“I don’t know what you’re talking about. All we want to know is who you killed and when.”
Neser continued to smile. “Bullshit. The director of the FBI doesn’t bother himself with trivial little matters like homicide. What’s happening outside? Tell me, and I’ll give you a name.”
For an instant, Stanley was tempted. “What’s happening outside is that the climate has changed. As soon as we found out your real name, you became the property of the FBI courtesy of the United States Congress and House Bill 1278.” Stanley slowly relaxed himself into a chair opposite Neser.” We have a small project that you have just been enrolled in. I’m afraid that it’s very new. In fact, you are our first test subject. That’s why I’m here. Although I am curious to know what you’re talking about.”
Neser’s smile faded, and he tried to cross his arms. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
“You have nothing to say now; that’s about to change.” Stanley nodded to the med tech. “Last chance.”
Neser hesitated, the blood draining from his face as the tech began to swipe the IV with alcohol, preparing it for an injection. “What are you giving me?” His voice trembled very slightly.
“Sorry, we don’t need informed consent here. Tell me who you killed and when.”
The tech hung a second smaller bag of IV solution, only this was colored red.
“We’re going to need to restrain him better before I can give it to him,” the tech said to the director.
“For comfort or for effectiveness?” Stanley asked.
“This is bullshit,” Neser jeered. He didn’t think they would go through with it, but he was starting to have his doubts. Technically, even starting an IV was a violation of his rights, and they had done that without hesitation. Maybe this was more than just an elaborate bluff. He wasn’t a fanatic; he wasn’t even a believer. He was just good at what they needed.
“Effectiveness. I assumed comfort wasn’t going to be an issue today,” the tech answered, a little concerned that he had misread the director’s intentions.
“Definitely not,” Stanley said.
Two more men wrapped Neser in leather restraints, and he started kicking and biting. It took them two minutes to fully secure every joint in his body, and only after that did they force a bite block between his teeth.
“I believe that you are a terrorist, and you have been convicted of a felony in the United States. The American people no longer have permissive views towards people such as yourself. As a result, we have developed this technique to drain you of any secrets you are reluctant to share. It was derived from a compound used in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Cuba — only this is a more effective form. It does have a few side effects, however, hence the need for restraints.” Stanley nodded a second time and the new IV was opened. The red solution began to flow into Neser’s veins, burning them. He began to shake and scream. “I’m told it burns a little going in.” When Neser’s eyes and screams took on a different tone, Stanley stopped the infusion himself. “Something to say?” As if on cue, the bite block was taken out.
Fifteen minutes later, they had a list of seventeen names and dates.
“You’re a little scary, do you know that?” Stanley’s assistant director said to him just before they reached the elevator. “Would you really have given it to him?”
“I was a little disappointed that he broke so quickly. I wanted to see if it really worked.”
“It may have killed him.”
“It may have,” he said. They rode in silence to the top floor, and Stanley could see that a small crowd of people was waiting for him.
“Six matches,” a tall silver-haired man said. “We have them all in custody.” Six of the names Neser had just “volunteered” were among the 161 names on the “missing” list. “We’ve sent additional teams to search their homes.”
“If all six are correct, and we subtract Maria Belsky that leaves us with ten unaccounted for.” Stanley’s words burst the bubble of excitement that was floating through his office. It was the first break in the case, but they still had a long way to go. “How many of the 161 do we have?”
“That number is down by two. Rachel Hill and Peter Bilsky are accounted for,” a silver-haired man said. Stanley met him with a questioning gaze. “The man who assassinated the governor of Colorado. Of the remaining 159, we have 121 in custody. Most check out. Some were covering up felony convictions, and then we have eight who remain uncategorized. All six matches came from the uncategorized group.”
“So potentially we hold two more?” Stanley clarified.
“Yes. The search teams should have something soon.”
“Call me when you get something. Now let’s all get back to work.”
Chapter 49
We’ve covered less than half of New York City, and there’s only twenty-five hours left, Oliver thought as he walked up Eighth Avenue, just north of Greenwich Village. Greg and the two FBI agents were getting a few hours of sleep after eighteen hours of fruitless searching. Oliver couldn’t sleep. The stress, the consequences of failure, and the thousands of voices that assaulted him from every direction prevented even a moment’s rest. At least he could get a decent cup of coffee here.
“Thank you, Mr. Reisch, wherever you are,” said Oliver, toasting the sky and sipping the hot coffee as New Yorkers by the hundreds hurried past him. He pushed his way through the crowd like a local and had made it almost all the way back to the hotel when he felt a hand slip into his overcoat and pluck out his wallet. He knew what was happening even before it happened, and as the hand cleared his lapel, Oliver grabbed the wrist and twisted. His wallet fell to the sidewalk with a plop, and so did the well-dressed man in his thirties, but with a scream.
“You’ve got to be kidding. How old are you?” Oliver asked the struggling man. He was probably thirty years his junior, but Oliver held his wrist with a grip that would bend steel. The flowing stream of humanity had parted, and a crowd had begun to form. Even to jaded New Yorkers, the sight of a sixty-two-year-old priest maintaining a wristlock on a prone man half his age was worth a moment.
The pickpocket let out a string of profanity aimed at Oliver, and several people yelled to get a cop. Oliver finally let go of the man’s wrist, but kept a foot on his back. It took less than a minute for a patrol car to pull up, and two of New York’s finest began to wade through the crowd — except only one of them was from New York.
“A cop?” Oliver screamed three times, and the crowd began to back away from the suddenly irrational priest. “You disguised yourself as a cop? You fucking son of a bitch!” Oliver launched himself at the smaller of the two patrolmen. Several of the onlookers grabbed Oliver before he could reach the man’s neck. He was screaming obscenities that would make the pickpocket blush. “He’s not a cop!” Oliver finally yelled, and now the cop began to back away. “His real name is Essen Mohammed. He’s one of the terrorists.”
Oliver never knew how he got free. One minute he was being held by four men, and the next minute, there were over a dozen people sprawled out across the sidewalk. Mohammed had been thrown against a lamppost and had slid down onto the back of a parked car. He was alive, and Oliver was filled with a blind fury. Everything around him except Mohammed had disappeared, and righteous anger filled his heart. For a moment his mind was filled with glorious images of this man in the throes of a violent death; his agony feeding a hunger Oliver never knew existed. He stared at the wounded man and smiled. I’m going to enjoy this, he thought cruelly, and out of habit reached for his crucifix for strength. The feel of the well-worn metal broke the spell, and Oliver shrank back into his weary sixty-two-year-old body. A vision of Amanda and understanding both blossomed in his mind.