Текст книги "The Naked Edge"

Автор книги: David Morrell

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^{"Case," he said, using the name of a knife manufacturer as a code word. He waited for a reply. "New Orleans," he explained to the person listening. "I'm supposed to fly there tonight. Cavanaugh has the company jet, so I need to go out to La Guardia and take a commercial flight." He waited for a response, then added, "He went to Iowa."}

^{Brockman put the phone away and walked even faster. He purged his mind of traffic, of pedestrians, of bicycle messengers and kids on skateboards. He imagined that he hiked through a wilderness, far from people and the messes they made. In his reverie, the only sound was the crackle of his footsteps on fallen leaves as his skin tingled and he inhaled mountain air.}

^{At Seventy-First, he turned right, went a block and a half, and entered his apartment building. There, he took the elevator to the tenth floor. His forehead was beaded with sweat as he walked along a corridor, reached his apartment, and unlocked it. When he opened the door, the intrusion detector began its shrill beep, giving him twenty seconds to press buttons on a number pad to the right of the door.}

^{Despite his years in the security profession, Brockman made the error that virtually every intrusion-detector owner makes. The anxiety that the beep-beep-beep created caused him to leave the door open while he pressed the buttons on the pad. Only when the beeping stopped did he turn toward the door to shut it. But the beep, beep, beep had obscured the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly, Brockman felt a sharp sensation in his right thigh. Reaching to draw his pistol from under his suit coat, he saw Ali Karim's dark face glaring from the hallway. Brockman's leg felt warm. As the dart in him spread its toxin, Ali's angry features seemed to waver.}

^{Brockman floated backward, downward, Ali's blurred hands striking him, yanking his pistol away.}

^{Chapter 14.}

^{A phone rang. Muffled. As if blankets were wrapped around it.}

^{"Hello?" The voice seemed a far-away whisper. It sounded eerily like Brockman. "Pick me up to go to the airport? No, I changed my plans. There's something urgent I need to attend to. I won't be leaving until tomorrow. I'll call you."}

^{Silence gathered. Slowly, Brockman understood that he was sitting upright, his back against something metallic. Tied against something metallic. A sudden light blazed toward his face. Many bright lights. He wanted to paw them away, but his arms wouldn't move.}

^{Footsteps. The air seemed denser as someone hovered in front of him.}

^{"Hey!" Slap. "Wake up!" Slap. "I know you're faking!" Slap. "Open your damned eyes, or I'll tape them open so you can't blink!"}

^{Brockman warily opened his eyes and squinted from the pain of numerous lamps. Their shades had been tilted backward, their exposed bulbs aimed in his direction, nearly blinding him. Unable to move his head, he shifted his eyes this way and that to try to protect them, but the heat from the lights was inescapable. His right leg, where the dart from the tranquilizer gun had struck him, felt swollen and throbbed.}

^{Ali stood close before him. Along with his dark hair, his dark features, and dark suit, he wore dark leather gloves.}

^{Brockman strained to move. Shifting his eyes blurrily from side to side, he saw barbells, a treadmill . . . His exercise room. His pistol and his cell phone were on a table, along with his claw-shaped knife, its plastic sheath and breakaway chain that Ali had found on him. He angled his eyes down, realizing that he was secured to the flex machine, his legs strapped to the leg-curl extensions, his arms raised and attached to the butterfly extensions.}

^{"I know I'm not the security leak," Ali said. "And Cavanaugh was awfully sure Kim wasn't. After all, who would be stupid enough to blackmail her and trust a druggie to deliver information on time and accurately? That means you , my friend, and would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who told Carl Duran where our agents would be, on what assignments, and when?"}

^{Brockman relied on his rugged military training, on the weeks he'd spent in the South African outback, with hardly any food and water, amid brush fires, lions, and elephants. He gathered all his discipline, everything he'd ever learned about withstanding interrogation. "You're making a mistake."}

^{Slap. "I asked, would you like to know why I'm sure you're the son of a bitch who's the security leak?"}

^{"Have you gone out of your–"}

^{Slap. Ali's glove burned Brockman's cheek. "Because protectors are getting killed right and left. Because all of us are constantly checking over our shoulders, wondering if we'll be next. Except you , my friend. I've been watching you the last few days. When you're on the street, you don't seem the slightest bit threatened or nervous the way the rest of us are. You're not acting as if you're worried that somebody's going to stick a knife in you the way I'm worried. Now why would that be? Do you suppose it's because you're part of this, because you know you're safe?"}

^{Brockman didn't answer.}

^{"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."}

^{Chapter 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."}

^{"Yeah, that's Carl," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"As near as they could tell–tire tracks in snow, that sort of thing–he seemed to be there only a week or two at a time."}

