"Well, sit down, you'll be my guest. — My voice sounded cold and unhurried, — So, what's your name?"
"I will answer only in the presence of my lawyer," the interrogator simply mocked us, and Emanuel couldn't bear it: several blows flew into the interpol officer's nose area, which made the blood flow, and the tidiness turned into disheveledness.
"Yes, come on, Mr. Fanten. Understand, no one is coming. You'd better tell me, who did you take besides me?"
"Get me a lawyer first…," the lawman changed his speech to individual interjections from the aggression of Emanuel, who looked something like a dead Norman, beating everyone left and right.
After the battle, I continued my speech by taking a surgical scalpel from the table and waving it around: "All kidding aside. You realize what we're going to do to you if you sit there like this, waiting for a lawyer… No? Okay, you don't want to do it the easy way… Give him scopotolomine (a narcotic drug that makes the subject overly sociable, outspoken and complacent).
After administering the substance and after some time had passed, the investigator rambled, "Oooooh, and you know, I'm going to Hawaii with my wife in early September."
"Uh, what's your name?"
"José Fantin. Well, there, and there…" "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a special investigator…" "Very good."
"I want a third child. You know, I have two girls and I want a boy…" "What's your latest case?"
"Yeah, what's all this about work?! I'm sick of it! Enough! Stop working! I'm sick of it!" I got up from the chair, walked over to the victim and tapped him on the head: "I don't get it. What did you inject him with?"
Revidon looked a little puzzled, "Scopotolomine, as you said…" "Scopotolomine I saw him at the beginning, and at the end it was already amphetamine."
"I don't understand anything…"
"All right. When he wakes up, give him a mad cherry: let him rave until he gets out what we need."
"Where are you going?" "I'll be back soon."
I went to get a new outfit — the old one had blown up.
So, a cell phone, a Glock 26 again, four magazines for it, two fragmentation defensive grenades, a self-destruct bag, and a laptop (in all the
more or less large settlements we have so-called "arsenals", the size of which is determined by the size and degree of importance of the city (I was lucky to still have a Glock there), as for a cell phone and a laptop, they can, of course, be purchased legally).
5:25 p.m. Aug. 19.
"So, did you get out?" — I asked Emanuel, returning from replenishing weapons and equipment.
"He's a son of a bitch. — growled the listener of the ramblings," Talking about his wife, his kids, even how he went to school. Anything. Just not about work. Dog!" — he snapped and got into a fight with the half-dead investigator.
"Stop, it won't help." "No!!! It will help!!!!"
I pulled out a Glock, twisted the silencer off of it and fired it at the ceiling, "Calm down!"
The Frenchman calmed down.
"When you bring him to his senses, tell me. I'll be in the next room."
I stepped out of the room and settled into another to get some respite from all the out-of- control people surrounding me.
"Hello?" — came a steady and calm voice. "It's Faust. We need help."
"Where?"
"Montpellier, you know the place." "Target."
"Interpol's silent agent." "When?"
"Now."
"I'll be there at 8:00 p.m. your time. That's it."
Philip Ravani was on his way to see us. — is the best psychologist I've ever known. Skilled in hypnotizing, neuro-linguistic programming, zombification, suggestion, and everything else imaginable in the field of psychology. There were even rumors about him that his first hypnotic session was with his mother, to whom he gave her the task of doing something personal and very important for him at night while sleeping. What exactly it was is hard to imagine. He was chosen not because he was a master of his craft, but because he knew French.
A mind boggler
August 19, 20:02.
The investigator had been sitting tied to a chair for the past hour and was ready to fall asleep at any minute.
Ravani sat down across from me and turned to me, "Do you have a tape recorder?"
I nodded to Emanuel and he in turn left the room and entered it a minute and a half later with a black Panasonic.
Ravani plugged in the cassette and headphones, walked over to the interrogator and put on the "ears", pressing the "Play" button. Usually, the individual is given to listen to "shamanic" music, rarely to "space" music.
The next step to prepare the victim for hypnosis was to administer an intravenous drink containing Noxiron (0.25 g).
After taking another portion, Ravani stated that it was necessary to wait for another half an hour.
August 19, 20:34.
The policeman sat in his chair like a bewitched man and was probably asleep by now. Ravani walked over to the sleeping man waved his hand around, returned to his position and began: "Sleep deeper. Sleep deeper (repeated for several minutes)… You are sound asleep… You can hear my voice very well and you are not disturbed… Go deeper… Go deeper… Go deeper…"
He then indicated one verifying command to him and, finding that the subject had indeed fallen into a hypnotic sleep, continued: "Now you wish to answer my questions while remaining asleep… What is your name?"
The dreamer's answer turned out to be very unintelligible and vague: "José Fantin." "Very good… You answer my questions perfectly… Do you like soccer?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a wife?" "Yes."
"Kids?"
"Yes."
"Do you love them?"
"Yes," the subject's voice changed slightly to humanity, so Ravani interrupted his survey a bit, "Sleep deeper… Even deeper… You really like to sleep…" "Hhhhhhhhhh."
"What is your profession?" "Policeman."
"What is your position?"
"A special investigator…" "Sleep deeper…"
"YEAH, ENOUGH ALREADY!!! ENOUGH WITH YOUR SLEEP!!! — Emanuel said,
"Tell me, you son of a bitch, who else you got!!!"
I hit Emanuel on the head, and he fell to the floor with a tremendous crack. The hypnotized person was clearly out of trance and began to talk "nonsense". The hypnotist was calm, but clearly upset.
My cell phone rang. "Yes."
"This is Richard. Get out of there immediately and destroy all evidence. The cops have uncovered the place."
Aug. 19, 8:41 p.m.
Shouting: "Bring Emanuel to his senses!", I flew out of the room and rushed to another where two gasoline canisters stood.
A minute and a half later, the first floor was flooded with fuel (there was no time and no point in flooding the second floor — there was nothing interesting there for the cops or even the burglars, as it was empty), while Ravani was still agonizing with the victim. "Well, what's the matter?" — I asked with a little shortness of breath (I'm not what I used to be), finishing the job.
"You shouldn't have chiseled him like that!" — replied the mind eclipser. "Indeed. It's better that he yells like an uncut pig."
"It's easier to burn him down here altogether…" "Yeah, and a detective at the same time."
"Any better suggestions?"
"Yeah, you carry the flick and I'll carry him," I kicked Emanuel lightly with my foot. Emanuel turned out to be remarkably easy, and even too easy. We crossed a rather long corridor and came to the street where our two cars (the black BMW in which Emanuel and I had arrived and Ravani's white Peugeot) were located.