Текст книги "The Sacrifice Game"

Автор книги: Брайан Д'Амато

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Текущая страница: 39 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

(96)

For now I left out No Way’s middle names, even though one of them, Jose, was how he got his nickname. Instead I just searched for QUINONES and XILOX. Eleven files came up. One was a Bosch. dv4 from the day after the downloading, when we were still at Ix Ruinas and I’d still been under some anesthesia. I clicked it open. At first I couldn’t tell what the image was, and then it sort of clarified into Grgur’s big scalpy head bobbing close to the camera in green greasy grainy enhanced night-vision and a little light from a red-filtered lamp. One of the ugly Alarcon brothers-I couldn’t tell whether it was Leonidas or Luis-asked him something about what I guess was Ana’s diversionary squad and he said something back, but I couldn’t make it out. It was weird how completely I’d missed that whole strain of activity at the time, the patrol coming through and confronting them and everything, it was like I’d had a minilobotomy. Grgur’s head moved aside and I could see No Way’s face and naked upper body about two meters from the camera, his skin glowing phosphor-gray in the visible darkness.

Uh-oh, I thought. Bad deal. Bad. Bad.

No Way-basically my best friend, and my only real friend who remembered the crazy life-was at an angle on a blanket and a pair of hands was putting a blood-pressure cuff around his upper left arm. There was a sort of thick monocle surgical-taped over one eye and his other eye was taped open. He was wearing a black headband like the one I’d had for the downloading. I was getting that unfun gravityless feeling like the part of your face where you live is still okay but the dorsal side of your body-starting from your back teeth-is all melting away, like that Peter Lorre knockoff at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. A torso passed in front of the camera and then another hand pulled a drooly bit of tape-wrapped rag out of No Way’s mouth. He’d been knocked out and transported. I’d always thought No Way was so alert nobody could ever sucker him. But I guess your own crew can usually get the drop on you. Or maybe even his own communicator or some other piece of equipment had had a remote-fired restraint stunner planted inside it. He started trying to say something but I couldn’t hear anything, just Grgur and the Alarcon boys talking about whether they’d found anything. They must have strip-searched him. When the torso moved away I could see that No Way’s arms were pinned under big nylon sandbags like Whitefoods. A window came up in the lower right of the screen that said the software and field unit they were using was from Royal Ordnance, which I think is a subsidiary of British Aerospace. The window looked pretty much like the Norton System Doctor interface, except instead of Disk Integrity and everything it had temperature, skin temperature, blood pressure, respiration, muscle tension, “Estimated Voice Stress Level,” galvanic skin resistance, electroencephalograph, and a bunch of other exotic readouts. Of course, I couldn’t see the controls or anything, but from the one window it seemed like a pretty sophisticated gadget. Electroshock is pretty much the only kind of interrogation device anyone uses these days, since it’s so convenient and effective and doesn’t leave major marks. But I’d been hearing lately that even with a lot of conductant some of the Amnesty International types were figuring out how to tell if someone had been tortured from collagen calcification or some other histological change in the skin cells. So the deal now was to use pulses of AC voltages at very low amperage, like you were using an old hand-cranked magneto. Then ideally the current wouldn’t arc or cause burns. On this particular unit the bar graph went all the way down to fifty volts-which probably wouldn’t hurt much more than a good-sized pinch of carpet static-and up to sixty thousand volts, which could cause a heart attack if you weren’t healthy. I couldn’t see the electrical leads in the shot, but if they were following common practice one would be a large conductor, with a lot of conductant, clipped to the flap of skin between two toes, and the other would have been inserted in his anus or urethra. Leonidas Alarcon bent his head down, made sure No Way was breathing, and then wrapped his mouth and neck in a sort of big puffy yoke made of white rags. No Way’s head stuck up out of it like it had sunken halfway into an Elizabethan lace collar. Someone threaded what I guessed was a little microphone into the front of the muffler. No Way would be able to breathe and talk, barely, but if he started yelling it wouldn’t be loud. Evidently they weren’t far from the site. Where, presumably, the Guate patrol was stomping around.

“No Way?” Grgur’s voice said. “It’s Grgur. You know who I am, right?”

Someone flicked on the microphone. It picked up No Way’s voice pretty well:

“… quia peccavi nimis cogitatione,” he was mumbling, “ verbo et opere: mea culpa– ”

“Come on, don’t worry,” Grgur said, “we’re not going to hurt you, but we do need you to answer a few questions before we take you into detention.”

