The man carrying the tray stepped into the semicircle formed by the sofa, stopped in front of Garth. Al took one of the cups, held it to Garth's lips. Garth turned his head away, and Al put his free hand on the back of Garth's neck.
"Don't do that," I said quickly to Al. "Garth, drink it, for Christ's sake. We can't be in any worse shape than we're in, and you'll end up drinking the shit anyway. Save yourself a lot of suffering."
My brother glanced at me, anger and frustration in his eyes. Al took his hand away from Garth's neck, again offered him the steaming cup. Garth drank whatever was in it, grimaced. The man moved on to Insolers, then Veil.
I was the last in line. The bluish-green liquid smelled and tasted like a burning tire dump, and when I swallowed the thick, greasy brew, I did some grimacing of my own. It left a distinct aftertaste of rotting meat. My stomach immediately began to churn, and I was afraid I was going to be sick. I wasn't, but I remained just at the edge of vomiting, and it was only by concentrating my attention on a shelf of books across the room and taking measured, deep breaths that I was able to keep the contents of my stomach down. From the distressed looks on my companions' faces, I could tell we were all experiencing the same sensation. If the thoroughly nauseating brew was supposed to be some kind of truth drug, I much preferred sodium pentothal.
Al placed a chair in the space between the two ends of the sofa, sat down, and casually crossed his legs. "Now," he said easily, "I believe we're ready to begin our interrogation. Before I ask my questions, let me warn you that the tasty beverage you've just consumed will betray you at once if you attempt to lie. Then you will be punished. However, if you simply relax and answer my questions truthfully, you will be all right. We will begin with. . you." He turned slightly, pointed his index finger at Duane Insolers. "You work for the Central Intelligence Agency. I would like to know what position you hold, and precisely what it is you do."
"I'm a station officer. I-"
Insolers suddenly stopped speaking and gasped, as if his breathing had been cut off. His eyes went wide, and his face drained of color. He barely managed to turn his head to one side before vomiting onto his left shoulder. He continued to vomit until all he could produce were dry heaves, and then he again began gasping for breath. After he had recovered, Al unhurriedly rose from his chair, stepped close to Insolers, and put a hand on the back of his neck. I turned my head away and closed my eyes as Insolers screamed.
At Al's signal one of the uniformed men went to the pantry, returned a few moments later with a towel, which he used to clean the vomit off Insolers and the sofa. Insolers' head was bowed, his breathing ragged. I doubted very much that he wanted to repeat the experience.
Al touched him gently on the forehead, and Insolers flinched. "You were saying. .?"
"I'm. . deputy director of operations," Insolers murmured.
Now, there was a surprise, and a glance at Garth and Veil confirmed that they were as astonished as I was. It seemed absolutely incredible that one of the top men in the CIA, the big spook in charge of all the little spooks, should be off the reservation, traipsing around Switzerland, alone, where he would be fair game for enemy operatives, or jokers in the deck like Al and his glum chums. The position of deputy director of operations was so sensitive that the officeholder's photograph was never even published. Information obtained from Insolers could close down dozens of networks, our own and our allies'.
"Why are you here?"
"Looking … for Sinclair. Just like you, you-son-of-a-bitch."
"The deputy director of operations is a very important man. Why were you assigned to this?"
"Assigned. . myself."
"To kill him?"
"To warn him. There's something going on. . special assassin with special knowledge about him. I thought I would be able to contact him, or that he'd contact me if he found out I was looking for him."
"Why should you take such risks to help this man?"
"I owe him. He's the reason I'm DDO. And. . he's a good man."
Al giggled. "A good man? How quaint. Does your presence here have anything to do with us?"
"No. I've never heard of you."
Duane Insolers might hold a lot of the nation's most important secrets in his head, but Black Flame-or Al, at least-didn't show any interest at all in probing for them. Al's one and only interest seemed to be John Sinclair, and all of his remaining questions were focused directly on that single subject.
After Al had finished draining the CIA's deputy director of operations of all the information he wanted, he continued around the circle. As with Insolers, all of his questions were focused on the object of his obsession-our relationship to John Sinclair, what we knew about him, and our reasons for being in Switzerland.
It didn't take Black Flame's boyish leader long to finish with Garth, Harper, Veil, and me, but Jan Rawlings was another matter. Despite what she'd witnessed when Insolers had tried to lie, she started out by trying to conceal the truth, and immediately paid the price. And then, incredibly, she tried again. She ended her agony exhausted and sobbing, her screams echoing in the vast library, the contents of her stomach spilled into her lap. Finally she broke, and along with Al we learned all of John Sinclair's secrets that had been so artfully hidden for more than twenty years-his residences around the world, the many identities he had assumed, all of the people he knew, and who had helped him in the past. In the end, both Jan Rawlings and John Sinclair had been stripped naked. At a nod from Al, one of his men brought more towels and began to clean the woman. Jan turned her head away and continued to cry.
After ninety minutes or so, the effects of both the paralyzing drug and the brew from hell began to wear off. Feeling came first to my fingers and toes and then slowly returned to the rest of my body. My mouth continued to taste of rotting meat. Six straight-backed chairs were brought into the room, and we were all tied into them-with special attention being paid to the ropes and knots binding Veil. Each of us was allowed, temporarily, to keep one hand free, and, to my surprise, we were provided with hot, invigorating tea-which dissolved the bad taste in my mouth- water, and food. But I knew this was a utilitarian, not humanitarian, gesture. There was no kindness, no mercy, in the doll's button eyes of the man in the Harvard sweatshirt and his men. Al simply wanted our bodies and minds brought back up to speed for whatever other trials he had in mind for us. I did not find that thought comforting.
"John Sinclair's father approached my grandfather," the man who called himself Al said in an easy, conversational tone. He was sitting in the curve of the sofa facing us, his legs crossed, his arms folded across his chest. The other men had left the room, and I presumed they had taken up various positions around the castle to wait for the guest of honor to arrive.
"I am told the father was a most remarkable man. For a Westerner, he had a deep and subtle understanding of Japanese culture. I was very young, in a private school here in Switzerland, when these events occurred, so I never met the man; I do not know how he first heard of my grandfather, or precisely what he thought my grandfather could offer his son. My grandfather practiced the art of the chameleon, and wore many masks; different people saw him in different colors. On the face of things, Henry Sinclair wanted Master Bai, my grandfather, to teach his son the way of the ninja, as if there were any one such thing, and he offered to pay a large sum of money. It seemed John Sinclair was exceptionally gifted in the martial arts even as a teenager, and when Master Bai witnessed a demonstration of the young man's skills, he accepted both the money and the youth. It is most unlikely that either Henry or John Sinclair knew that my grandfather was the highest sensei of Black Flame, or understood that Black Flame acolytes must pass a final test-murder an innocent-or be killed themselves. Black Flame does not hand out promotional literature or administer written application tests.