"Well, we've got time," Ali said. "Hours and hours. Tonight. Tomorrow morning. I heard your accent so often over the years, I can do a damned good imitation in case anybody telephones. I told your driver he won't be needed. Are you expecting any visitors?"
"A friend."
"Male or female?"
"Female. She'll get suspicious if I don't answer the intercom."
"I'll disguise my voice again," Ali said.
"She knows me too well. She'll realize it isn't me, especially if pain distorts my voice. She'll get suspicious and call the police."
"So I'd better take it easy on you, is that it?" Ali smiled. "Well, at least I got you to answer several questions in a row, even if the answers are lies. How could you be expecting a girl friend when your driver was expecting to drive you to La Guardia?" Slap. "Mustn't lie, Gerald. But we've got plenty of leisure to discuss this. First, though, I think a little exercise will relieve the tension? These flex machines are wonderful. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of rerouting some wires and readjusting some parts."
Nearly blinded by the lights, Brockman watched as Ali pulled a handle. Its wire was attached to a series of pressure-increasing wheels that Ali had attached to the machine. The device allowed Ali to exert minimal energy in order to move a lot of weight. In horror, Brockman watched as the leg-curl extension began to rise. Unwilled, his legs rose with it. They felt as if they were going to snap from the enormous weight of barbells tied to his ankles, weighing them down. Sweat burst from his face. His mouth opened. He thought he was going to scream.
Ali jammed a rag into his mouth.
Immediately, he pulled another handle, its cable attached to another series of pressure-increasing wheels. The machine's butterfly extensions moved forward and inward, causing Brockman's bent arms to follow.
But the weight against Brockman's arms was enormous, and his arms had been strapped to the extensions in the reverse of the usual way so that his palms faced outward rather than inward. Muscles were pulled in unnatural directions. Backbones crackled. He had a terrifying image of a roasted chicken, of its overcooked wings being torn off. Sweat dribbled down his face. The scream inside him built until it threatened to propel the rag from his mouth.
Abruptly, Ali released each handle. The machine's leg-curl and butterfly extensions shot back into place, forcing Brockman's legs and arms to shoot back with them. The excruciating impact sent a shockwave through him. Pain made his stomach heave. Ali pulled out the rag just before hot bile filled Brockman's mouth.
"Now didn't that get the kinks out?" Ali asked. "There's nothing like working the muscles a little to relax them and unwind at the end of the day and encourage conversation, right? But before we start our chat, let's review the basics of interrogation. The absolute certainties that you and I both know. No one, regardless of how strong and determined, can resist a steady assault. As sure as the sun rises, you know that the combined effect of weakness, pain, shock, trauma, fear, and disorientation will reduce you to a whimpering near-animal who'll do anything to stop the agony. Knowing that, you'll make bargains with yourself. Right now, you're thinking, 'I'll hold back information as long as I can. Maybe someone will burst in to rescue me. Or maybe the person I'm trying not to betray will suspect I'm being interrogated and take steps to protect himself and the mission. That way, if I eventually confess, it won't matter. Don't think about a day from now or an hour from now or even a minute from now. Just concentrate on this moment. I can deal with this moment. That's a do-able task.' Isn't that the attitude you were taught to have when you're being interrogated, Gerald? Sure.
"But this is what I'm going to teach you. Before tomorrow morning, you'll tell me everything I want to know, or else I'll cripple you. I'll leave your body so broken, your senses so impaired, you'll be a prisoner within yourself for the rest of your long days and nights. As I cripple you, you'll experience pain of a sort you never thought possible. Pain that won't ever end. At last, you'll talk. You know that. The question you need to ask is, since you realize you'll eventually surrender the information, why suffer the pain in the meantime? Of course, you need to prove that you're strong and brave. I understand, and I'll give you the chance to show your stuff. But the emotions that usually stop someone from talking are loyalty or fear. I can't imagine you feel loyal to whoever's killing your fellow protectors. So I'm forced to conclude that you fear this person more than you fear me. I'll make you a promise, Gerald. Tell me what I need to know, betray him, and I'll personally guarantee your protection. I'll make you another promise, Gerald. If you don't do what I ask, I'll make you fear me far more than you ever feared the person you report to."
Ali shoved the bile-soaked rag back into Brockman's mouth and pulled the levers on the machine faster than before, causing Brockman's legs and arms to jerk upward and forward with greater force, the weight against them threatening to tear sinews and ligaments and pop sockets.
Brockman's vision turned gray. Again, Ali removed the rag from Brockman's mouth, letting bile spew out.
"Talk to me, Gerald. Tell me about Carl Duran."
15
Even when viewed from a wooded hilltop a half mile away, the farmhouse, barn, and outbuildings were obviously in disrepair. As the sun rose, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford lay on cold ground behind red-leaved bushes, using binoculars to peer down past the stubble of a cornfield. In the mid-distance, a dirt road went from right to left. Beyond was a field of wild grasses that belonged to one of the few cherished places in Cavanaugh's memory of his youth, the farm where he had spent so many wonderful Sundays. At least, the Sundays had once seemed wonderful. Not because of what he had learned about making knives. The knives hadn't been as important to him as the time he'd spent with the person he once considered-and believed would always be-his closest friend.
With the sun behind them, they didn't need to worry about light reflecting off their binoculars, signaling their location. Even so, Cavanaugh took care that his were shielded.
"The place looks deserted," Jamie said. "Porch needs paint. Roof needs new shingles. The barn's listing."
"When Carl and I visited there, the old man kept it in perfect shape. He never let age slow him down."
"Sounds like someone I'd like to have known," Jamie said.
"I doubt John here would have. Not the way Lance was always cussing."
Rutherford looked amused. "Well, there's cussing, and then there's cussing."
"This was the latter."
"According to the local FBI office, after the old man died, an English professor from the university in Iowa City bought the place," Rutherford said. "Gentleman farmer sort of thing. Sold some of the land to the neighbors. Leased out the rest."
"Yeah. I remember. When I was a teenager." Cavanaugh felt hollow. So much had happened in the meanwhile. Except for Jamie, so much of it had been painful.
"Four years ago, the professor retired and moved to Arizona." Lying on his stomach, Rutherford scooped up black dirt and studied it. "That's when Bob Loveless bought the place."
"Seems like Duran had a yen for the good old days," Jamie said.
Rutherford kept examining the dirt in his hand. "Awfully rich soil. Excellent loam. Breaks apart easily."
"Since when do you know about soil?" Cavanaugh asked.
"My dad was a farmer in Arkansas. I grew up, helping him plow and plant. What he wouldn't have given for soil like this."
"You've got all kinds of secrets, John."
"None like yours, Aaron."
"How strange it feels to be called that."
"Did the local FBI office talk to the neighbors?" Jamie asked. "Is there any indication that Duran actually lived there?"
"Someone matching Duran's description lived there off and on four years ago. A few of the neighbors dropped by to welcome him. They remember he was polite but that he didn't encourage socializing. When he smiled, it was sort of distant."