“… beatum Ioannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos…”

“Hey. Pancho? You understand? You’re getting too uptight about this. Knock it off.” They let him finish, though. Maybe they were all too Catholic to zap him in the middle of a confiteor.

“… et vos, fratres, et te, pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum. Amen.”

I fucked up, I thought. I’d always said I wouldn’t trust anybody, and then I’d done it anyway, and once again I’d fucked up royal “Good,” Grgur’s voice said. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to just test this for a second.” The voltmeter bar slid up to seven thousand volts and back. No Way’s body arched a bit, and there was an exhalation of air, but he didn’t scream. If you’ve felt it, you know that the pain of electricity is like nothing else, it seems to come from within your own body and not from a foreign source. It’s like your cells decided to fry themselves. I couldn’t help seeing some of the readouts, pupillary size dilating from five millimeters to seven, muscle tension bouncing from sixty-five to ninety and back, galvanic skin resistance-that is, the conductivity of the electrolytes in the skin-going up twenty percent, the whole nine yards. Leonidas Alarcon looked back at the camera, which I guess was just the little teleconferencing lens in the screen frame of Grgur’s phone. He listened to the night sounds for a minute.

“Okay,” Leonidas said.

“Could you tell us your name, please?” Grgur’s voice asked. His voice had a new police-trained ring to it, with less of a Slavic accent than before. He sounded bored but I got the feeling that under that he was in a hurry.

“Hey, you’re getting a hard-on,” No Way rasped in Spanish. “Check it out, he likes his work.”

“Could you tell us your name, please?” Grgur repeated.

“Quinones Xiloch,” No Way said. Maybe he’d decided to get this over with as fast as possible.

“Could you tell us your age, please?”

“Thirty-four.”

Grgur paused for a minute, probably watching the readouts. The electroencephalograph seemed to be set to flag peaks, troughs, and unusual concentrations of the sinusoidal alpha waves over different time intervals. Right now it was wavering between 10 and 13 Hz, which I guess polygraph devotees would call normal stress.

“Would you please tell us, what is your primary affiliation or loyalty?” Grgur asked.

“EGP,” No Way said. That is, the Ejercito Guerrillero de los Pobres, the Guerrilla Army of the Poor.

“Would you list your military affiliations?”

“EGP only.”

“Would you tell us your position within that organization?”

“Clase de tropa,” No Way said. It was like a noncommissioned officer.

“Would you tell us your serial number?”

“There are no numbers.”

Grgur didn’t pursue it. Maybe he knew it was true. Anyway, the program recalibrated itself and marked the response as normal.

“Would you please tell us your commanding officer within that organization?”

“Carlos.” Carlos was the head of the whole movement, like Marcos had been in southern Mexico in the early nineties, and like Marcos he wore sunglasses and a bandana and nobody knew who he really was. Or whether he was even one person.

“Would you tell us the names of the other officers in your cell?”

“Rodriguez, Infante, Kauffman, Noxac, Rueda.”

“None of those check out,” Grgur said.

“Then I don’t know the real ones,” No Way said.

“Would you tell us the names of the other officers in your cell?”

“Rodriguez, Infante, Zaya-”

The voltmeter darted to ten thousand and hung there for 2.1 seconds. No Way’s backed arched and bounced and he let out a tiny whistling screech.

“That’s bullshit,” Grgur said. “Listen. Would you please tell us the name of your contact?”

“Did you come?” No Way asked.

“Who’s your current contact?”

“Nestor Xconilha.”

“Would you please tell us the name of your current controller?”

“Also Nestor Xconilha.”

“Who is your backup?” He meant the person who comes looking for you.

“I have no backup on this job.”

“When is your gone-missing date?”

“Today.”

“How long will it be before your organization starts looking for you?”

“They may be looking for me now.”

“We weren’t due to finish until tomorrow.”

“I was supposed to report today.”

“Who can we contact to back that up?”

“They won’t answer any contacts,” No Way said.

“What call signals can you give us to help you make the report?”

“No, they won’t.”

“If we let you make the contact, will you arrange for them to meet us here?”

“Sure.”

“I have a problem with your physical readings on that answer,” Grgur said.

“You’re right, you’re right, they won’t,” No Way said. “That’s against policy. They’re too careful for that.”

“So what would we do then?”

“Meet, uh, prearranged place,” No Way said.

“Can I ask where is that?”

