Synopsis
Book by Berry Steve
Extrait
ONE
copenhagen, denmark
tuesday, may 15
12:40 pm
Cotton Malone typed the Web address with trembling fingers. Like a phone that rings in the middle of the night, nothing about an anonymous message was ever good.
The note had arrived two hours ago, while he'd been out of his bookshop on an errand, but the employee who'd accepted the unmarked envelope forgot to give it to him until a few minutes ago.
"The woman didn't say it was urgent," she said in her defense.
"What woman?"
"Chinese lady, dressed in a gorgeous Burberry skirt. She said to give it only to you."
"She used my name?"
"Twice."
Inside had been a folded sheet of gray vellum upon which was printed a Web address with a dot-org suffix. He'd immediately climbed the four flights of stairs to his apartment above the bookshop and found his laptop.
He finished typing and waited while the screen blackened, then a new image appeared. A video display console indicated that a live feed was about to engage.
The communications link established.
A body appeared, lying on its back, arms above the head, ankles and wrists bound tight to what looked like a sheet of plywood. The person was angled so that the head was slightly beneath the feet. A towel wrapped the face, but it was clear the bound form was a woman.
"Mr. Malone." The voice was electronically altered, disguising every attribute of pitch and tone. "We've been waiting. Not in much of a hurry, are you? I have something for you to see."
A hooded figure appeared on the screen, holding a plastic bucket. He watched as water was poured onto the towel that wrapped the bound woman's face. Her body writhed as she struggled with her restraints.
He knew what was happening.
The liquid penetrated the towel and flowed unrestricted into her mouth and nose. At first a few gulps of air could be stolen-the throat constricted, inhaling little of the water-but that could be maintained only for a few seconds. Then the body's natural gag reflex would kick in and all control would be lost. The head was angled downward so gravity could prolong the agony. It was like drowning without ever being submerged.
The man stopped pouring.
The woman continued to struggle with her restraints.
The technique dated back to the Inquisition. Highly favored since it left no marks, its main drawback was harshness-so intense that the victim would immediately admit to anything. Malone had actually experienced it once, years ago, while training to become a Magellan Billet agent. All recruits had to take their turn as part of survival school. His agony had been amplified by his dislike of confinement. The bondage, combined with the soaked towel, had created an unbearable claustrophobia. He recalled the public debate a few years ago as to whether waterboarding was torture.
Damn right it was.
"Here's the purpose of my contact," the voice said.
The camera zoomed tight on the towel wrapping the woman's face. A hand entered the frame and wrenched the soaked cloth away, revealing Cassiopeia Vitt.
"Oh, no," Malone muttered.
Darts of fear pierced his skin. A light-headedness overtook him.
This can't be happening.
No.
She blinked water from her eyes, spit more from her mouth, and gained her breath. "Don't give them a damn thing, Cotton. Nothing."
The soaked towel was slapped back across her face.
"That would not be smart," the computerized voice said. "Certainly not for her."
"Can you hear me?" he said into the laptop's microphone.
"Of course."
"Is this necessary?"
"For you? I believe so. You're a man to be respected. Former Justice Department agent. Highly trained."
"I'm a bookseller."
The voice chuckled. "Don't insult my intelligence, or risk her life any further. I want you to clearly understand what's at stake."
"And you need to understand that I can kill you."
"By then, Ms. Vitt will be dead. So let's stop with the bravado. I want what she gave you."
He saw Cassiopeia renew her struggle against the restraints, her head whipping from side to side beneath the towel.
"Give him nothing, Cotton. I mean it. I gave that to you for safekeeping. Don't give it up."
More water was poured. Her protests stopped as she fought to breathe.
"Bring the item to Tivoli Gardens, at two pm, just outside the Chinese pagoda. You'll be contacted. If you don't show-" The voice paused. "-I think you can imagine the consequences."
The connection was severed.
He sat back in the chair.
He hadn't seen Cassiopeia in more than a month. Hadn't spoken to her for two weeks. She'd said that she was headed out on a trip but, characteristically, offered no details. Their relationship was hardly one at all. Just an attraction that they both tacitly acknowledged. Strangely, Henrik Thorvaldsen's death had drawn them closer, and they'd spent a lot of time together in the weeks after their friend's funeral.