^{"So this is where he went between assignments," Jamie said to Cavanaugh, "the same as you went to Jackson Hole. This was his home."}

^{"Close to Iowa City and Hafor Drive, where his real home was when he was a kid." Three houses up the street from mine , Cavanaugh thought. He remembered the two-story homes along the street. Most were painted an idealized white. Big front windows. Thick bushes. Luxuriant flower beds. Lush lawns. Again, he felt hollow.}

^{"Then three years ago, according to the neighbors, he pretty much stopped coming," Rutherford told them. "That's when the place started looking worn down."}

^{"Three years ago." Cavanaugh nodded. "After Carl got fired and wound up working for that drug lord in Colombia."}

^{"The postman who drives this route says Bob Loveless gets magazines and bills. Renewal forms. Advertisements. Things like that."}

^{"And tax forms," Cavanaugh said. "He needs to keep paying his property taxes, or else the county will take the farm. We need to assume someone comes here to check if there's mail and to forward it. Maybe the same person who pays his taxes."}

^{"Someone we'd like to talk to," Rutherford concluded. "The mail gets delivered late in the afternoon. Yesterday, when you told us this was the address we wanted, the local FBI office had just enough time to intercept the postman and arrange for him to leave some advertisements in the box. Agents have been watching the place since then. So far, there's been no sign of activity in the house and nobody's picked up the mail. We don't dare go in there until someone stops at the mailbox. Otherwise, we might scare the courier away. We'll just need to lie here and wait."}

^{"Maybe not as long as you think." Jamie pointed.}

^{To the right, a dust cloud appeared, moving steadily to the left along the dirt road. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh saw a gray SUV approaching the mailbox.}

^{Rutherford spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Everybody stay in place until we see what we've got."}

^{The SUV drove closer, continuing from right to left. Cavanaugh's pulse increased, although he was oddly conscious of the emptiness between heartbeats.}

^{"Steady," Rutherford said into the walkie-talkie.}

^{The SUV appeared to go slower as it neared the mailbox. Despite the dust the car raised, the sun reflected off the driver's window. Braced on his elbows, Cavanaugh concentrated so much that he leaned forward, trying to get closer to the car.}

^{It passed the mailbox and continued down the road.}

^{No one spoke for a moment.}

^{"If that was the courier, maybe he or she sensed something was wrong and kept going," Jamie wondered.}

^{"Maybe," Rutherford said. "Or maybe it's just someone driving into town."}

^{Another cloud appeared on the road, this one caused by a red pickup truck that drove from left to right. It sped past the mailbox, almost obscuring it with dust. The faint drone of the engine drifted away.}

^{A minute later, it was a blue sedan that came from right to left.}

^{Cavanaugh felt an increased sense of being stuck in time while the world sped toward disaster. He thought of Brockman, who should have been in New Orleans by now, organizing Global Protective Services agents. Several times the previous night, Cavanaugh had tried to contact him on his cell phone. No response. He'd tried Brockman's home phone. Again, no response. Rutherford had called the FBI office in New Orleans to see if Brockman had checked in. No sign of him.}

^{Once more, Cavanaugh pulled out his cell phone, but this time, instead of trying to call Brockman, he pressed the numbers for Global Protective Services, intending to send an agent to Brockman's apartment, only to cancel the call when he stared toward the road beyond the field and saw the blue car stop at the mailbox.}

^{Chapter 16.}

^{The dust cloud hovered. All Cavanaugh could see was a vague figure leaning out the far window of the car, opening the mailbox.}

^{"Steady," Rutherford said into the walkie-talkie. "This could be somebody putting an advertisement or something into the box."}

^{A young woman–jeans, leather jacket, blond ponytail–stepped from the car. She walked to the gate, unhooked its chain, and swung the gate inward. Then she got back into the car and drove up the lane toward the house, the sound of her engine receding.}

^{"Not yet," Rutherford said to the walkie-talkie. "Wait until we see what happens."}

^{The car reached the house. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh watched the woman get out. She stepped onto the porch and tried the front door but found it locked. She looked through the windows. She proceeded around to the back, out of view.}

^{Listening to an earbud linked to the walkie-talkie, Rutherford reported what the other watchers were seeing. "She's trying the back door. It's locked, also."}

^{Now the slender woman came back into view. She tried to get into the barn, tried to get into a shed, then gave up, returned to her car, and drove back toward the road.}

^{"Go! Go! Go!" Rutherford shouted into his walkie-talkie.}

^{Abruptly, the countryside was in motion. Camouflaged men with rifles rose from tall weeds near the house. Vehicles that had been hidden on a nearby farm sped from that property and raced along the road, hurrying to block the lane. A faint drone became the growing rumble of two enlarging specks on the horizon: helicopters speeding toward the farm.}

