Black List (45 page)
“A-a-all of them.”
“You knew their backgrounds, their service histories, all of it; yet you believed every one of them was guilty of treason?”
“I-I-I—” he stammered.
Harvath interrupted him by raising the hammer. “If you tell me once more that you were only following orders, I’m going to fucking knock all of your teeth out. You killed people I care about. You
killed
them.”
Schroeder drew his lips in and closed his mouth.
“Smart boy,” said Harvath, dropping the hammer onto the tray. “Who’s Caroline Romero?”
Schroeder was afraid to open his mouth, but he knew he had to answer the question. “She-she-she—” he began.
Harvath had no idea the man had a stammer. At this rate, the interrogation could take weeks. The last thing he wanted to do was show him any mercy whatsoever, but it couldn’t hurt to pull him back a little
bit from the edge. “Kurt, I want you to take a deep breath,” he said, and waited for the man to do so. “Now take another.”
When Schroeder did, Harvath continued. “You lied to me and that’s why your hand is now broken. Are you going to lie to me again?”
Schroeder shook his head.
“Good. Take one more deep breath, relax, and tell me who Caroline Romero is.”
“She used t-t-to work at ATS. She’s dead.”
“You mean she was killed.”
“She ran into traffic and got hit by a-a-a car.”
“While being chased by ATS goons.”
Schroeder nodded.
“Do you know why she was being chased?”
“She stole data from ATS to help the Carlton Group with their attack.”
This guy was an idiot. “There is no Carlton Group attack,” said Harvath. “Caroline Romero stole that data to expose what ATS is up to. They’re the ones planning the attack.”
“ATS is planning the attack?”
“What do you know about a digital Pearl Harbor?”
Schroeder looked at him. “It’s o-o-one of the worst kinds of attacks we c-c-could face. A large part of what we d-d-do is try to guard our clients against a d-d-digital Pearl Harbor. It would crash the Net and bring the country to its knees.”
“So ATS is especially qualified to know not only how a successful attack like that would be carried out, but where the weaknesses in America’s cyber infrastructure would be.”
“Y-y-yes,” Schroeder replied as what Craig Middleton was planning began to dawn on him. “But w-w-why? Why w-w-would they want to do that?”
“That’s where Caroline Romero comes in, but first, where are the clothes you planned on wearing home?”
“In t-t-the coat closet. Why?”
“Because we’re all going to take a little drive.”
R
URAL
V
IRGINIA
T
he same tenant had rented the dilapidated barn and its run-down loft apartment for more than fifty years. In all that time, Tommy Banks had never told anyone about it, nor had he ever brought anyone here, until tonight.
The barn was an insurance policy; the kind that he had encouraged all of his students over the years to invest in. Some had listened to him, some had not. When transferred to permanent desk duty at Langley, or under the financial stress of raising a family, many had shut down their phantom bank accounts and had allowed their rental agreements at similar properties to expire. While Banks refused to judge anyone else’s financial situation, having an unattributed redoubt was like owning a fire extinguisher or wearing a seat belt—you might not ever need it, but the day you do, you‘ll thank God you thought ahead. Tonight was that moment for Banks.
Once they had successfully made it out of D.C., they had disabled the vehicle’s tracking systems, disassembled the white-haired man’s cell phone, and made their way to the farm.
They hid the Suburban inside the barn, and after cutting away the restraints at the white-haired man’s ankles, they pulled a hood over his
head, yanked him out of the cargo area, and encouraged him to walk up the wooden steps to the apartment by threatening to use the Taser on him again if he didn’t comply.
Once there, they secured his arms and legs to a sturdy dining chair, and Carlton used a pair of pliers to yank out the Taser’s barbed probes.
Near an old TV set was an equally old VCR and rows of VHS tapes. Banks was a fan of Westerns and WWII films. Carlton only wanted background noise, but he didn’t want anything that their prisoner might find heartening or inspirational, so he kept looking. He found a tape with Cyrillic writing and assumed correctly it had been from the Cold War days and was either research or material to keep Banks’ Russian language skills sharp. Either way, it would do the trick. Carlton slipped it in, turned on the TV, and turned up the volume.
With the white-haired man unable to hear their conversation over the TV, Carlton stood in the bathroom with Banks and explained what he wanted to do.
The only question the older man had was, “Hood on or hood off?”
“Hood on,” Carlton replied. “Sight deprivation increases the effect.”
“He’s a good-sized fellow. I’m afraid I can’t be much help with the up-and-down.”
“It’ll work like a fulcrum. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll do the trick. Don’t worry.”
“This is your specialty, Peaches. I’m just here to help carry your briefcase.”
With everything decided, the men walked back into the one-room apartment and their prisoner, whereupon Carlton cupped his right hand and struck the man through the hood against his left ear.
“First question,” Carlton shouted so he could hear him above the ringing. “What’s your name and who sent you?”
“Go fuck yourself,” the white-haired man said from beneath the hood.
“You first,” Carlton replied as he reached down, grabbed the man’s testicles through his trousers, and gave them a vicious twist.
The prisoner’s howl went from a low-throated roar to a high-pitched scream.
“You want to play cute with me, asshole?” Carlton demanded as he
let go. “I can do this all day long and it only gets worse and worse and worse.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re not going to disappoint me, are you? I hate it when they give in right at the beginning.” Looking at Banks, he said, “Heat up the iron.”