She was tough, smart, and gutsy.
But waterboarding?
He doubted if she'd ever experienced anything like that.
Seeing her on the screen tore at his gut. He suddenly realized that if anything happened to this woman his life would never be the same.
He had to find her.
But there was a problem.
She'd obviously been forced to do whatever was necessary in order to survive. This time, however, she may have bitten off more than she could ever chew.
She'd left nothing with him for safekeeping.
He had no clue what she, or her captor, was talking about.
TWO
chongqing, china
8:00 pm
Karl Tang assumed an expression that conveyed not
the slightest hint of what he was thinking. After nearly three decades of practice, he'd mastered the art.
"And why have you come this time?" the doctor asked him. She was an iron-faced, stiff-bodied woman with straight black hair, cut short in a proletarian style.
"Your anger toward me has not waned?"
"I have no hostility, Minister. You made it quite clear during your last visit that you are in charge, regardless of the fact that this is my facility."
He ignored her insulting tone. "And how is our patient?"
The First Infectious Disease Hospital, located just outside Chongqing, cared for nearly two thousand people afflicted with either tuberculosis or hepatitis. It was one of eight facilities scattered throughout the country, each a forbidding complex of gray brick surrounded by green fences, places where the contagious could be safely quarantined. But the security these hospitals enjoyed also made them ideal for the housing of any sick prisoners from the Chinese penal system.
Like Jin Zhao, who'd suffered a brain hemorrhage ten months ago.
"He's lying in his bed, as he's done since the first day he was brought here," the doctor said. "He clings to life. The damage is enormous. But-again, per your order-no treatment has been administered."
He knew she hated his usurpation of her authority. Gone were Mao's obedient "barefoot doctors," who, according to the official myth, had willingly lived among the masses and dutifully cared for the sick. And though she was the hospital's chief administrator, Tang was the national minister of science and technology, a member of the Central Committee, first vice premier of the Chinese Communist Party, and first vice president of the People's Republic of China-second in power only to the president and premier himself.
"As I made clear last time, Doctor," he said, "that was not my order, but the directive of the Central Committee, to which I, and you, owe absolute allegiance."
He voiced the words for the benefit of not only the foolish woman but also the three members of his staff and two captains from the People's Liberation Army who stood behind him. Each military man wore a crisp green uniform with the red star of the motherland emblazoned on his cap. One of them was surely an informant-reporting most likely to more than one benefactor-so he wanted any account to speak glowingly of him.
"Take us to the patient," he calmly commanded.
They walked down halls lined with lettuce-green plaster, cracked and lumpy, lighted by weak fluorescent fixtures. The floor was clean but yellowed from endless moppings. Nurses, their faces hidden by surgical masks, tended to patients clad in striped blue-and-white pajamas, some wearing brown robes, looking much like prisoners.
They entered another ward through a set of swinging metal doors. The room beyond was spacious, enough for a dozen or more patients, yet only one lay in a single bed beneath dingy white sheets.
The air stank.
"I see you left the linen alone," he said.
"You did order me to do so."
Another mark in his favor for the informant to report. Jin Zhao had been arrested ten months ago, but had suffered a hemorrhage during questioning. He was subsequently charged with treason and espionage, tried in a Beijing court, and convicted, all in absentia since he'd remained here, in a coma.
"He is just as you left him," the doctor said.
Beijing lay nearly a thousand kilometers to the east and he supposed that distance bolstered this woman's nerve. You may rob the Three Armies of their commander in chief, but you cannot deprive the humblest peasant of his opinion. More of Confucius' nonsense. Actually the government could, and this insolent bitch should heed that fact.
He motioned and one of the uniforms led her across the room.
He approached the bed.
The man lying prostrate was in his mid-sixties, his dirty hair long and unkempt, his emaciated frame and sunken cheeks reminiscent of those of a corpse. Bruises splotched his face and chest, while intravenous lines snaked from both arms. A ventilator fed air in and out of his lungs.
"Jin Zhao, you have been found guilty of treason against the People's Republic of China. You were afforded a trial, from which you lodged an appeal. I regret ...
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