Buzzard Bay (46 page)

It was obvious his partners wanted Henekie dead as soon as possible, but he hadn’t told them about the money. Somehow, if he could get Henekie out and everyone thought he was dead… It was a long shot, but if he could lay his hands on that kind of money, he wouldn’t be working for these people anymore; they’d be working for him. Krugman looked at his watch; money or the thought of it always made him horny. He took off his clothes and carefully hung them in his closet.

“Are we done for the day, Karla?” he spoke into the intercom.

“Yes,” came a sultry answer.

“Then come in and take some dictation,” he said, settling down in his office chair. His receptionist had no illusions as to what Krugman had in mind. She lived very well; in order to maintain her lifestyle, certain things were understood. She entered his office and locked the door. He felt his cock stiffen as he watched her undress.

“You must have had a very productive day, Herr Krugman,” she speculated, running her fingers up and down his erection. Usually she had to use a little stimulation, but not today.

“I had a very stressful day, sweetheart. Right now, I need some relaxation.” She straddled the office chair facing him and pulled his face into her big tits, and then began moving up and down on his cock. He never looked up to see her eyes; it was just as well, or he might have realized it wasn’t him she was fucking. She was far away riding on a young boy wearing only his school tie, and teaching him everything she knew.

“Stand up when I talk to you,” the man in the military khakis barked at Henekie as he entered the room.

Instinct told Henekie to stand up and salute, but he controlled himself and casually rose to his feet. The man continued over until his face was inches from Henekie’s. Neither said a word, they just stood there eyeing each other. Henekie’s body language was submissive, but his eyes held the other man’s.

uddenly, the man grabbed Henekie’s throat. “You’re a murdering bastard, aren’t you? I’ve seen lots like you before. Those cold eyes tell me all I need to know.” The man released Henekie’s throat but didn’t back away. “You know you’re going to talk. I can tell you’ve been around enough to know what’s going to happen here. Why not just tell us what we want to know and make it easy on yourself.”

Henekie’s eyes never left the other man’s, but he kept quiet.

“All right, if that’s the way you want it. Looks like we’re going to get to know each other a lot better. My name’s Bernard, what’s yours?”

“It’s the same as on my passport,” Henekie told him.

“Ya, that’s what your soldier buddies tell me, but they also tell me you haven’t been in the field for a while, so where have you been these last few years? I guess that’s what we’re going to find out, isn’t it? Okay guys, take him down to the penthouse. This one’s going to play tough, so give him his needles and tuck him in.”

Bernard watched as his helpers escorted the prisoner away. He took no pleasure in what he did. These characters he worked on we’re usually either battle hardened or had a cause. They’d kill him as easy as look at him, but in the end they all talked. And usually their information was very valuable.

Bernard was Israeli and had been trained by the Mossad. When he had retired, he found his services to be in demand; the German army was the high bidder, and he’d been here ever since. No man could take what he did to them for long, but this one was going to be a challenge.

o then it began, bright lights would wake him, and then it was black. He’d wake up sweating; then they’d pull him from his bed and hose him down with ice-cold water, the blast so strong it would knock him off his feet. Again and again the bright light would wake him up until Henekie found himself lying on the cement floor.

Bernard picked him up off the floor by the throat.“I’m listening,” he told Henekie, and then he left him leaning against the wall and hosed him down with cold water again. It was the end of the third day when the warden came to Bernard.

“Somehow the media’s got wind that we’re holding this guy without charging him. I couldn’t get to work this morning because protesters were blocking the road.”

“Somebody is behind that,” Bernard responded. “People just don’t show up like that unless someone is instigating it.”

“That lawyer Krugman seems to be behind it. He’s representing Amnesty and wants to see our man right away.”

“He’s close,” Bernard told him. “You know if he talks we’re in the clear, and once he opens up I’m sure everyone will be appreciative.”

“You’ve got tonight, Bernard. Tomorrow I’m expecting Krugman to show up with a court order.” The warden looked over at the prisoner and shook his head; “Why would anyone endure that?”

Bernard kept up his tactics till about four a.m., and then he got desperate. “Booster cables,” he sounded like a doctor ready to operate.

“You sure he can take it?” His helper sounded skeptical.