^{The woman's startled face was visible through the windshield. Shocked by the sudden appearance of the camouflaged men, she urged the car forward.}

^{Armed men blocked the lane. The woman swerved into a field, desperate to veer around them. But now a dark van arrived, blocking the open gate. As the men with rifles converged on her, the car's wheels got stuck in the field. Tires spun. Dirt flew. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh saw that the woman had her hands to the sides of her head. She was screaming.}

^{"Hell of a start to the day," Jamie said.}

^{Standing, they brushed dirt from their outdoor clothes. From lying on the cold ground, Cavanaugh's knees felt stiff. A long time since I was with Delta Force , he thought.}

^{"You take the car, John." He pointed toward the back of the hill, where their vehicle was parked. "I need some exercise."}

^{"So do I," Jamie said.}

^{Rutherford considered them for a moment, then nodded.}

^{Descending through stiff, brown grass, Jamie told Cavanaugh, "And maybe you need a little more time to get used to coming back to this farm."}

^{"That too."}

^{The crunch of his footsteps seemed to come from a distance as Cavanaugh gazed ahead: past the cars at the entrance to the property, past the blue car and the men searching the distraught driver, toward the house, the barn, and especially the building next to the barn. He remembered being in the passenger seat as his mother drove him and Carl up that lane for their weekly lessons. Then Cavanaugh's memory was shattered by the roar of the helicopters landing where his mother had always stopped near the barn. Instead of two boys getting out of a car, men with rifles leapt from the choppers and scurried among the buildings.}

^{Wordless, he and Jamie reached the lane at the same time Rutherford arrived with the car. They stepped aside for a van that sped past them toward the house. Squinting in the cold stark morning sunlight, Cavanaugh watched the van stop next to a leafless oak tree, men hurrying out with dogs.}

^{Cavanaugh pointed toward the woman. She was outside the car now, slumped against a fender. "Jamie . . ."}

^{There were no other females on the team.}

^{"Yes, I'll talk to her," Jamie said.}

^{Taking the opportunity to postpone going up the lane, Cavanaugh watched Jamie speak to the armed men. When they stepped back, she went over and leaned against the car, mirroring the woman's slumped posture. The woman wiped away tears. Jamie approximated that gesture by pushing a few strands of hair behind her ears, using imitative body language to establish rapport.}

^{Amid the chaos around them, they spoke for several minutes. At first, the woman talked haltingly, but soon the full torrent of her distress poured out, Jamie listening sympathetically, guiding her with questions, nodding, at last pressing a hand on her shoulder.}

^{She returned to Cavanaugh and Rutherford. "Her name's Debbie Collins. She's a nurse in a doctor's office in Iowa City. Lives here in West Liberty. The rent's cheaper. Every morning, she checks if Bob Loveless–actually she calls him: 'Robert'–has any mail."}

^{"What was she doing with the doors and looking in the windows?" Rutherford asked.}

^{"That's part of her routine. She makes sure nobody's broken in, that everything's secure. In winter, she uses a key and goes inside to check that the furnace keeps the interior at fifty-five degrees and that the pipes haven't frozen."}

^{"She does this every day?"}

^{"For the past three years," Jamie answered. "Except when she visits her parents in Des Moines or if she takes a vacation. But she's never away for long, and she always arranges for someone to substitute for her."}

^{"They must be lovers," Cavanaugh said.}

^"No."

^{"Then he pays her, right?"}

^{"Sort of. A hundred dollars a month."}

^{"What? For doing this month in and month out for the past three years? That's hardly enough. You're sure they're not lovers?"}

^{"The opposite. He never tried to touch her. She wonders if he might be gay."}

^{"Then I don't understand."}

^{"A little over three years ago, Debbie was in a bar in Iowa City. Saturday night. A few beers after seeing a movie with some girl friends. Early December. The group stayed until midnight, then split up to go home. It started to snow. Debbie was parked on a side street. She hurried to get to her car so she could drive home before the weather turned worse. One moment, she was fumbling in her purse to find her car key. The next moment, two guys grabbed her while a third pulled up in a van. She struggled. They punched her. They dragged her into the van, and before the first guy could close the side hatch, his buddy was already using a knife to cut off her clothes. The driver started to speed away when all of a sudden another guy lunged through the half-closed hatch. The stranger knocked the first attacker senseless. When the one with the knife attacked, the stranger pulled out a knife of his own. Debbie says she can still here the scream when the stranger slammed into the guy, did something with the knife, and threw the guy out into the snow. Meanwhile, the driver stopped the van, jumped out, and ran away before the stranger could get to him."}

^{"Duran," Rutherford said.}

^{"Who, as far as she knows, is named Robert Loveless," Jamie continued. "The men reeked of whiskey. The knife they used makes her think they might have killed her after they raped her."}

