“Then why threaten us?” asked Sam.
“Because the information on your laptop will undoubtedly expose everything you did and said prior to your capture. What I want to know is what your people will do now. Your organization must have protocols for missing personnel. I want to know precisely what those are.”
Cardinal took a deep breath and then looked into Cypher’s ice-cold eyes. A shiver ran down his spine. He had no doubt the man would kill them with no more remorse than stepping on a bug.
“Very well. After thirty-six hours with no contact from us, we will be declared missing,” explained Cardinal. “Once that happens, the State Department will be notified. It will be up to them to contact the Mongolian government. As we are well past that time, I suspect that our embassy is already working with the Mongolian authorities to find out what happened to us.”
“Yes, of course, that all makes sense. What I want to know is what your friends will do when you are reported missing?”
Cardinal shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. No one has ever gone missing before.”
The look on Cypher’s face turned to rage. Quickly giving orders in Mongolian to the guard, in a flash, before Cardinal could react, the muscle-bound guard reached down, grabbed Cardinal’s right arm and then pulled it away from his body.
Blinding pain shot through Cardinal’s arm. It felt as if it were being pulled out of its socket. He had to grit his teeth to stop himself from yelling in pain.
“Please stop,” pleaded Sam, her eyes wide with fear. “We’ve truthfully answered your questions. There’s no need to torture Gordon.”
“Au contraire, Miss Chen, I have no doubt that you are still withholding information… information that I need.”
“He’s going to kill us no matter what we do. Tell him nothing,” said Cardinal through clenched teeth.
Fear and panic swelled up inside Sam. She couldn’t believe how helpless she was.
“Break his trigger finger,” said Cypher to the guard.
With an evil grin on his face, the guard reached over, grabbed hold of Cardinal’s index finger and then pulled back. Unable to hold back any more, Cardinal cried out.
The sound of bone snapping shocked Sam. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she fought to stifle a scream.
“Now his middle finger,” said Cypher.
“No, wait!” cried out Sam.
“Yes, Miss Chen?”
“They’ll come… they’ll come for us,” said Sam, lowering her head in defeat.
Cypher looked over at the guard. “Break it.”
With an agonizing cry on his lips, Cardinal felt his middle finger shatter. His heart raced his chest. Cold sweat poured down his face. He had never been in so much pain in his life.
“I answered you. Please stop,” said Sam, fighting back the tears.
“Now the third finger,” said Cypher.
Grabbing Cardinal’s third finger the guard looked over at Sam and smiled demonically.
“No, please, no more!” cried Sam.
With a smile on his face, Cypher sat back down behind his desk. His voice turned soothing. “That’s better. Now, Miss Chen, who exactly will be coming for you? Please tell me their names.”
20
Mitchell looked out the window of the MD-500 helicopter as it flew over the dark waters of the West Lamma Channel separating Lantau Island from Hong Kong Island. It may have been near midnight in Hong Kong, but to Mitchell it felt more like lunchtime. With a thirteen-hour time difference, it was going to take days for his body clock to reset itself.
Met at the airport by a member of the Satomi Corporation, Mitchell was whisked through customs and then driven to a secluded part of the airport where he boarded an all-white MD-500 helicopter. He had never been to Hong Kong and regretted landing in the dark. Even though he was there under far from ideal circumstances, Mitchell would have enjoyed taking in the skyline of one of the most densely populated cities in the world.
“Where are we going?” Mitchell asked the pilot.
“To a house in The Peaks, sir,” replied the pilot in flawless English.
“I’m not sure I know where that is.”
“It’s dead ahead,” said the pilot, pointing to the brightly lit island filling the front windshield of the helicopter. “It is an exclusive area on Hong Kong Island and is the most expensive place to live in the entire world. If you have thirty million dollars lying around not doing too much, you could buy yourself a small home there.”
Mitchell let out a low whistle, thinking about how much money must be in Hong Kong for people to afford to live like that. It was more than he would ever see in his lifetime.
“I heard that one house sold for one-quarter of a billion U.S. last year,” said the pilot.
“Good Lord, what a waste of money. Just think of what you could do with that kind of money.”
“I doubt billionaires think the same as ordinary people do, sir.”
“No, I guess not,” replied Mitchell, shaking his head.
A minute later, the helicopter began to gradually descend from the night sky. Mitchell tried to guess from about a dozen brightly lit buildings which palatial mansion belonged to Taro Satomi. Banking over, the pilot expertly brought the MD-500 in to land on the rooftop-landing pad of a tall high-rise overlooking Waterfall Bay. After thanking the pilot, Mitchell unbuckled himself and then climbed out of the helicopter. He kept his head low as he made his way under the beating helicopter blades toward two stone-faced men in navy blue suits, standing there waiting for him. As soon as Mitchell was clear, the pilot revved his engine and then slowly took off into the dark. For the trip, Mitchell was dressed in a navy blue suit with an unbuttoned white shirt.
“Passport please,” said one of the dark-suited men to Mitchell.
Handing over his passport, he wasn’t surprised to learn that both men were British. Ex-SAS soldiers were in high demand around the world for close-protection duties and from the determined look on the men’s faces, Mitchell was certain that these men knew their business. The one who had asked for his passport was quite tall. He had short, jet-black hair with deep, almost-black eyes that, like a hawk’s, always seemed to be looking about. His silent partner was short, with a smooth-shaven head and wide, muscular shoulders. He looked like he could easily bench-press three-hundred pounds without breaking out in a sweat.
After handing Mitchell’s passport back to him, the black-haired man led the way inside the building. They took an elevator down to the seventh floor. Mitchell followed the bodyguards down a long hallway until they came to a white door with a stylized golden dragon painted on it. Knocking on the door, the dark-haired man exchanged a couple of words with a man behind the door. A second later, the door swung open; standing in the doorway was another bodyguard. This one looked Japanese to Mitchell.
“Please, follow me; Mister Satomi is expecting you,” said the Japanese bodyguard, in perfect English with just the hint of a West Coast accent.
Mitchell stepped inside the luxurious apartment while the two British guards took up post outside. The apartment was set up European style with large French windows. It had white marble flooring and classical highly polished brass-style light fixtures. An eclectic mix of paintings from the 1930s adorned the walls. Walking through the expansive living room, Mitchell was escorted out onto the terrace. Outside, he could see a short, thin man in a dark gray suit with white hair quietly looking out over the bay.