Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

“They’ll get the location of the safe house from him,” Joe said, “and he’ll tell them about us.”

“Not for a while,” G. W. said. He had the satellite phone out of the bag and was getting it set up. “Carmellini is tough. But eventually…”

“Find an open area and stop,” G. W. directed. “I’ve got to report in.”

Helplessness and frustration swept over me as they dragged me from the partially collapsed room into the corridor, which wasn’t in good shape either. That C-4 had really done a job.

Using just flashlights since the power was off, we walked the length of the corridor, into an area where I smelled smoke, then saw it in the flashlight beams. Apparently Joe Mottaki’s howitzer shells had done some serious damage. Actually, the main wing of the building, which was on fire, had been pretty much pulverized by the big explosive shells, but I didn’t know that then.

They led me across some fire hoses-those guys were still flaking them out, and they had no water in them-and down some stairs, then stuffed me into a van. I didn’t see Hazra.

Four men got in the back of the van with me. They had clubs, and every now and then as the van went through the streets one of them would give me a love pat with his to ensure I behaved myself.

As if resisting would do any good. The cuffs were tight, there were four of them, and they were not happy. They gabbled back and forth in Farsi, and I got some of it. I had killed one of them in the room with my pistol while we struggled, and there were two dead men on the stairs. Three dead. They were looking forward to watching Hazra cut me to shreds while I screamed.

That ride was the low point of my life. If I were a betting man, I wouldn’t have wagered a used condom on my chances of living another twenty-four hours.

Twenty minutes later the van stopped and they made me get out. I was going willingly, since there was no use resisting. They poked me with their sticks and whacked me some anyway.

We ended up in an ill-lit, wide corridor. We walked and walked, went down some stairs, walked some more.

My nose was full of dirt, so I couldn’t smell anything. Which was perhaps a blessing. I had been in third-world prisons before, and they stink to high heaven of human excrement, vomit and fear.

We went through some doors and entered a well-lit area that looked somewhat like a hospital emergency room, with gurneys and medical instruments. Then I saw the bloodstains, on the floor, the gurneys, everywhere. Here was where they slowly and painfully eased people out of this life into the next.

I was shoved into a large room with six gurneys. In my quick glance around, I saw that a corridor led away, and I glimpsed a cell. Two of the gurneys were occupied. I looked to see how bad these people had been treated.

Oh, my God! A woman lay naked, strapped to one gurney, and Ghasem lay naked on the other. They had been cutting on his legs and privates, and he had done some serious bleeding.

The woman saw me and shrieked, “No, no, no.”

Mother of God! It was Davar !

They must have known I was waiting for someone to remove the handcuffs so I could kill a couple of them with my bare hands, because they didn’t do it. I felt a needle go into my arm. Then the darkness came.

When I awoke I heard Hazra al-Rasid’s voice and tried to turn my head. I couldn’t. Some kind soul had placed a leather strap across my forehead, welding me to the gurney. My arms and legs were strapped down, too. I flexed them… and found that I was well and truly trapped.

I could hear Hazra-I assumed it was her, a female voice, in command and obviously enjoying herself-questioning someone, Ghasem, I think. She was questioning him in Farsi, something about a book, and his answers were shouts. No, no, no! Then he screamed, paused to inhale and screamed again at the top of his lungs.

“Hey, bitch,” I roared.

Her face appeared above me.

She was naked, as least as far down as I could see.

“I hope you have had a nice nap,” she said, and I felt her hand stroking my chest and penis. Apparently I wasn’t wearing a stitch either. “And awakened rested and refreshed.”

She smiled. “I have some questions for you, Mr. American Spy.” She went away for a moment and returned with my backpack, which she placed on my stomach. From it she removed my camera. “What did you photograph, spy?” she asked in good English.

She played with the camera a moment, looked at the photos that came up on the little monitor, then put it back in the pack. She had a great figure, nice chest and breasts, wasn’t carrying more than five or ten pounds extra weight.

“My, my,” she said. She began pulling out stuff, looked at the computer I had stolen from the Targeting safe and the three hard drives, fingered my pick pack and opened it, then rooted some more in the bag. She pulled out the small burst transmitter and examined it. “What is this?”

I didn’t say anything. I thought my goose was well and truly cooked. I figured she was going to kill me anyway, and the less I said, the sooner it would be over. To tell the truth, the idea of telling her what she wanted to know and going straight to the denouement, a bullet in the head, didn’t occur to me, then. It’s amazing how the human mind works, or mine anyway. Right then I was thinking about that son of a bitch Jake Grafton, who had asked me to go to Iran, and blaming myself for being so fucking stupid that I said, “Okay, yeah, being a loyal American and obedient civil servant with nothing better to do this year, sure, I’ll go.”

“You are just chock-full of secrets that I am sure you are dying to tell me,” she said with a smile. I like a pun as well as the next person, but I was in no position to enjoy that one. I didn’t like her smile either.

I had never been so scared in my life. I was literally trembling. Trying to get a grip, I asked, “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a nice set of tits?” I figured that any woman who likes to inflict pain while naked should enjoy a compliment like that. “I guess nice Iranian boys don’t say things like that. Of course, I doubt that you’re a nice girl.”

She smiled again as she put the burst transmitter back in the bag. “Oh, you and I are going to have some serious fun,” she said, and I almost lost control of my bladder.

She started talking about what she wanted from me-information on the CIA, our safe houses, other agents, and so on, all the while running a hand over my private parts. That was when I started doing some serious figuring. I had no doubt that she could inflict more pain than I could stand, and that I would eventually tell her everything she wanted to know… hell, everything I knew or could make up. This was when the idea of spilling my guts came to me.

“Maybe you and I should just sit down like adults and talk this over,” I suggested.

She squeezed my balls, hard, which hurt like holy hell. “How would I know if you were telling me the truth?” she asked. “I have a great deal of experience in these matters. When the pain reaches a certain level, everyone tells the truth. When they try to lie, I adjust the pain level to refocus them.”

“Better just kill me now,” I gasped out.

“And spoil all my fun?” she asked. “Oh, I think not.”

She gave my balls one last squeeze, which drew a grunt from me and caused every muscle in my body to contract as far as possible. She disappeared, although I could hear her somewhere in the room.

I was trying to get my breath when I heard a door open, then close.

“Major Larijani,” she said, her voice hard as a billy club. “I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed.”

Oh, great! Larijani was that ugly security asshole who worked for the MOIS.