“Poptun.”

“I don’t think that’s right,” Grgur said. “Listen. You know about the new polygraph feedback software, don’t you?” “No,” No Way said. He was hoping they’d take time to explain it to them.

“Yes, you do,” Grgur said, “we can tell. Even on a trivial question like that one.”

“Okay,” No Way said. I could tell he knew it was bullshit, though. And I think Grgur could tell that too. Not that the thing wasn’t sensitive, but all real interrogators know that no matter how many readings you get, they don’t always have much to do with the truth as such. If anything, they have to do with how much the subject expects and fears the next burst of pain. So if he thinks lying’s going to avert it, his readings might go down on a lie, not up. But I guess they were hoping to get enough out of all their data back at the ranch. At least on one or two key issues.

“Who should we contact if we have to release you to the Guates’ army patrol?” Grgur asked.

“Nobody.”

“Who should we contact if you were detained, injured, or killed?”

“Nobody.”

“Listen, believe it or not, we’re not hostile to you,” Grgur said. “We are somewhat hostile to the current administration of this country and we had the impression you were too. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Would you please tell us what your cell knows about this operation?” Grgur asked. At least for now he wasn’t pursuing the names thing. Maybe they really weren’t after that.

“Do you mean this particular looting expedition?” No Way asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know anything about it myself.”

“What does your cell know?”

“They don’t know anything, I’ve been out of contact since August thirtieth.”

“Would you please tell us what Mr. DeLanda has told you about this operation?”

“Nothing. Wait, nothing besides your schedule and that you were digging and had to keep it quiet.”

“You’re sure that’s everything?”

“Yes, I even asked whether you were after jade masks or what and he said he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Can you tell us what you know about the settlement at Pusilha?” Grgur meant the Stake, but I guess he wasn’t supposed to call it that.

“I know there’s been a lot of real estate bought in the area. By the Morons. Four plantations, water rights… that’s it.”

“Are you sure?”

“They’re building landing strips and a control tower.”

“What else?”

“That’s it,” No Way said. He didn’t look so good. Since the beginning of the interview his blood pressure had gone from 135 over 80 to 155 over 95, and the pneumograph said his breathing was up to twenty-five breaths per minute.

“Would you please tell us everything Mr. DeLanda told you about the settlement at Pusilha?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. Just that you’d come through there. I supposed his employers had something to do with it. But he didn’t tell me that.”

“Mr. DeLanda tells us you alerted this patrol to our location. Would you like to give us your side of the story on that?”

There was a pause.

(97)

No Way knew that was a total lie, of course. It was too close to book procedure, trying to make the subject feel betrayed.

“I didn’t tell anybody anything.”

“So you signaled someone?”

“No. I didn’t signal anyone.”

“In that case, who do you think alerted the patrol to our location?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you alert this patrol to our location?”

It was pretty clear to me that was the only real question in the bunch. If they made sure it wasn’t No Way who turned them in, then they’d have to look elsewhere. Probably among their so-called friends in the army.

“No,” No Way said.

“Why did you alert this patrol to our location?”

“I didn’t,” No Way said. The voltmeter slid slowly up, from a hundred-volt tickle to two thousand and then to eight thousand. After three seconds, at fifteen thousand, No Way couldn’t hold it in anymore. His back arched higher and bounced and there was a squeal of his vocal cords sawing into each other. His body bounced again and then relaxed as the voltage went back to zero.

“That was a one-second application of a level two shock,” Grgur said. “On your next false answer we’re going to wait five seconds and then administer a level four shock. Just so you know, a level eight might be fatal.”

“Let’s try it,” No Way squawked.

“I’m going to have to ask you again,” Grgur said. Pause. “It’s not a big deal, you know, we’re not out to get anyone. We just want to know where we went wrong. No Way? Who alerted the patrol to our location?”

“I don’t know.” No Way’s readings thrashed, anticipating the shock. His temperature was dipping and his galvanic skin resistance was down twenty percent. The EEG was showing sharp seven-hundred-microvolt eliptiform spikes and big asymmetries between the right and left hemispheres of his brain. The shock didn’t come, though.

“So you’re saying you know someone did.”

“No. Didn’t.” No Way’s voice sounded like a crushed bullfrog’s. The Estimated Voice Stress Level thingy reset itself to the new timbre. Eighty-five percent, it said.

“You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t. Alert. Anyone.”

“One of the patrol officers already told us the information came from you.”