“Fuck him. We’re running out of time. He’s close, we just have to put him over the edge is all.” Bernard picked Henekie up by the throat and dragged him into a chair.

“No, not the battery,” Bernard instructed. “Plug it into the wall.” He stood in front of Henekie, touching the cables together making the sparks fly. “Damn, this is going to hurt. In fact, it just might blow your nuts right off.” He raised Henekie’s head. “You don’t want to lose your balls, do you, Henekie?”

For the first time, Henekie squirmed; his lips trembled, but nothing came out, and then Bernard saw those cold blue eyes stare into his.

Bernard lost it, “You son of a bitch.” He clamped one cable to Henekie’s dick and held the other to the top of his head. Henekie’s body began to buck and bounce around in the chair; there was the unmistakable smell of burning flesh.

One of Bernard’s helpers pulled him away, then took Henekie’s arm, feeling for a pulse. “Jeez, I thought you’d killed him, Bernard. What the fuck’s the matter with you? He’s no good to us dead.”

“Give him an hour and then douse him with cold water. If he won’t talk then, I’ll give him another shot.” Luckily for Henekie, the warden showed up, putting an end to it.

The warm shower put Henekie to sleep, or maybe he passed out, but the next thing he remembered was lying in a comfortable bed. What had he done to deserve this? Had he talked? It didn’t matter; he was too tired to care.

The warden and Bernard sat talking to Krugman. “I know you have a court order, but there’s paperwork to do. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” the warden told him, trying to buy time.

“He’s no good to you now anyway.” Bernard spoke up. “He’s been singing like a little Birdie.”

“I don’t think so, or you wouldn’t be willing to let him go. Anyway, that’s not a concern of my clients,” Krugman told them. “I think the only reason you won’t let me see him is so you can get more time to make him talk, and that’s not going to happen.”

“He’s been very sick the last few days. He’s sleeping now,” Bernard explained.

Krugman was having none of it.

The three men stood looking at Henekie sleeping on the cot. “This is not good.” Krugman looked at the other two men. “Has anyone else seen him?”

“Just us and my two men,” Bernard answered.

“Jesus, what were you two thinking? It’s a little late now. How did you plan on explaining this?”

The warden hung his head. “I’m fucked. All the people that wanted this done have left me out to dry.”

“Yes,” Krugman nodded his head, “fair-weather friends. I’ve had a few of them, so that means you can authorize anyone to take him out of here if you want.”

“I guess, but I can’t just have him disappear. The Americans are coming in two days. I’ll have to sign him over to them,” the warden stated.

“How about signing him over to me?”

The two men looked surprised. “Why, so you can show the world what we’ve done?”

“Here’s the deal. My clients are the Israelis. They think this guy’s the one who assassinated that diplomat in Korea last year. They want him bad, and they’re willing to pay me big-time if I can deliver him before the Americans get him. If I can get a little cooperation from you guys, I think we can come up with a solution to our problem.”

Both men looked interested, so Krugman continued. “Suppose I made a statement saying that I was this man’s lawyer right from the start, but he wasn’t charged because other countries thought he might be someone of interest and asked us to hold him until he was properly identified.”

Krugman turned to the warden. “Anything international would have to come down from someone far higher than you. That should turn everything back on to your fair-weather friends, shouldn’t it?”

“I guess the thing is, can we really do this and get away with it?” the warden pondered.

“I’ll make a statement in the papers, and tomorrow morning we’ll appear on the front steps to show everyone that this man’s been released into my custody, and that he’s suffered no harm.”

“Tomorrow morning. How in hell are we going to get that man on to the front steps tomorrow morning?” Bernard wanted to know.

“That’s all the time we have. You’re the professional here, just rev him up because people have to see him. They’re not going to take our word that he’s all right.”

“You know, I think legally we can do this, but what are you going to want from us?” the warden wanted to know.

“If you sign him over to me and keep your mouth shut, you and I are even. As for Bernard here, I need him to deliver our man to the Israelis.”

Henekie had been briefed as to what would be required of him. They had put a hat on him and a big coat, now he knew why. The cold winter air that hit his face revived him to an extent. Bernard and Krugman walked on each side of him supporting him as they entered the top landing of the front steps.

