River of Ruin (30 page)

Harry smirked, as if he was setting up the French agent. “A minute ago you said that you’d take no chances if Liu had stolen the atomic fuel and stashed it someplace in Panama. What if the mine is controlled by Hatcherly and that’s where the helicopter took Mercer? Would you be willing to check it out?”

“It could have gone anywhere.”

“Too true,” White agreed. “But we have evidence that something about that mine isn’t kosher, a strange link between it and the warehouse. Remember the gravel in the warehouse?” The others waited expectantly while Harry drew out the moment. “Hatcherly isn’t moving it to a ship from the mine. It’s the opposite actually. It appears that the gravel is brought in on ships and is then transported
to
the mine.”

“Huh? Why?”

Looking around the room, Harry said, “Only way to find out is to go and see for ourselves.”

He didn’t need to add that his interest was finding Mercer, not why Hatcherly was playing bizarre shell games with dump-truck loads of gravel.

A blast of icy water exploding against his groin wrenched Mercer from a drugged sleep. The cold and shock following six hours of unconsciousness in a dank cell was like a hit from a runaway truck. Mercer rolled across the floor to get away from the jet of water but whoever directed the fire hose kept the pressure on, tumbling him against a concrete wall like a street cleaner moving a piece of flotsam.

A voice called an order and the streaming water stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Mercer forced open his eyes, blinking into powerful handheld halide lights that burned his vision like lasers after so many hours of darkness. He turned away and the blaze of red behind his lids faded as the lights were dimmed. He heard another command and boots moving away. Tentatively he levered open an eye again. His eyesight came back from beyond the blistering afterspots on his damaged retinas. The room was lit by a single-bulb fixture clamped to the ceiling. The halide lamps had been used to further disorient him. He wiped water from his face, allowing a little to trickle into his mouth.

Since his capture, he’d been given nothing to eat or drink. A hood had been placed over his head on the helicopter after he’d been given a hypodermic of sedative, the Chinese denying him a sense of place as well. They’d left him dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

His lower belly throbbing from the pulsing blow to his testicles, Mercer shuffled to his feet, watching for a reaction from the single guard left at the cell’s open door. The impassive Chinese soldier was in uniform and cradled a type- 87 bullpup assault rifle, the type Lauren told him meant he was part of an elite fighting force.

There was no furniture in the cell so Mercer leaned against the wall, crossing his ankles and arms in an attempt at a relaxed pose. A vortex of thoughts churned in his mind as more of the drug wore off, but it was important that he give no outward sign of his growing anxiety. He slicked back his hair with the palms of his hands and idly picked at a fingernail. His antics made no impression on the stone-faced guard.

Before he considered his own circumstances, his mind turned to Lauren and the others. He could only assume his sacrifice had guaranteed their escape. The Gazelle hadn’t circled back to the auto carrier and he hadn’t seen any other choppers in the area before he’d passed out. The Chinese couldn’t know how many people were with him, nor their identities. He had to keep that secret, he knew, but wondered how long he could maintain his silence. Mercer had no delusions about what was to come.

He didn’t know where he’d been taken—someplace west of the canal, but that told him nothing. If he didn’t know, it was unlikely Bruneseau or Lauren knew either. Meaning?

Meaning I am in some very deep shit because the cavalry won’t be coming
.

He was on his own and about to face an interrogation at the hands of a Chinese organization who seemed more than willing to kill those who got in their way. Thoughts of clichéd water-torture scenes from old movies filled his imagination. Mercer had no idea how long he’d be able to hold out. The reasonably high tolerance for pain he’d developed because of the dangerous nature of his work would do him no good if they used drugs on him. He’d read enough spy novels to know there was no defense against some of the exotic cocktails developed to extract information.

He tried to think if he had any advantages in this situation. Because they didn’t know if the authorities were closing in, the Chinese would probably want information quickly. He didn’t know if that helped, but it was something. He then tried to think what Liu Yousheng would want to know so he could then purge it from his mind. Liu didn’t yet know he had captured the man who’d foiled him in Paris, nor did he know the Foreign Legion was on to him. Mercer felt divulging his own identity wouldn’t matter but he had to protect Lauren and the others.