“Not true.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know. If anyone did. Or not.”

“Who do you think may have alerted this patrol to our location?”

“?Quien sabe?”

“You’re sure? I’m going to have to give you a long charge in a minute.”

“Can you execute me now, please?” No Way asked, but the voltage was climbing again and his voice rose into a screech and then petered out in gooey sputtering. Grgur held it for three seconds. The EEG dropped down to what it said was an unconscious alpha level. Grgur cut the charge and Leonidas took the muff away from No Way’s neck. Passing out was one thing, but they didn’t want him to go into shock.

(98)

“T his isn’t good,” Leonidas said. There was blood all over No Way’s chin and when they wiped it off I could see he’d bitten through his lower lip. I guess they were worried about it because it was a torture-victim giveaway. Leonidas stuck some bits of gauze between No Way’s teeth and his upper and lower lips. It gave him kind of a Ubangi-woman look. No Way was waking up, and he drew in a breath to try and get a scream together-he’d picked up on their stealth factor-but Leonidas remuffled him before any noise came out. He taped a shock of hair back out of his eye.

“Come on,” Grgur said.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Leonidas said.

“Okay, No Way?” Grgur asked. “Can you hear me?”

“Uh-hunh.” I think he was trying to make himself pass out again, but the Royal Ordnance system was good at not letting that happen. Grgur gave him a hundred-volt wake-up buzz.

“Who is Jed’s backup?” Grgur asked.

“I am.” His vowels were just ragged grunts and he didn’t have any consonants left, but I could still understand him.

“All right. Listen. We already know the patrol was acting on a signal from you. We only want your confirmation of who set up the contact and how they were signaled.”

No answer. Of course, they didn’t actually have Clue One. It was just more standard procedure to tell the subject they knew he was lying. No Way wasn’t buying it, though.

Torture for information usually actually works well, but it can take time. No Way’s choice now was either to start changing his answers to try to buy time, or to keep to the true answers so they’d kill him as soon as possible. All guerrillas were trained to try to do the first, to hold up the interrogators for as long as possible. The main reason was what used to be called the “forty-eight-hour rule”: you stalled in order to give the other people in the cell time to relocate before the other side learned their whereabouts. The other was that there was more of a chance for you if your interrogators had to take you back to wherever with them. Once you were in prison, you were less likely to be executed. In this case there wasn’t anyone else trying to get away, although maybe No Way thought I might need to get out of here myself, and I’m pretty sure he knew there wasn’t any hope for him either. But he did pick up on the fact that these people were nervous, and had been spotted by someone. And so just to screw them up as much as possible-I think-he did the right thing. Which was to start off telling the truth and then to reverse himself as they turned up the screws and the physiological readings got harder to evaluate.

“No Way? Listen. Who’s your primary runner on the Guate side?”

“Cano.”

“Rank and first name?”

“Captain. Juan.”

“Would you please tell us how and when you signaled this patrol?”

“Fresh stolen phone. Leave text asking for a subscription to newsletter.”

“Would you please tell us the name of this patrol’s commanding officer?”

“No se.”

“Who have you told about this operation?”

“Cano y los GNAH.”

“Who else?”

“I can’t remember right now.”

“What have you told them about this operation?”

“Everything, your schedule, your objective, cargo, everything.”

“And what do you think is our objective?”

“Royal tombs.”

“What about the royal tombs?”

“Specific artifacts.”

“Which are?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then please tell us that list and we’ll give you a cigarette.”

“Uh, de Vega,” No Way said, pretending to think. “De Rivera. Caballero, Negrin, uh, Azana y Diaz-”

“That doesn’t look right,” Grgur said. He made out like they were checking the names No Way gave them against a list, but I bet they weren’t really. “I’m going to have to give you a level six shock.” Grgur gave him a little jolt, only half a second, but No Way was so softened up I could see sweat bead up out of his skin and roll down like someone was squeezing the wet sponge of his face.

“Please don’t do that,” No Way said, “I’ll help you get into contact with them.”

“With who?”

“Whoever.”

“We’re not going to execute you, you know,” Grgur said.

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything you would like to tell us before we release you?”

“No.”

I could tell No Way wanted to keep them talking longer but he barely had the energy. He knew they were going to kill him anyway, but I guess he wanted to toss them a little more disinformation if he could. Or maybe, at the literal last minute, even he clung to life. It’s hard not to.