^{" Then what happened?" Rutherford asked.}

^{"The stranger managed to get her to calm down enough to tell him where her car was. Her overcoat was in shreds. Her clothes were half cut off, so he wrapped her in his own coat and carried her to her car. Her purse was in the snow by the driver's door. The key was where she'd dropped it. He unlocked the car, put her in the passenger seat, got the car started so she'd be warm, and then told her he was taking her to the hospital. 'Not hurt,' she told him. She was thinking about being brought into the emergency ward half-naked. 'Then I'll drive you to the police,' he told her. She didn't want that, either. She'd still be half-naked, people staring at her as she clutched his coat. She'd been drinking. The police would probably think she'd asked for it. Suddenly, an engine roared. While they were distracted, one of the attackers had come back and escaped with the van. The two other men had run off. So now there wasn't any way for the police to investigate the assault. 'I want to go home,' she managed to say between sobs. 'All I want is to go home.' The stranger told her he'd drive her, but she was suddenly afraid to be alone with him. She told him that where she lived was too far, that she didn't want him to go out of his way. She kept insisting she could drive, so finally he got out of the car, and despite the storm, she did manage to drive home to West Liberty. The next morning, she discovered how bruised she was and fully realized how close she'd come to possibly being killed. She also discovered that she still had the stranger's overcoat."}

^{" Then what?" Cavanaugh asked.}

^{"Around noon, a car pulled into her driveway. A lean, lanky man got out and knocked on her door. The temperature was almost zero, but instead of a coat, he wore a sweater. Debbie was afraid to answer the door, but finally she couldn't bear watching him stand out there freezing, so she opened a window to talk to him, and that's when she discovered he was the man who'd helped her the previous night. It turns out he was so worried about her that he got in his car and followed her home, making sure she didn't have an accident or slide into a ditch. If she didn't mind, he'd like his coat back. Well, of course, she had to invite him in and offer him some coffee. He kept a respectful distance, taking care not to make her feel nervous about having a stranger in the house. She thanked him for going out of his way. That made him smile, and when she asked him why, he said he was surprised to find that they were practically neighbors. He lived two miles down the road."}

^{"Imagine that," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"When he reached to take the coffee cup from her, Debbie noticed the fresh bandage on his wrist. The man with the knife had cut him."}

^{"Imagine that ," Rutherford said.}

^{"So they became friends," Jamie continued. "He kept treating her with respect, never making a romantic move, although she wished he would. Eventually, he told her he needed to leave the farm for a while. He was a construction worker, but because of the cold weather, he'd been unemployed for a while, and now he'd learned that his father, who lived in Miami, was sick with emphysema, so he was going to Florida to find work and take care of his dad."}

^{"But would she please watch the farm for him, forward his mail, little things like that? He'd be glad to pay her," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"After all, it was the least she could do," Rutherford added.}

^{"So you get the picture?" Jamie asked.}

^{"Classic recruitment," Rutherford concluded.}

^{"Almost makes me proud of him," Cavanaugh said bitterly. "The guy's a natural."}

^{"Does she realize it was all a set-up?" Rutherford asked Jamie. "Duran scouted the West Liberty area, spotted her, found out she was single, followed her, learned her habits, and then paid those three guys to pretend to attack her."}

^{"She hasn't the faintest idea."}

^{"Nice to be innocent," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"I wrote down the Miami address where she forwards the mail." Jamie handed Rutherford a piece of paper.}

^{"And from where a drug courier probably forwarded the mail to Colombia," Rutherford said. "The question is, where is Duran's mail being forwarded now ." He pulled out his cell phone, pressed numbers, and began reading the address to someone.}

^{"The woman says Duran came back here yesterday," Jamie said. "He told her he needed to leave something for a friend."}

^{Cavanaugh stared up the lane toward the building next to the barn. For several moments, he didn't seem to breathe.}

^{Chapter 17.}

^{Brockman's legs and arms were racked with pain, his left calf muscle feeling torn, his right rotator cuff about to snap. The pain combined with his nausea and the heat from the unshielded lamps made him sweat so much that his shirt and suit coat were drenched. The strap that attached his neck to the spine of the flex machine made him feel increasingly strangled. The glaring lights hurt his eyes, but no matter how often he blinked, he couldn't get rid of the spots that the lights seared into his vision.}

^{Abruptly, the spots turned gray.}

^{They swirled and wavered.}

^{Ali slapped both cheeks with his leather gloves. "Wake up, Gerald! It's not polite to pass out when you've got company. Conversation, Gerald. That's what a guest wants. Stimulation. What I wouldn't give for an intelligent discussion about . . . oh . . . say . . . Rome four years ago. That Russian oil tycoon who was assassinated. Now that would be interesting."}