Why the hell had Rene gone into the camp?
Mercer wondered, then forced the thought out of his head. He had to clear it completely—erase the past few days in order to convince Liu that he knew of nothing beyond Gary Barber’s mysterious death.

For ten minutes Mercer made a show of ignoring the soldier, using the time to let his mind calm down and his body to recover from the fire-hose onslaught. Then came a commotion beyond the open door and a moment later another Chinese, this one dressed in an expensive business suit, entered the cell. Mercer gave him a passing glance, noting his slender build and rather tired eyes, before returning his attention to a particularly bothersome hangnail. He finally bit at the sliver of skin and spat it on the floor. A drop of blood welled from the tiny wound.

“Wouldn’t have a Band-Aid, would you?” Mercer asked, finally paying attention to the executive. He’d already assumed he was in the presence of Liu Yousheng.

“That cut will soon be the least of your worries,” Liu replied. “Do you know where you are and who I am?”

Mercer looked around the cell, as if seeing its utilitarianism for the first time. “Well, this hotel doesn’t look familiar, but you do. I’ve seen your commercials for dog food on TV. Aren’t you Pup E. Chow?”

“I expected more than insults from you, Dr. Mercer,” Liu said. “You are Philip Mercer, aren’t you?”

“Sorry. My name’s Al Abama, from California. I was taking one of those adventure cruises from Europe aboard a car carrier with my sister, Carol Ina. She lives in Wisconsin.” Mercer smiled. “Check the passenger manifest if you don’t believe me.”

Liu shook his head, as if disappointed in his prisoner. “Your acquisition of the Lepinay journal started out as a minor distraction in Paris. But suddenly you’ve become a rather significant obstacle. I’m curious how you accomplished this feat.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Interestingly,” Liu continued as if Mercer hadn’t spoken, “the two bodies we recovered at the lake don’t appear to be American. One had a tattoo we traced to a German motorcycle gang called
Das Gremium
on his shoulder. I had assumed you were working with the CIA. Maybe I was wrong. Care to comment?”

“Not particularly,” Mercer said, and then his voice hardened. “Let’s cut the bull. I know who you are. You know me. All I wanted was to discover what happened to my friend Gary. I know now that you had nothing to do with his death. It was a freakish accident. I have no quarrel with you, and if you let me go I’ll be on the next plane back to the States and you can do whatever you want down here. I have no connection to the CIA, the FBI or even the ASPCA. I can’t hurt you. There’s no need for you to hurt me.”

Liu almost seemed to consider Mercer’s plea. “It is possible that you are telling me the truth.” Menace filled his every word. “But even if it were, it wouldn’t matter. Your meddling has cost me too much already. More importantly, you have forced me to act in ways I rather wish to avoid. I prefer bank transfers and balance sheets, not bullets. It is because of you there has been so much bloodshed. I am working a business deal and you’re acting like an American cowboy, shooting first and asking questions later. Had you understood that my actions here will prevent countless deaths later, you wouldn’t have involved yourself the way you have.”

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Mercer invited. “Maybe we can come to an understanding.”

“That time is past.”

“Then kill me now!” Mercer’s startling shout rocked Liu back. “Quit these stupid games and put a bullet in my head. I’ve got nothing you want so end it right here.”

“Again”—Liu smiled, pleased at what he thought was the first crack in Mercer’s studied calm—“I don’t think that’s true either. I think you have a great deal to tell me.” He called out for more guards.

Mercer allowed the soldiers to overwhelm him, reserving his strength for when the interrogation started. A moment later he was cuffed to a stretcher and carried down a cinder-block corridor to another cell. This one was as cool as the previous one, making Mercer guess they were underground. The stretcher was placed on a metal table and additional restraints were put in place to keep him completely immobile. The guards cleared out.

Liu moved to the head of the table. “We won’t see each other again, Dr. Mercer, so I will do you the honor of wishing you a peaceable journey.”

