The man in front opened a door off the passageway, held it and motioned her through.
A man sat behind a small desk. He was not Chinese; European, perhaps, of medium height and weight, perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds. With a bony head and thin face and pinched nostrils.
“Sit,” he said in English, and she took the only empty chair.
The two men who had brought her came into the small room — which was no bigger than the stateroom where she had spent the day — and stood with their backs to the door.
“Mrs. Grafton,” the man said and pushed a sheet of paper and ballpoint pen an inch or two toward her. “We wish you to write a statement.”
Russian. With that accent, he was a Russian.
She made no effort to pick up the pen.
The Russian waited a few seconds, then said, “Pick up the pen. You will write with it.”
When Callie failed to obey he reached across the desk and slapped her, a stinging slap. He was remarkably quick with his hands.
Tears came to her eyes, which infuriated her. She sat there staring into his face through her tears.
“Perhaps I should explain. Pick up the pen or we will break your left arm.”
She reached for the thing, got it in her right hand, put both hands back in her lap.
“Very good,” the Russian said. “A first step. We make progress.”
He leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. “Before you begin writing, I will explain what we want. You listened to a tape that was recorded in the library of China Bob Chan the evening that he died. There were various conversations on the tape. Who were the people talking and what did they say?”
She looked at the pen in her right hand, so she didn’t see the slap coming. God, the man was quick as a cat.
“Look at me, Mrs. Grafton. I am not nice. Nice is not a thing I have. I want something from you and I will hurt you to get it. I will cut your face, break your bones, break your head, cut out your eyes, watch men rape you… whatever it takes. I do not care if you live or die. Do you understand me?”
She nodded.
“Good. Very good!” the Russian said. He folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Did you listen to the tape?”
She decided not to talk. If you don’t resist evil you become a part of it, she told herself. She saw the slap coming and went with it, but still the blow numbed her face. And another. And yet again.
She felt herself starting to go out, slipping away. Her eyes refused to focus.
Hands grabbed her roughly, held her in the chair. When she could focus again Wu was there, with a man on each side holding him. Wu’s hands were bound by plastic ties and the ties were secured to his belt.
“Mrs. Grafton,” the Russian said carefully. “Listen to me. I want to know what you know. If you do not talk, I will kill this man who spent the afternoon with you.” That said, he drew a knife and inserted the point into Wu’s arm. The color drained out of Wu’s face, but he said nothing.
“He is very tough,” the Russian said, grinning at Callie. “But he bleeds.” He made a lengthwise cut in the man’s arm about four inches long and wiped the knife on her blouse. “If you do not answer my questions I am going to cut him into little pieces and feed him to the fish.”
He was as good as his word. He slowly inserted the knife into Wu’s bicep, at least an inch deep, and slowly drew it down toward his elbow as the blood welled from the cut.
“I’ll talk,” Callie said, unable to watch.
“Where is the tape now?”
“My husband has it.”
“Who brought you the tape?”
“Tommy Carmellini.”
“Is Carmel — is he CIA?”
“Yes.”
“Does your husband work for CIA?”
“Navy. He is in the navy.”
“Why did Carmel bring him the tape?”
“Because I speak Chinese and Carmellini doesn’t.”
The Russian thought about that for a moment, then went on. “Did you hear China Bob Chan on the tape?”
“I think so.”
“Virgil Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
He lunged for her, his hand swinging, and she jerked back. One of the men behind her grabbed her hair.
The Russian slapped her, then said again, “Who else?”
“I didn’t recognize the other voices.”
The Russian glanced at the man behind her, and he released her hair.
She had cut her tongue on the inside of her mouth. The blood tasted coppery and felt slimy, and she had to swallow it.
“I am going to ask a question, Mrs. Grafton. I want the truthful answer. No lies, please. Lies will be very bad for you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” This time it came out a whisper. Blood was still streaming from Wu’s wounds and dripping on the deck.
“Who killed China Bob Chan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Mrs. Grafton, I hoped I would not need to hurt you, and now you lie to me. Too bad, too bad.”
The Russian came around the desk and reached for her. Callie spit blood in his face. When he blinked and drew back to avoid it, she slashed at his face with the ballpoint.
One of the men behind her jerked her half out of the chair, turned her, and hit her so hard she passed out.
When she came to she was in a cold, cold place, in absolute darkness. She felt around her… and felt something cold, like cold, dead flesh.
She was in a meat locker.
And she was freezing. Sore, not completely conscious, she curled up in a fetal position to try to conserve her body heat.
Rip Buckingham wanted to talk. He had been carrying this great burden in his breast for months and months and finally here was someone he could tell, someone who also had a huge stake in how the tale would end, someone with whom he could share his fears.
He started by telling Jake everything he knew about Sonny Wong, and then he couldn’t stop. He told him about Lin Pe and Sue Lin and Wu Tai Kwong, about Wu’s romance with the British SIS agent Kerry Kent, told him how Kerry approached Virgil Cole and asked for his help, how Cole agreed to help fund the revolution and teach key cell members the fundamentals of cyberwarfare.
“Soon,” Rip said. “Very soon. The revolution will start and the world as we know it will come to an end.”
Jake Grafton listened without saying a word. He knew some of it, surmised more, but Rip filled in the gaps and made the story whole.
“They are going to find out who Wu really is and come for Lin Pe and Sue Lin. They are going to drag them off to prison, strangle them. The Chinese think like that. If I can’t shoot you I’ll piss in your well and strangle your mother.”
“And the women refused to leave,” Jake suggested.
“How did you know?”
“If they had agreed you wouldn’t still be here, would you?”
“I suppose not.”
“How soon is soon?”
“Tonight maybe. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. I don’t know, but it’s got to happen quickly.”
“Does this Sonny Wong know the timetable?”
“Only if he has a spy at the very top levels of the Scarlet Team. Each cell has a name. The top one is the Scarlet Team.”
“How do you start a revolution, anyway?”
“Wu never told me. He didn’t want me to know too much.”
“Well, let’s you and me go see if we can find Mr. Wong.”
Rip didn’t think much of that idea. “He won’t have Callie or Wu with him,” he objected.
“I want to see him.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to the man,” Jake explained. “Give him a reason not to harm Callie.”
“Sonny isn’t the kind of man who is easily convinced of anything,” Rip explained. “Especially where money is involved. Talking won’t do any good.”
“That depends on what we say,” Jake said patiently. “And how we say it. You’ll see. I’m fairly good at delivering messages.”