'I don't know what this is all about.' Rayforced out the words.
The ice-blue eyes sparked. Otherwise, Perchek's demeanor remained unchanged.
'Then we shall help you learn,' he said.
He handed Orsino a length of twine andmotioned to the light fixture overhead. Once the twine was secured and danglingdown, Perchek turned to his valise. He produced a plastic bottle of intravenoussolution, connected it to a plastic infusion tube, and suspended it from thetwine.
'Zero point nine percent sodium chloride,'he said, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. 'Normal saline.'
He tightened a latex tourniquet just aboveSantana's left elbow, waited a few seconds for the veins to distend, and thenslipped in an intravenous catheter with the ease of one who had performed themaneuver hundreds of times. Next he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around theother arm and secured it in place.
'Listen to me,' Ray said, struggling for atone of calm and reason. 'Orsino, you've got to listen. I was setting up thatFed, Garvey. He was about to sell me some information on the new DEA strategyagainst Alacante.'
'You are lying,' Orsino said.
'No, it's the truth.'
'We shall see what is the truth and whatis not,' Perchek said, drawing up a slightly turbid solution into a largesyringe. He inserted the long needle through a rubber port into the infusiontubing, and taped the syringe to Ray's forearm. 'We shall see very soon. Mr.Orsino?'
Orsino knelt, positioning himself so thathis face was just a foot or so from Ray's. Santana mentally recoiled from theman's breath, heavy with the odor of cigarettes and garlic, and stared withrevulsion at the yellowed half rows of teeth.
'Names,' Orsino said, a small bubble ofspittle forming at the good side of his mouth. 'The Mexican undercover agents.All of them.'
Ray looked past the man to where Perchekstood. He wondered what awaited him within the tattered valise. Truth serum,perhaps. Reputedly, Perchek usually left the dirty work to his employers. Hisjob was to use his drugs to keep subjects alive and awake. But it seemed hardto believe the crass, slow-witted Orsino would have the patience and skillrequired to do an effective job of inflicting just the right increments ofpain.
'I don't know any of them, Orsino,' Raysaid. 'You've got to believe that.'
During his year of training with theagency, there were a number of classes the cadets had shared with their CIAcounterparts. One of them was formally entitled Dealing with HostileInterrogation. The trainees referred to it as Torture 101. The instructor, aformer fighter pilot named Joe Dash, had spent four years in a Vietcong prisoncamp. He had no eyes.
'There are three things you must alwaysbelieve when being hostilely interrogated,' Dash stressed. He believed thatthere were always three points essential to any subject. Three — no more, noless. 'First, that anything you are promised in exchange for answers isbullshit. Second, that if you don't give them what they want, they may decide tohold off killing you and try again another day. And third, and most important,that as long as you are alive, there's a chance you'll be rescued!
'We want those names,' Orsino said. 'Iswear, I don't know any of them. You've got to believe me.'
'There are three stages you should gothrough in responding to hostile interrogation. Each stage should be draggedout as long as humanly possible. First, deny knowing anything. And keep denyingit. Next, admit that you know some things but give them misinformation — especially if they'll have to spend time verifying what you say. The longer ittakes them to determine you're lying, the better the chance that you'll berescued — take it from one who was. The third stage is telling them what theywant to know. Whether you are forced to that stage or not depends a little onwhat you're made of and a lot on how good your interrogators are.'
Orsino reached out a meaty hand andsqueezed Ray's cheeks so tightly their insides touched. 'I'm glad you didn'ttell us,' he rasped. He stepped back. Immediately, Ray was transfixed by theice blue eyes.
'Do you know any chemistry at all, Mr.Santana?' Perchek asked. 'No matter. You may be interested to know the chemicalname for the contents of that syringe. It is four-chloryl, four-hydroxy,trimethyl, six-fluorodimethyl carbamate. Actually, there are two chemical sidechains as well, so the name is even longer.'
'I'm impressed,' Ray said.
'The short chemical name is hyconidolhydrochloride. A chemist friend did the synthesis, but my own research producedthe concept.'
'Bravo.'
'You see, Mr. Santana, at the end of everypain nerve in the human body is a chemical transmitter that connects it withthe next nerve and fires it off. The impulse shoots up that nerve, and anotherjet of transmitter connects it with the next. Et cetera, et cetera. Eventually — quite rapidly, actually — the message is transmitted from the point of injuryto the pain center of the brain and. . ouch!'
'Nicely put.'
Santana already knew where Perchek washeading. He was sure his understanding showed in his eyes.
'Hyconidol almost matches, atom for atom,the pain fiber neurotransmitter chemical. That means I can fire those nervesoff all at once and at will. Every single one of them. Think of it, Mr.Santana. No injury… no mess … no blood. Just pain. Pure pain. Except in thework I do, hyconidol has absolutely no clinical value. But if we ever do marketit, I thought an appropriate name for it might be Agonyl. It's incrediblestuff, if I do say so myself. A small injection? A little tingle. A larger one?Well, I'm sure you get the picture.'
Ray's mouth had become desert dry. Thepounding within his chest was so forceful that he felt certain The Doctor couldsee it.
Please don't do this, he screamed silently. Please. .
Perchek's thumb tightened on the plunger.
'I think we'll start with somethingmodest,' he said. 'Equivalent, perhaps, to nothing more than a little coolbreeze over the cavities in your teeth.'
The last voice Ray heard before theinjection was Joe Dash's.
There are three ways a man canchoose to handle dying. .
II
6 Years Later
For twelve years, the Jade Dragon on theUpper West Side of Manhattan had prided itself on exceptional food at veryreasonable prices. As a result, on an average weekday its 175-seat capacityturned over twice, and on weekends as many as five times. Tonight, a warmFriday in June, the wait for a table was half an hour.
Seated in his customary spot, Ron Farrellwas commenting to his wife Susan and their friends Jack and Anita Harmon on howthe place had grown since he and Susan had first eaten there almost a decadeago. Now, although they had moved three times, they made a point of coming tothe Jade Dragon alone or with friends every other Friday, almost likeclockwork.
They were nearly done with a meal that theHarmons had proclaimed as good as any Chinese food they had ever eaten when Ronstopped in mid-sentence and began rubbing his abdomen. With no warning, severecramps had begun knotting his gut, accompanied almost immediately by waves ofnausea. He felt sweat break out beneath his arms and over his face. His visionblurred.
'Ronnie? Are you all right?' his wifeasked.
Farrell took several slow, deep breaths.He had always handled pain well. But this ache seemed to be worsening.
'I don't feel well,' he managed. 'I've.. I've just gotten this pain, right here.'
'It couldn't be what you ate,' Susan said.'We all shared the same — '