From his supine position, Mercer couldn’t see the other man who stepped into the room but got a real bad feeling just from the distaste that showed on Liu’s face.

“You have my list of questions, Mr. Sun. Get them answered.” Liu stepped from the room, purposefully staying as far from Sun as he could.

A skeletal head suddenly loomed into Mercer’s view. Had Mercer been able, he would have recoiled. The face was cadaverous, sunken and shriveled like a mummy. Flakes of skin spilled off like thick dandruff. The man’s breath enveloped Mercer in a stench like rotted meat. Mr. Sun’s teeth were nearly black. Sun traced a finger along Mercer’s cheek, marveling at the elasticity of his skin. The finger felt like a claw from a dead bird. Mercer noted angrily that the man was wearing his TAG Heuer watch.

“I haven’t been friends with an American in a long time.” Sun spoke decent English in a voice filled with wonder, like a child’s. It made Mercer’s flesh crawl. “There was one we found smuggling weapons into Tibet about six years ago, but he could only be my friend for a little while so I don’t count him. My last real American friend was an air force pilot who came to me during the end of your war in Vietnam. We were friends until 1983.”

The realization that this Mr. Sun considered the victims of his torture as friends made Mercer swallow reflexively. Whatever psychological problems allowed Sun to torture another human had become something worse, he realized. Sun liked what he did, needed it, for all Mercer knew. Despite the cell’s low temperature, sweat began to run from his pores.

“My last American friend kept a secret from me at the end,” Sun continued, his black eyes losing focus as he recalled the airman he had mutilated long ago. “He let a fingernail grow without any of his guards noticing. One night he sharpened it on the wall of his cell and used it to cut through the tissue under his tongue. We found him the next morning. He had swallowed his tongue to suffocate himself.” He returned from the memory. “Toward the end, our conversations were not that good, but I still think of our earlier times together. I never figured out how he could keep speaking for so long. For years he kept it up. Remarkable.”

Mercer realized by “speaking” Sun meant screaming. The conversations were between Sun’s instruments of torture and the pain they invoked.

“Anyway,” the interrogator continued, “I have you now. We can’t be friends for very long, I’m afraid. Mr. Liu is pressed for time. Still, I think our talks will be interesting.” Sun unrolled a black cloth next to Mercer’s head. It contained a collection of fine acupuncture needles. Hundreds of them.

On the auto carrier, when Mercer had given himself up, he’d known something like this would be in store. He’d willingly traded the promise of torture for a little more time alive. Seeing Sun for the first time, and his needles, he wondered if letting those soldiers kill him wouldn’t have been smarter.

“There are many ways to get someone to talk,” Sun said conversationally. “The threat of death is usually enough for most people. Because of your situation, you know your death is inevitable so that won’t work. Mutilation is another way. People fear permanent injury as much as they fear dying. Again, permanent for you is only a day or two. Not much of a threat, eh?”

“Works for me,” Mercer rasped, his throat so dry it felt like he’d swallowed the contents of an hourglass. “What do you want to know?”

When Sun smiled, a shower of skin flakes fell from around his mouth. “I think you make a joke with me. Our conversation hasn’t even started yet. In your situation, my job is to make you believe that death is better than what I will do to you. To reach that goal you must first answer my questions. Answering me is the only way I will give you death. Do you understand?”

Sun didn’t wait for a reply. Using a technique forged long before recorded history he began inserting needles into Mercer’s body, first breaking skin with a quick flick of his fingers then twisting them deeper. Mercer had braced himself for pain but felt nothing but a minor discomfort as each needle was drilled a short way into his body. He felt no ill effects as Sun inserted forty needles into various parts of his body. Most were on his neck, chest, and stomach, while others had been stuck between his fingers and at each ankle.

“There.” Sun stepped back to admire his handiwork. “The meridian paths are open. Your body hasn’t been this connected to itself since it was just a few cells suspended in your mother’s womb. The needles allow impulses to flow so freely that your brain is actually working harder to maintain a steady flow of your life force, your
chi,
between all the newly opened locus points. It’s like a power plant that suddenly has to supply dozens of additional homes. Do you feel a little more tired?”