“Fuck you!
Fuck
you,” the prisoner spat from under his hood.
“You’ve never had your suit pressed while you’re still in it?” Carlton asked. “It saves a shitload of time, but it’s quite literally the equivalent of being burned alive. By the way, I hope you don’t have any polyester on. It sticks worse than napalm.”
“You’re a dead man! I’m going to fucking kill you! Do you hear me?”
“You hear
me,
motherfucker. I’ve planted more people than you can begin to imagine, and I have zero reservations about killing you. But get one thing straight, you are going to talk to me. Your men are dead and no one knows where the hell you are. Whether you get out of this alive or your heart gives out before I’m done with you, it’s your choice.”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Carlton replied. Turning to Banks again, he said, “Grab the bucket and those crates from under the sink and follow me.”
Carlton then walked behind the prisoner’s chair and, with an explosive show of strength, tilted it onto its rear legs and dragged it, along with its occupant, into the bathroom.
“You don’t fucking scare me,” the prisoner taunted from beneath his hood.
“Don’t worry,” Carlton replied, “I will.”
Banks stood outside with the bucket and crates as Carlton stepped into the tub and retrieved a block of yellow soap on a thick brown rope that was hanging from the showerhead. He then stepped out of the tub, moved around to the front of the white-haired man, and began beating him brutally with it.
The man was one tough bastard and didn’t even make a sound until the fifth or sixth strike. Carlton didn’t give a rat’s ass and let the blows rain down.
He wasn’t out of control. On the contrary, he was in complete control
and knew exactly how far he could push it. When he let up, the prisoner was in agonizing pain.
“What’s your name?” Carlton demanded.
The prisoner didn’t answer.
“What’s your name?” he repeated.
The response came, same as before, but with considerably less vigor. “Fuck you.”
“Fine by me,” Carlton replied. “Next circle of hell it is. Buckle up.” Nodding to Banks he said, “Bring in the crates.”
Sliding the chair up against the tub, Carlton squatted down, grabbed hold of the rear legs, and counted to three. In another burst of power, he brought the chair up, balancing it on the edge of the tub so that the prisoner was now horizontal, facing the ceiling. Banks stacked the two crates and placed them beneath the legs, so that Carlton could let go.
Out of breath, his pulse racing, Carlton leaned against the sink for a moment. He was about to say he was too old for this kind of stuff anymore, but realized he probably wasn’t going to get any sympathy from Banks and kept the remark to himself.
When he was ready, he snatched a towel from the nearest towel bar and traded with Tommy for the bucket. He didn’t need to step Tommy through the next part. As he was fond of saying, this wasn’t his first rodeo. He knew how waterboarding worked. And despite his age and reduced upper body strength, he could pin a restrained man’s head in one spot and keep a towel over his mouth long enough to get what they needed.
Simultaneously, Banks placed the towel across the white-haired man’s hooded face and Carlton turned on the tub’s faucet to begin filling the bucket with cold water. No sooner had they begun than the prisoner began writhing violently. He knew what was coming.
“Hold him tight,” Carlton said to Banks as the bucket filled. The chair was sturdy and well made. Along with the plastic zip-ties securing him to it, there was no way old Whitey was going to be able to break free and get away from them.
When the bucket was three-quarters full, Carlton turned off the faucet, leaned down near the prisoner’s ear, and soothingly shushed him. Once the man stopped thrashing, Carlton waited a beat and then whistled
the first few bars of “Singing in the Rain.” Immediately, the man began thrashing again. It was very possible that he was already prepared to talk. Carlton, though, wasn’t interested in “possibilities.” He wanted to be certain.
Standing upright, he went from whistling the song to singing it as he slowly poured water onto the towel over the prisoner’s nose and mouth.
The white-haired man’s previous thrashing was nothing compared to what he was doing now. Banks had all his weight against the towel, and it was everything he could do to keep the prisoner from twisting his face away from the flow of water.
Finally, Carlton stopped pouring, and Banks was able to remove the wet towel and straighten up.
Immediately, the prisoner turned his head to the side and began coughing and gasping for air. As he did, Carlton turned the faucet back on and began refilling the bucket. This time, though, he waited until it was filled to the top and allowed it to run over. He knew the psychological effect the sound of water overflowing into the tub would have on the prisoner.
After a few moments, he turned off the tap and started whistling again. He nodded at Banks, who picked the wet towel back up and got ready to press it down over the man’s nose and mouth. The prisoner, though, stopped coughing long enough to rasp, “Vignon. My name is Martin Vignon.”
A
NNAPOLIS
J
UNCTION
M
ARYLAND
T
he shootings at the World War II Memorial were all over the news. Craig Middleton didn’t need to wait for identification to know to whom the bodies had belonged. He also didn’t need to wait for the late Martin Vignon to turn up in a drainage ditch somewhere to know he was the man in the black Suburban that witnesses saw carjacked and driven away. Middleton had been able to pull up just enough footage via the local traffic cameras to put it all together.
That said, the coverage of the actual event was pretty lousy and by the time he tried to track the SUV, all of its GPS systems had been immobilized. He wasn’t able to remotely activate Vignon’s phone either. Reed Carlton and Thomas Banks, both of whom should have been playing shuffleboard somewhere down in Florida, had killed three of his security team, taken his security chief hostage, and had made a clean fucking getaway. He was beyond pissed off.