“Okay, that’s it,” Grgur said. “You’re sure you don’t have anything else for us?”

“No, no, I can tell you more.”

“Okay, what?”

“Deposit. Banco de Gran Caiman.” To me it was obvious it didn’t mean anything, though, it was just a false lead to take up their time, and I think they knew it too.

“Who’s the contact at the bank?”

“Zamora.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” There was an almost-silent scream and the voltmeter blasted up to forty thousand. At that level they only left it on for a quarter-second but it still knocked him out. No Way’s face and body twisted up and collapsed. His mouth was open and drooling. His heartbeat skipped and took two irregular spikes and then settled back to sixty-five. His EEG was heavy on the Theta.

“All right,” Leonidas said, “that’s twenty minutes already, that’s as much as we need to spend on this.”

“We’re going to give you a list of names of people who may be working at Pusilha. I’d like you to indicate which ones you’ve heard before, which ones your organization is following, or would like to follow, or wants to learn more about. You understand?”

“Okay.”

“Even if you’ve just heard the name before I want you to tell me, and then we’ll try to remember where. All right?”

“Okay.”

“Bastarrachea Manzano.”

“No se.” The program thought for a second and gave a combined reading of 7.6 out of 10.

“Juan Ramon.”

“No se.” It registered a 7.0.

“Froot Loops.”

“No se.” 7.8.

“Count Chocula.”

“No se.” There were a few differences in the readings, but the program flagged it at 8.1.

“Domingo Dzul.”

“No se.” The combined register jumped up to 9.

“Bacon and Eggs.”

“No se.” 9.5.

“Hmm,” Grgur said. “Let’s talk about Count Chocula for a second.”

He was right, I thought. That was the only really solid name they had. The readings had gone up after he’d said it because No Way had bitten his tongue or done some other tack-in-the-shoe thing to confuse the reading.

“Are you sure you’ve never heard of Count Chocula?”

“No,” No Way said. “I don’t remember product names.”

“If you had, what would you have heard about it?”

“I can’t remember yet.”

“Where would the name have come up? At an EGP base?”

“That’s right,” No Way said. He wasn’t caving in, by the way. He was trying to confuse them. He didn’t have enough of a secret to protect. At most, he wanted to protect me, to get any blame off of me and onto himself-even though for all he knew I was on their side, or had even called in the patrol. I wondered a lot about what he thought about that. I hope he trusted me. Or maybe he just figured I still had a chance and he obviously didn’t. Or he’d suspended his judgment for the purposes of his last act. And actually, in terms of sheer bearing up, he was one of the bravest subjects I’d ever heard of. Certainly as tough as anyone back in Ancient Mayaland.

“You’re sure you have nothing to add? You understand we’re going to kill you now.”

No Way didn’t say anything, he just rolled the pupils of his eyes back, which was the closest he could come to closing them.

“You’re sure? Okay.”

Someone’s right hand held a small nylon sandbag that had been tightly wound with duct tape against the left side of No Way’s head, above the ear. The matching left hand cushioned his head on the other side so his neck wouldn’t bend. Nothing happened for a minute and then the arms swung a second wrapped sandbag, like a big sausage, underhand against the first one. It was a variant on what police in the U.S. call the telephone-book technique, a way to give someone a concussion without leaving an external bruise. I could hardly hear the strike, but No Way’s heart rate skipped and spiked and his EEG scrambled up past 900 Hz and then dropped and bounced. No Way’s expression was all sort of submerged pain like a dog having a bad dream.

“Wait, hang on,” Grgur said. He swung the bag way back again, gathered up force, and struck. No Way’s pulse took a last spike and flatlined. His EEG kept going, though, in this really irregular way, like he was still thinking about a few dissociated things, ships and sealing wax and cabbages. Again, nothing happened for a minute. Leonidas’s hands went out of the picture. The image jiggled as Grgur picked up the phone and moved it into a close-up of No Way’s face with its wide-open doll eye and held it steady, long enough to show he wasn’t breathing. His temperature had already dropped a twentieth of a degree.

“Okay,” Grgur said. I got glimpses of the crew pulling the sensors off No Way’s head and cleaning and redressing him and everything, but I couldn’t really pay attention. I did notice they put him in a Chouinard rock-climbing harness, which probably meant they were going to dump him in a chultun like he’d been exploring and fallen. You’d think they wouldn’t even bother being so careful out in a place like this, but I guess they were just trained to be absolutely professional.