recurrent laryngeal nerve, which is why you have so little voice. And you were very dehydrated. But I am fixing that now.”

  Once they’d tied him to this metal … whatever it was, she’d hooked up an IV and started pumping him full of “sugar water,” as she called it. Had to admit he was feeling better. And fucking-ay good to know that arrow was out.

  But the big question remained: Why? It had looked like they were going to let him just fade away with that arrow in his neck. Now they’d had a surgeon remove it. What was going on?

  Suddenly the table or rack began to tilt to his left. It kept on tilting but he didn’t roll off because of the straps binding him. It stopped when he was facing the floor. He felt the fabric of his shirt tear across his upper back.

  “Let us see if you are branded. Ah, bon. You are not. Charlot has had enough snacks for today.”

  What the fuck—?

  “We shall proceed. Allow me to explain what will follow. I do not know what you did to so anger your captors, but it must have been something terrible, for they have requested that you undergo the Infernum Viventes procedure. Well, to be precise, it is not a proc
edure. Rather a suite of procedures.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I am so glad the arrow cut that nerve. I don’t have to worry about you screaming.”

  Scream? Oh, no! What was she saying?

  “Here is what will happen. You have five senses—sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. The IV procedures completely eliminate sight, sound, and taste, and ninety percent of touch. It leaves you with only your olfactory sense. Why leave smell? you ask. You will find out.”

  Reggie’s scream wasn’t a scream at all.

  “Now,” she said. “The first to go is touch. To accomplish that, I am about to sever your spinal cord at the fourth-cervical level. Why that particular level, you ask? American medical students use a little rhyme to help them remember the functions of the nerves springing from the spinal cord in the neck. Part of it is, ‘Three, four, and five keep the diaphragm alive.’ If I cut above the C-four level—and by C-four I do not mean the explosive—you will require a respirator, which I do not have, and you will die within minutes. So I leave you with C-four and up so that you can still work your diaphragm and breathe. You will also be able to turn your head and perhaps shrug your shoulders. But that is it. You will lose all sensation and movement from there down. Not a finger, not a toe will you ever feel or move again.”

  “No. Please no.”

  “But we do not stop there. C-four quadriplegics can often use an electric wheelchair with chin or sip-and-puff controls. But what good is a wheelchair when you are blind? That is correct: In the second procedure I shall remove your eyeballs—enucleation, we call it—and cauterize the stumps of your optic nerves. Then I shall destroy your middle ear and damage your cochlea with cautery to leave you not only permanently deaf but with a persistent case of vertigo. Then I shall sever your other laryngeal nerve and cut out your vocal cords. Lastly, I shall remove your tongue to deprive you not only of taste, but any chance at speech as well. All without anesthesia, I am afraid.”