"I was in there for eleven days. Do you know what it's like in there? There's nothing refined about the Iraqi technique, nothing sophisticated. I was beaten every day, over and over. I was raped every night, over and over. I took it for eleven days, and I didn't talk."
"Everybody talks."
"I didn't. On the twelfth day, David Ogden got me out."
"Nobody gets out of there."
"I did. An exchange, the kind you don't read about in the newspapers. David Ogden brought me back from hell. So if David Ogden wants something… wanted… he's going to get it. No matter what."
"You're still going to have to tell me."
She shook her head and he saw the look in her eyes. He had seen that look before in the eyes of the righteous and convinced. He had seen it in the eyes of a backwoods preacher shouting down sin. He had seen it in the eyes of a twelve-story leaper at the moment when she knew that she was really going to jump. He had seen it in the eyes of an Afghani guerrilla about to charge a Soviet tank with a hunting rifle in his hands. He had seen it, and he knew what it meant.
She was still smiling. "Do you think you can beat it out of me? You're welcome to try."
"No, I'm not going to do anything like that. I don't have to."
He prepared himself for a Delta tap, a deep probe on all levels for as far as he could go. He went into her head, entirely focused on what he was doing. He never heard a footstep behind him, or any other sound. Later, all he could remember from the moment were the odors of fresh mint and newly cut grass, just before the world fell in on him.
He came up out of it with a bitter taste in his mouth, and his head throbbing like an angry pulse. He opened his eyes, and tried to focus. He was lying on the bed, and there was someone lying next to him. The someone felt like a sack full of sand that was pressing against his back.
"He's coming around, lieutenant."
There were two uniforms standing over him, and two more in suits. He tried to put a hand to his aching head, but his hands wouldn't move. They were cuffed behind his back.
"Keep still," said one of the uniforms. "Don't go moving around."
The other uniform was talking into a mouthpiece, and someone on the other end squawked back at him. He clicked a button, and announced, "Wagon's on its way."
Vince tried to shift his weight away from the sack of sand. The first uniform bent over, and slapped him across the face. "I told you to keep still."
"Lay off," said one of the suits. He squatted next to the bed. "Can you stand up?"
Vince mumbled, "What's happening?"
"Can you stand?"
"Why should I?"
"I'm gonna read you your rights, and I want you standing when I do it."
"What did I do?"
"Come on, get up. Big guy like you can stand on his feet."
The suit put a hand under Vince's elbow, and pulled him up. He stood next to the bed, swaying. The other suit was down on the floor. There was a pistol lying on the carpet, and he was trying to poke it with a pencil into a transparent bag. The first suit read Vince his rights, and said, "Did you understand that?"
"I heard it, but I don't remember it. What's happening here?"
"Turn around and take a look."
Vince stood without moving. He did not want to turn around. He knew now that there was a body on the bed, and he did not want to see it. He thought about the Mukhabarat and Number Ten Flowering Square. He had known her for only a few hours, but he still did not want to see it.
The suit grinned at him. "What's the matter, got the jumps? Big guy like you got the jumps?"
Vince took a deep breath, and turned around. The body on the bed was what was left of Carmine Giardelli. He let out his breath, and said, "When do I get to make my phone call?"
12
MARTHA and her five kids rode the double chairlift that serviced the north face of Hightower Mountain, rising up over meadows of spun-sugar snow and slopes that were dotted with skiers carving tracks. Martha rode with Lila Simms, George and Chicken had the chairs up ahead, while Pam and Linda rode behind. Below them the countryside stretched out in a checkerboard pattern of blacks and whites, its geometry broken by a snaking river and the coil of the highway that bent around the base of the hill. It was their first trip of the day up the mountain, and it was the sort of day that skiers cherish: fresh powder, clear skies, and an edge to the cold that sets the blood singing. A plume of snow from a neighboring peak was a feather in the cap of the day.
Lila, sitting next to Martha on the lift, pointed to the slope below where a pair of skiers were carving patterns. "Look at that," she said excitedly. "Fresh powder there. I want some of that."
"You'll get it," Martha assured her. "It isn't going anywhere." "
You get enough skiers on it and they'll pack it down to nothing." The girl was dressed all in blue: ski pants, parka, and knitted cap. Even her skis and boots were the same shade of blue. She waved her arm in an exuberant circle to take in the mountain, the sky, and the snow. "Fresh powder, I love it. Powder up to the hips, that's heaven."
"If you want really deep powder, you have to go west. Ever skied out there?"
Lila's face lit up. "No, but I'd love to. Do you ever take groups there?"
"Uh…" Martha had to recall her role as a guide. "Sure, once in a while."
"Do you think I could come along sometimes?" Lila flashed a bouncy grin. "I'd love to ski Aspen, or Vail, or one of those places."
The girl's good humor was infectious, and Martha smiled back. "Hey, we just got here. Let's do this mountain first."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound greedy. I know how lucky I was to get this trip, and everyone's been so friendly. Pam, and Linda, and George… and Chicken."
Martha picked up the hesitation. "Any problems with Chicken?"
"No, not at all. It's just that he's different."
That's for sure, thought Martha. "How do you mean?"
"Well, he's cute, but he's sort of crazy, too."
Cute? Chicken? What does this kid use for brains?
"He keeps looking at me all the time."
Great. I'm supposed to be keeping this virgin intacto, and one of my team has the hots for her. "Let me know if he bothers you. I'll keep him in line."
"He doesn't bother me." The sunny smile was back. "I sort of like him. He reminds me of someone I once knew."
And if he puts one finger on you I'll turn him into a soprano.
Lila giggled. "Not a person, actually. It was a puppy I once had. He was a cute little fella, but sort of crazy. Always peeing on the carpet or barking in the middle of the night. Crazy, but cute."
"And Chicken reminds you of…?"
"He has the same sort of look on his face sometimes."
"Some puppy," Martha said, laughing. "Look, I don't want to sound pompous, but we tend to discourage personal relationships on these trips. You know?"
Lila nodded solemnly, but Martha knew that the message had not gotten through. It was a disquieting thought, for a romance was the last thing that she needed right now. Getting Lila out of Rockhill had been the obvious opening move in a defense against Sextant, but Martha knew that the girl's vulnerability had only been lessened, not eliminated. She knew that she was up against an accomplished professional, and that any defense she might mount against Sextant would be no more effective than the tools she had to work with: four teenage kids without field experience. She damned the Agency for giving them a job with such unattractive odds, but she comforted herself with the manner in which most of the kids were conducting themselves. Pam and Linda had quickly formed a female bond with Lila, and George had assumed the role of the considerate, if disinterested, older brother.
The weak link was Chicken, who was so out of tune with the others. On the basis of his record at the Center, he had no business being on the job. His grades were poor, his attitude indifferent, and, most important, he was losing his ability to work head-to-head. Along with the other members of his class, he had arrived at the Center at the age of eleven with all the latent abilities of a sensitive, but during the past year, when those abilities should have been peaking, they had started to ebb. Often he could not hear what the others were saying when they went head-to-head, often he couldn't get through when he tried to speak to them that way, and always the effort was accompanied by a severe pain at the base of his skull. Chicken was on his way to becoming a deuce, a failed ace.