“You’re run by a bunch of mafiosos — what d’ya call ‘em, oligarchs.”
Khournikova dipped her head. “Yes, this is true. But it does not mean that decapitating the U.S. government is in our best interests.”
“Who knows what you folks think is in your best interests. Maybe you think you can get away with this. What I want to know is, where’s Sam Dalton?”
“I don’t even know who he is. I have been hunting Richard Coffee.”
Spigotta looked sour. “Richard Coffee died in 1991 during the Gulf War. That’s what our records say.”
“Perhaps you can explain to me why Derek Stillwater — a man you claim I must be working with — killed a woman claiming to be Irina Khournikova. She is not. I am—”
”We’re working on an ID of the woman, don’t you worry. We’ve got that handled, Ms. Khournikova.” Spigotta leaned forward, getting very close to the Russian woman. In a soft, menacing voice, he said, “But you gotta tell me, lady… where’s Sam Dalton?”
“I do not know who he is or where he is.”
Spigotta’s hand swept out. It did not connect as planned. The Russian agent rolled her head back and caught Spigotta’s wrist in her hands. In a flash she was inside his grasp, lveraging him to the hard floor in a Judo shoulder-throw. She was at the door, too late realizing it was locked. She spun, thinking, I will have to immobilize him or kill him to get out of here.
Spigotta was on his feet, his gun in his hand, eyes hooded. “Fool me once, shame on you,” he growled, and pointed the gun at the chair. “You don’t want to take another shot at me, though. Trust me on that.”
A drop of sweat beaded on her forehead as she sat back down in the chair.
38
Richard Coffee looked down at the unconscious form of Derek Stillwater. He tapped his chin with his index finger for a moment before turning to Ling, who was removing a sterilized tray of acupuncture needles from a cabinet, momentarily flooding the room with UV light.
“Well Ling? Is your patient telling the truth?”
In an even voice Ling said, “His answers are consistent.”
Coffee burst into a deep bellow of laughter. “Ling… that’s not what I asked.” He moved across the room in what was almost a lunge. Ling tensed, nearly a flinch, but Coffee stopped next to the examining table. He leaned down close to Derek. He patted Derek’s cheek and in a soft voice, as if speaking to Derek alone, said, “Hey buddy… I asked Ling here if you were telling the truth. It’s a simple question. There are really only three answers. They are yes… and no… and I don’t know,” he finished, his voice filled with quiet menace.
Ling’s left eye twitched. Just once. In a barely audible mutter, Ling said, “I don’t know, Fallen.”
“Ah,” Coffee said. “But you have hurt him.”
“Yes, Fallen. I have hurt him.”
“Perhaps you have not hurt him enough.”
“Perhaps,” Ling said, a touch of enthusiasm creeping into his voice.
“You can do this.”
“With pleasure.”
“Yes, I understand that about you, Ling.” Coffee looked up and met Ling’s gaze, judging him. Ling was the first to look away. “All men have a breaking point. Don’t they, Ling?”
“In my experience, yes.”
“And are you anywhere near Derek’s breaking point, Ling?”
“He is very strong. He has… “ Ling licked his lips, searching for the right words. “Derek Stillwater appears to have great mental flexibility. He is perhaps able to compartmentalize his response to the pain I am presenting him.”
Coffee frowned. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning his answers appear to be too consistent. He is either telling us the truth, that he turned Irina Khournikova over to the FBI…”
Coffee took a step closer to Ling. The two terrorists, Sven and Ivan, who had observed Derek’s torture with little or no emotion, now watched closely for any sign that Coffee would want them to act. “Or?”
“Or,” Ling said, “he has created a story to cling to. As he faces the pain, he knows that his story is the only thing that will keep him alive or end the pain.”
“So,” Coffee said, considering. “What you’re saying is, he’s lying or he’s telling the truth.”
Ling’s face fell just enough to suggest that Coffee had missed some of the nuance he was trying to provide. “I am saying that it is possible that Stillwater may fear the repercussions of the truth more than he fears the pain.”
Coffee turned to look at Derek. “Will he tell me the truth?”
“With enough time… and pain… all men tell the truth.”
“And when do you know?”
Ling shrugged.
“Can you wake him up?” Coffee said.
Ling sighed. “He is already conscious, Fallen.”
Coffee turned suddenly toward Derek. “Playing opossum, Derek?”
Derek opened his eyes, but said nothing. Coffee looked down at him. “Ling here can increase the pain. Would you like that?”
“No,” Derek said.
“So tell me the truth. Where is Irina?”
“I told you. I turned her over to the FBI. Unless they released her, they’ve got her at the Hoover Building.”
Coffee studied him. He nodded. “Okay. Right, Derek. Okay. I believe you. Or I believe you enough. I have someone inside the bureau. I’ll check. In the meantime…” Coffee gestured at Ling. “Ling will see if he can get you to change your story. He will see if he can determine whether you’re more afraid of the truth than the pain. He’s good at it.” Coffee left the trailer, letting the door slam behind him.
Ling approached Derek. “It probably no longer matters,” Ling said. He began to insert acupuncture needles into a number of points along Derek’s body: in his temple, behind his left ear, by his collar bone, in his hips, several in his feet and legs. Ling held up a needle. “I trust you will find this to be a very interesting experience. You see, pain is in your mind. Your brain can take only so much pain. It will then dampen the pain, creating its own opiates to numb it. The nerves became tired, your serotonin levels between nerve endings becomes depleted. But I can open you to an entire new level of experience…”
Ling inserted the needle into the palm of Derek’s right hand. It was as if a cool breeze was suddenly blowing over his fevered body. The previous aches and pains vanished. He felt an odd sense of well-being, almost euphoria. Every sense became acute. He could smell the sweat of the two terrorists, smell the gun oil and the gunpowder that clung to their clothing. He could hear Ling’s breathing, vague sounds from outside the trailer, the hum of electricity, the air conditioning. The air around him caressed his body like a gentle lover’s touch; it had weight, texture.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Ling said, and inserted another needle, this one into Derek’s shoulder.
Derek bit back a scream as his body suddenly exploded as if on fire. Every neuron fired, telling his brain that he was on fire, that he had fallen into lava, that his skin was red, scorched, turning black, sloughing off his body.
Ling withdrew the needle. Convulsing, Derek gasped for air, his brain incapable of letting go of the agony of the flames. Ling said, “Now, perhaps I should ask you… where is Irina Khournikova?” He held up the needle. “Or we’ll burn again? So tell me, old friend of Fallen’s… where is Irina Khournikova?”
Derek stared at the Asian and thought, kill me. Kill me now. If I tell him, they’ll kill me now. Why protect myself? I’m dead. Tell him that I killed Irina Khournikova in that apartment. Tell him. Anything. Anything but that burning… anything.