“Apparently,” Thompson said. Talking only wasted energy necessary for carrying out the task.
“Do you think he opened his mouth?”
“No. If he had, we’d be carrying a corpse.”
“Barnes kicked the shit out of him,” Staughton said.
“True. He gave it to him good. Old-school.”
He was alluding to the fact they hadn’t used the most modern methods of extracting information. Electric shock was still idolized within this community. Sleep deprivation was extremely efficient, when you had time, which was not the case here. A battery of drugs and injections might or might not work, depending on the mental and physical condition of the individual. None of these techniques had been used on Rafael. They’d thrown unexpected punches or slapped him and kicked him down below, which is what had left him in the sorry condition we witness here. Barnes, Herbert, and Phelps himself hadn’t had to ask or stand on ceremony to use Rafael as a punching bag. There was a close relationship between the degree of pain a person could support and death. It was the fine line that marked the difference between good and bad work. So we see the two men from the agency carrying Rafael’s inert but still living body. It only meant he hadn’t said anything to his interrogators, or, if he had, it wasn’t satisfactory. Still, there was time to drag that information out by the same method, or others.
Thus the discouraged faces of Barnes, Herbert, Phelps, and the others, spread around the Center of Operations for the agency in Rome.
“The guy is tough,” Littel said, seated, smoking a cigar, where he’d been during the whole interrogation. He hadn’t stained his expensive suit or carefully manicured hands. That was work for others. They didn’t pay him to get dirty.
“He’s a son of a bitch,” Barnes contradicted him. He turned to Phelps with a critical expression. “I told you you wouldn’t get anything out of him.”
“Calm down, Dr. Barnes. In five minutes bring the woman in. You’ll see how we find things out,” he declared confidently.
“I hope so,” Littel said. “Today is the last round of the U.S. Open, and I don’t want to miss it.”
“I missed Wimbledon, and I’m here,” Barnes answered.
“You hate tennis,” Littel argued back.
There were more people in the room than usual, maintaining a sepulchral silence, the better to ignore what was to come. We refer to Wally Johnson, always at Littel’s side as his bodyguard, Colonel Stuart Garrison, whose efficiency stood out in the capture of the fugitives, Priscilla Thomason, the devoted secretary. She’d asked permission to leave during the interrogation, but couldn’t avoid seeing the victim’s condition when he left the room, aided by Staughton and Thompson, not to say dragged, carried, transported. Sebastian Ford rounded out the group, upset because a drop of blood had stained the collar of his shirt. He hadn’t even been close to the gang pounding the man as if there were no tomorrow. He tried to clean it with a handkerchief monogrammed with the initials SF, but the blood became an untamed smear.
“Hell,” he complained, a little more loudly than he wanted.
All of them looked disapprovingly at him with his handkerchief wet with saliva rubbing the white collar.
“I’ll be right back,” Sebastian Ford stammered, leaving the room.
“Politicians,” Phelps remarked scornfully as soon as Ford left.
“I know from experience he’d let the woman die if he thought she could reveal the location of the Muslim and the file,” Barnes said worriedly.
“Well then, let them all die,” they heard a voice suggest from the door.
“Marius. My good Marius,” Phelps greeted the white-haired man with an embrace.
“James. Things have not gone as well as we would wish,” Marius Ferris alerted him.
“They could be worse.”
Marius Ferris looked around the room. “Gentlemen, good afternoon to you all.”
Barnes remembered him from other operations.
“Where’s your lord?”
“The Lord is in heaven,” Ferris answered a little arrogantly.
“No one is what he appears,” Barnes finally said. Nothing surprised him after so many years of service to the republic.
“He hasn’t talked, Marius,” Phelps informed him.
“I knew it. Sebastiani has betrayed us, also,” he said, closing his fists in anger. “Do they have family we could use to put pressure on them?”
“Nothing. The journalist has a mother who knows nothing. We didn’t get anywhere pressuring him on that. If he knew something, he’d have confessed it with the beating we gave him. The parents of the woman have disappeared,” Littel declared. “They haven’t been seen anywhere.”
Phelps put his hand on Marius Ferris’s shoulder.
“This is the work of the old man.”
“I think so, too,” he confirmed. “It’s the old fox. We should have known he’d make a move.”
“That means he’s been helping them from the beginning,” Phelps reflected.
“He must have thrown more wood on the fire, without doubt.”
“Herbert, go get the woman.”
“With pleasure,” the sadistic aide answered.
“Let’s get this over with,” James Phelps decided.
68
Rafael was thrown into the cell against the bare wall, followed by a dry “Welcome to Rome” from Thompson.
Sarah cried out when she saw him in that condition.
“Oh, my God. Rafael,” she cried.
But he didn’t answer. He looked unconscious, but was probably in too much pain to say anything.
Simon watched Sarah’s distress, unable to do anything. Rafael had endured more blows than he had. He hoped he wouldn’t see Sarah come back in the same way.
The cell had four concrete walls and a concrete floor, without windows, mattresses, or toilet… nothing. Sarah put Rafael’s head on her lap and stroked it tenderly.
“Good God, what’ve they done to you,” she whispered, stroking his hair and face.
“They’re not playing games,” Simon said.
“They’re barbarians.” She looked at Rafael sadly. She’d never seen him like this. “I see they didn’t leave you in peace, either,” she said to Simon, without stopping the caresses.
“They left me for a time. The editor told me not to leave the house for any reason.”
“Roger?”
“Yes. I knew I should’ve gone somewhere else. When they threw me in the door, I felt like my heart would jump out of my mouth.”
“What did they want from you?”
“To know about the file and someone named Abu Rashid.”
“Who’s this Abu Rashid?” Sarah wondered. She’d already heard the name in Moscow.
“I have no idea. But do you think they believed me?”
Simon looked at Sarah sadly, as if he had something to say and didn’t dare say it.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Do you think…” He didn’t like to raise the subject. “Do you think they’ll do the same with you?”
Sarah hadn’t thought of that before. She’d only worried about Simon and Rafael, never about herself, ignoring that at any moment the door might open to take her for interrogation.
“Let’s not think about that,” she said, hiding the fear she felt. “Besides, I know no more than you.” That didn’t entirely make sense, since the fact that Simon knew nothing hadn’t prevented them from leaving bruises all over his body.
Through the irony of fate, which likes to manifest itself at appropriate times, the lock on the door came to life.
Sarah surrendered to panic. Her time had come, her hour to endure the harshness of a group of impatient men who’d do anything to achieve their objective.
The door opened to admit a man dressed in an impeccable suit, at first glance. He bent over Rafael.
“What have they done to you, friend?” he said sadly.
“Who are you?” Sarah asked.
“That’s not important. You’ve never seen me here. Understand?”