He heard Krugman start talking, and then the crowd below cheered as Bernard prompted him to raise his arm. Then as Krugman continued to speak, Bernard steered him back inside the building and dropped him into a wheelchair. Henekie was wheeled into the underground parking lot beneath the prison where Bernard loaded him into a car, and they drove away.

Henekie tried to remember what Krugman had told him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. “He’s to take you to a building where he drives in one end, drops you off, and drives out the other end. If this doesn’t happen, you’ll know something’s wrong.” They continued through the streets of Munich, reaching the suburbs and then into the countryside; all the time not a word was spoken between the two men.

Henekie saw a car ahead with its hood up. Bernard pulled in beside the car and walked around to Henekie’s side, opened the door, and reached in to pull him out; that’s when Henekie shot him. He heard Bernard grunt then come back at him. “You son of a bitch,” was all he heard before he fired again and then passed out.

The pain between Henekie’s legs brought him around rather quickly. He clenched his teeth in pain as he looked up to see Krugman and a woman dressed in white. “I thought that might bring you around,” the woman in white said.

“What do you think? Did they fry his balls?” Krugman wanted to know.

Henekie realized they were talking about him, and he too suddenly became very interested.

“Is there anything left?” he whispered in obvious pain.

“That’s a good sign, he can talk,” Krugman smiled.

“I’m afraid he’s going to do a little more than talk before I’m done with him,” the lady in white was more apathetic. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she went on describing what she saw. “All the hair is burned off your balls, but other than that, they seem okay. It’s your penis that needs a bit of attention. If you had a foreskin, you don’t now. I’m going to have to graft some skin, but in time you’ll be back poking it in places you shouldn’t just like all men. For now, I’d try not to get a hard-on. It might be quite painful.”

“This is the doctor who does all our cosmetic surgery, Henekie. She knows all about pain. She’ll be doing a little alteration on your face as well as on your fingers and thumb. That should neutralize the pain between your legs, but long-term gain for short-term pain,” Krugman shrugged. “Of course this is all costing me money, so I think we should get down to business. Our deal was that for your freedom you would tell me how to lay my hands on a billion dollars, right?”

Henekie nodded his head. “You need to get me back into the Bahamas.”

“I think we can work that out,” Krugman said, scratching his chin. “We have a small import/export business in Nassau. I would guess we could get you in there.”

“What I need from you is someone who has experience hacking into computer systems,” Henekie whispered.

“Okay,” Krugman answered. “I have someone in mind that can handle that. We can work out the details later.”

“Have you taken care of Greta?” Henekie asked.

“How in hell did you know she was the one to turn you in?” Krugman seemed surprised. He went on, “She was her own worst enemy, and in the end she self-destructed. The story is they were keeping her in a high-security prison, making it virtually impossible for anyone to get near her, but she screwed two of her guards failing to tell them she was infected with the HIV virus. Seems she was found hanging in her cell, suicide they called it. You can draw your own conclusions.”

“And Bernard?” Henekie whispered.

“Ah, Bernard, what a fool. He thought he was going to take things into his own hands and rid the world of you. Of course that’s why I gave you the revolver. You put him in a lot of pain, and our guys finished him off. He was ex-Israeli, and that played right into our hands. The consensus is the Israelis kidnapped you and Bernard helped them. Of course the Israelis have denied this, but no one believes them. If the Israelis have you, then it’s assumed they’ll get what they want out of you and finish you off. Bernard will just vanish, which is exactly what will happen to him. This is a big industrial complex one of our companies own. We do a lot of recycling here. Right now Bernard is soaking in our acid pit. When we get a truckload of acid, we ship it to Poland. Everything toxic in Germany is shipped over to Poland. They don’t really care about pollution, and it’s a cheap way to get rid of our waste. No one wants to get too close to our trucks, so they cross the border virtuously without scrutiny. We have a compartment built into the tanks for shipping toxic people such as yourself. Bernard may well be floating in the acid tank behind you. Whatever is left of him will probably be flushed down a sewer drain or end up spread on some Polack’s field.” Krugman smiled, “I’m telling you this because it will be your fate if you’ve been lying about the money.”