Michael Palmer - Silent Treatment

'The Doctor will see you now.'

The moment Ray Santana heard Orsino saythe words, he knew he was going to die, and die horribly.

Ten hours or so had passed since hisadhesive tape blindfold had been ripped away. Ten hours of being gagged andlashed to a high-backed chair — his head and chin taped so tightly, soexpertly, that he could not move at all. Ten hours of listening to the mariachibands and singers in the street above and knowing that for all the good theywould do him, the revelers might as well be celebrating their Fiesta de Nogaleson Mars. Ten hours without seeing any movement except the comings and goings ofa huge roach.

The roach was an inch and a half long.Maybe two. It padded out of a crack in the mildewed basement wall and made itsway, in no particular hurry, to the floor. Ray followed the insect with hiseyes until it left his field of vision, and waited for its return. For a time,he wondered about roaches — how they had sex, whether they chose one mate forlife. For a time, he pictured his own family — Eliza singing as she whippedtogether her incredible paella. . Ray Jr. diving headfirst into third. For atime he thought about his life before Eliza — the Road Warriors, the drugs …his decision to leave the gang and try college. . the irony of his ending upas an undercover agent for the DEA.

Now, after ten meticulously careful yearson the job, he was about to meet The Doctor. And soon — very soon, he suspected- he would be dead.

For no reason that he could understand,things had blown completely apart. The end of nearly three years of work was athand, and it was time to put together federal indictments and call in thetroops. His cover was as deep, as airtight as it had ever been. The meeting toturn his evidence over to Sean Garvey from the home office had been set up withPriority One precautions — four hours of steady movement, half a dozen decoysand back-checkers, and a route along which it was impossible to be followed.But suddenly, Alacante's men were all over them. And in seconds, just likethat, it was over. Not one shot in defense, not one punch. Just. . over.Garvey had been hauled away to God only knew where, and Ray had beenblindfolded, crammed in the trunk of a Mercedes, and driven back into town.After an hour, he was dragged to the cellar of a house and then through a long,damp tunnel to this basement.

Ray wondered if The Doctor had alreadybeen to see Garvey.

Ol' Garves might hold off for a littlewhile in naming names, Ray figured. But underneath his slick veneer, he was awimp. The first sight of his own blood, the first hit of real pain — theelectric cattle prod or knife or vise or whatever the hell they used — and hewould be spilling his guts. He would give up every fucking name he could thinkof, believing in his heart of hearts that if he didn't cause Alacante's peopletoo much trouble, they might let him live. Wrong!

'. . Tijuana?. . Oh, that would be aguy named Gonzales. He's had a little fruit stand downtown for the past threeyears, but he's really a U.S. Fed. . Vera Cruz? Yeah, I know that guy, too.. '

Shit, Garves, I'm sorry, Santana thought suddenly. I understand. . What the hell. I'm a field man. You 're a suit. I can sit here like KingTut, thinking you're trash for giving in to them. But they haven't touched me yet. Besides, you don't know a tenth of what I do about the Mexicanundercover organization. And I don't plan on telling that part no matter what.My goddamn initiation into the Road Warriors was worse than anything thesecreeps can do to me here, for chrissakes. Just do your best, Garves. Just doyour best. Try not to make it too easy for them.

Another half hour passed. Possibly longer.Santana closed his eyes and wished he could just will himself dead. Or at leastasleep. The air in the basement was stagnant and heavy with mold. Sucking it inthrough his nostrils took so much effort that sleep was impossible. How ironic.After three years, he had amassed enough information for several dozen majorindictments. His only real failure was not pinpointing the famous AlacantePipeline — the tunnel connecting one or more houses in Nogales, Arizona, withcounterparts in Nogales, Mexico. Now, unless he was sorely mistaken, he had notonly found the Pipeline, he had actually been dragged through it. Eliza wasright, as usual. He should have gotten out while he could — started up thelandscaping business he was always talking about, and left the heroics to thecrazies. Now. .

There was a scraping noise behind him — aportion of the wall was being swung aside. Seconds later, Orsino came intoview. An Alacante lieutenant and a remorseless killer, Orsino had survived ashotgun blast that had left him without half of his lower lip and jaw. Whatremained of his mouth was all on the right side of his face. Ray wondered ifperhaps Orsino liked it that way.

'It is time,' he growled, with theinflated pride of a small man thrust into the company of a legend. 'Time foryou to meet The Doctor.'

An average-looking man in his earlyforties, medium height, stepped forward. His face was remarkable only for howcompletely unremarkable it was. Not handsome, but not unattractive. Nounusual features. No tics. No scars. Brown hair cut short. Hairline not receding.No glasses. He was wheeling a stainless steel cart on top of which was atattered leather valise. His back was turned to Ray as he flipped the suitcaseopen.

Ray's knuckles blanched as he clutched thearm of the chair.

'My name is Perchek. Dr. Anton Perchek,'the man said.

Santana's stomach tightened. Bile shot upinto his throat. The name was a death sentence. The Doctor. Everyone inthe agency — everyone in Washington — knew who Perchek was. But as far as Rayknew, no one had ever seen so much as a photograph of him.

'I can tell from your expression that myname is one you recognize,' Perchek said, favoring Ray with an enigmatic smile.'That's good. That's very good.'

Ray's mouth had gone dry. Anton Perchek,M.D., Soviet-born and — trained, had long ago left his native country. Now, hebelonged to no country and to every country. A true son of the world. For overthe years, The Doctor had built a reputation for being the best in the world atwhat he did, which was to keep torture subjects alive, awake, and responsive.He was seldom without employment. Sri Lanka, Bosnia, Paraguay, Iraq, SouthAfrica, Haiti — wherever there was conflict or political repression, there wasa demand for his services. There were even rumors — unsubstantiated — that he did occasional jobs for the CIA. A U.S. federal grand jury hadindicted Perchek in absentia for complicity in the deaths of several Americanundercover operatives, two of whom Ray knew well.

'So, Senor Santana,' he said, his Spanishunaccented but sterile. 'Would you prefer I address you in English?' He waitedfor a response. Then he turned and noticed the adhesive tape pulled tightlyacross Ray's mouth. He chuckled at his own oversight. 'My apologies, SenorSantana. Senor Orsino?'

His half mouth twisted in what might havebeen a grin, Orsino stepped forward and viciously tore the tape off — firstfrom across Ray's face, then from under his chin.

'So,' Perchek asked again. 'Spanish orEnglish? What will it be?'

Ray flexed the tightness and spasm out ofhis jaw. 'Your Spanish is better than mine,' he said.

'I've been led to believe your MexicanSpanish is quite good, actually — especially for someone from the Bronx. Butvery well. English it will be.'

His English, with perhaps the slightestBritish tinge, was no less fluent than his Spanish. Ray suspected that the mancould have conversed in any number of languages.

'I speak twelve others, actually,' hesaid, as if reading Santana's mind. 'Although my Arabic and Swahili may begetting a bit rusty.'