It appeared today would not be that day, however. She plugged in the iron and held it by its cracked handle as she stood directly in front of her captive. She said nothing, drawing out the moment.
The Russian wasn’t speaking, either. He was making an effort to control his fear but was failing. His shaking gave him away. His eyes darted around the room, doorway to Tracie to iron and then back to doorway, starting the cycle again.
Tracie raised her hand to her lips and licked her index finger, then tapped it against the business end of the iron. It emitted a short, sharp hiss. In the silence of the motel room it sounded like a staccato laugh. The lookout tried to remain impassive but she saw his eyes widen in fear.
She nodded. “Let’s begin, shall we? I’m sure you can guess what’s about to go down here. I’m not anxious to hurt anyone, but I need answers and I’m going to get them. One way or the other.”
The Russian was quiet, his jaws clamped shut. Tracie could see the muscles working behind his cheeks as he ground his teeth together. The tension in the air was electric. “You know,” she said, “it seems only fair I should start with you. It’s thanks to your sloppy surveillance that you and your buddy across the way are in this situation. He’s probably pretty unhappy with you right now, don’t you think?”
The lookout remained silent. He was stocky and muscular, like a football lineman, but his eyes gave away his terror. Tracie continued, “It doesn’t really matter, anyway. The only way I can be sure I’m getting the truth is to interrogate both of you, so if it makes you feel any better, your buddy will get his turn, too.”
Again the man refused to respond. Tracie shrugged and then snapped her fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot. I wouldn’t want you to accidentally bite your tongue off, at least not before giving me the information I need. It’s so hard to understand someone when he’s trying to talk with no tongue, especially when he’s not speaking his native language. Know what I mean?”
She walked into the bathroom and pulled the roll of toilet paper out of its ceramic holder. She removed the roll and took the metal cylinder out of the bathroom. She stood directly in front of her captive, moving close, invading his personal space. She held the cylinder out in front of him. “Last chance. You’re going to talk to me either way. The only question is how much pain you’re going to endure before you do.”
The man hesitated. “I…” Then he closed his mouth again.
Tracie shrugged. “All the same to me,” she said conversationally. “To be perfectly honest, after what you two did to the cop and the accident investigators up there in Bangor, I kind of prefer it this way.”
She leaned toward the lookout. “Open up.” The conversational tone had disappeared, replaced with an ice-cold, deadly menace.
He closed his eyes and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Tracie slammed the butt of her gun against the side of his head. He grunted in pain, stunned, and his jaw flopped open. She shoved the cylinder into place between his upper and lower teeth, then quickly slapped the base of the iron against the right side of his face, holding it there for one beat, then two, then three. It sizzled and the smell of burning flesh filled the room.
The man bit down hard on the toilet paper holder, convulsing against his duct-tape bindings like an electric current was pulsing through his body. He tried to lean away from the burning pain but she kept the iron pressed tightly to his head. An agonized sound, something between a groan and a wordless scream, issued from deep in the man’s chest, and when Tracie removed the iron, an angry red mark had been seared into his cheek, its curved triangular outline clearly visible.
He panted and moaned and shook his head. Tracie was unmoved. “Ready to talk?” she asked.
The man refused to respond and she lifted the iron to slap it back into place. He moaned in panic and began nodding enthusiastically. She removed the toilet paper holder from between his jaws and said, “I know about the plot to assassinate President Reagan. I know when the shooting will occur and that it will happen in D.C. What I don’t know is which rooftop your operative will shoot from. You’re going to tell me.”
The lookout raised his head, resignation in his eyes, and said, “Nyet…I cannot…” and Tracie cursed. “We don’t have time for this,” she spat, and forced the toilet paper holder back into the man’s mouth, and he mewled like an injured kitten. She slapped the iron against the left side of his face, but this time left it in place for twice as long.
When she finally removed it, the man sat in a puddle of his own urine, his bladder having released while he struggled. Tracie slapped the side of his face and the man opened his mouth to scream and she neatly plucked the holder out of his mouth once more. “One more time. Which rooftop?”
“The Minuteman Mutual Insurance Company building,” the man mumbled, his Russian accent magnified by the pain. Tears rolled down his crimson cheeks. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth. The smell of burning flesh filled the room and Tracie tried not to gag.
“Are you telling me the truth? Because if I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll burn your skin right down to the jaw bone. Do you understand me?”
The man was panting and shaking. Sweat poured down his face. “I understand,” he said weakly.
Tracie thought about Winston Andrews and about his betrayal of her, and another question occurred to her, one that didn’t bear any direct relation to the KGB assassination plot but one she could not help asking. “Was killing us part of the assignment?”
The man hesitated, but only momentarily. Tracie passed the iron in front of his right cheek and the man spoke quickly. “Yes…I mean, no…I mean it did not matter. Once it was learned you were still alive, the mission was to retrieve the letter at all costs.”
“And once you gained possession of the letter, what were you to do?”
“Take it to someone.”
“Take it to who?” She prodded him again.
“Mister Andrews,” he said.
She paused, thinking. “How many of your other operatives will visit this motel tonight?”
“None,” the man said, shaking his head in resignation. “There is a two-man team driving north from Atlanta, but they will not arrive in the area until tomorrow. They are meant only to provide backup.”
“Okay,” she said. “One last thing and then I’ll leave you alone. What’s the procedure for reporting in after you secure the letter?”
“After we retrieve the letter we are to phone our contact.”
“Comrade Andrews.”
“Da. We are to advise him of mission status and then begin driving back to Washington to deliver the letter to him in person.”
Tracie reached for the telephone on the writing desk. It was an ancient black rotary model, attached to the wall with a long cord so guests could use it without getting out of bed. “You’re going to make that call right now,” she said, holding the phone in front of him.
He recited the number and she dialed. It was different from the one she used to call Andrews, which made sense, she thought. The traitor down in D.C. would need to know which side of the fence he was talking to before he picked up any ringing telephone. Before she spun the plastic rotary dial on the final digit, she leaned down and got in the Russian’s face, moving closer and closer until she could smell his sour sweat and his rancid breath.
“One warning,” she said, her voice soft and deadly. “If I so much as suspect you are trying to pass a message to Winston Andrews — and I’ll know, I’ve worked with Andrews a hell of a lot longer than you have — getting burned by an iron will be the least of your problems. I’ll shoot you in the face and then dump your worthless corpse in the Atlantic Ocean. Do you understand me?”