Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

Rapp tried to focus on his next step, but couldn’t get his mind off what Brooks had said. He’d allowed a twenty-something rookie to get under his skin to the point where he’d actually thought of hitting her just to get her to shut up. She’d driven him out of the windowless cabin and back into the cargo hold, simply because he didn’t want to hear another word. He was not well. He knew it. He just didn’t want to hear it. Especially from someone he barely knew.

With two hours left in the flight he could think of only one excuse to get away from her. The unofficial manual on interrogation was pretty straightforward when it came to a situation where time was not critical. You softened up the detainee by stripping them of all sense of time and place, while at the same time building up a dossier on their history. Then you carefully crafted your plan of attack in the same way a prosecutor prepares to question a defendant at trial. Except in this situation there is no defense attorney to object and no judge to sustain the objection.

You start by asking only questions that you already know the answer to. That way if the detainee lies, you have grounds to make him uncomfortable until he tells you the truth. When he finally does, you move on to the next question. If he is honest, you move on again. If he lies, the pain/pleasure principle is put in to play. This continues until a pattern of honesty is developed and then you begin with the important stuff.

Usually twenty-four hours was the minimum time needed to properly disorient a subject. Gazich had been in the container going on thirteen hours. Not ideal, but then again the man had four gunshot wounds to very sensitive areas of the body. His last morphine shot had been delivered on the tarmac in Germany. Right about now, the drug would be wearing off and the pain would be hitting him in waves-increasing in frequency and strength.

Rapp approached the aluminum box and grabbed the handle. The front wall was basically two interlocking doors. Rapp was not worried that Gazich would be able to make any attempt at escape. He twisted the handle, spun it ninety degrees, and then swung the right door open. The inside of the door, as well as the rest of the container, was lined with gray acoustic foam. The box was five feet deep by eight feet wide. Rapp grabbed the other door and opened it as well.

Light spilled into the dark chamber throwing Rapp’s shadow onto Gazich’s body. The Bosnian was lying on a nylon field stretcher that sat only a few inches off the ground. His pants had been cut away so Stroble could clean and dress the gunshot wounds to his knees. Rapp looked at the bandages. They were clean and white. No sign of blood. Four wide straps secured Gazich to the stretcher as well as two wrist cuffs. Even if he were healthy he would have a hard time breaking free. With the wounds to his knees and hands it was hopeless.

Gazich squinted and turned his head just enough to look at the shadowy figure before him. “Is it time for my in-flight meal?”

Rapp laughed. “Yeah…filet mignon accompanied with a first-class Cabernet.”

“I prefer Bordeaux.”

“Great. So in addition to being a terrorist you’re also a wine snob.”

“No. I just hate America.” Gazich smiled showing off a slight gap between his top two teeth.

The fact that Gazich might harbor ill will toward the United States was something he had not considered. “So you have a beef with America?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“No. Actually we get along pretty well with most people.” As Rapp’s eyes adjusted to the change in light he could see that Gazich was sweating. “Would you like another shot of morphine?”

Gazich hesitated. He was not stupid. He had a fairly good idea how this game was played. “Not very sporting of you, the way you sneaked up behind me.”

“Back in Cyprus?”

“You hid behind that doorframe like a woman. The same way your pilots like to drop bombs from the sky.”

Rapp laughed. “Yeah, you Bosnians are famous for fighting fair. Is that what you were doing when you rounded up all those innocent Muslim women and children and slaughtered them?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“So you’re not a Bosnian?” Rapp asked in a sarcastic voice.

“I am Greek.”

Rapp shook his head. “You’re a liar. And a bad one at that, but I’ll play along with you for a while. What were those Russians doing in your office last night?”

“I don’t know. I have never seen them before.”

“So the guy on the street. The one sitting in the front seat of the parked car…you just shot him for no reason.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

For the first time Rapp was starting to think that Gazich might not be very smart. “I watched you walk down the street, stroll up to the open window, and shoot the man twice in the heart. And then you stood there and talked to him for a while before you took off and did your little dance across the roof tops.”

Gazich squirmed under the straps. After a long moment he said, “It was a disagreement.”

“So you do know them?”

“No.”

“Who was the disagreement between then?”

“A friend of mine and those Russian gangsters.”

Rapp eyed Gazich with suspicion. He wondered for a moment if it was possible that the attack in America and the Russians showing up in Cyprus were in fact unrelated. Once he started with the Russian he’d get to the bottom of it. The man would not be hard to break.

“The café owner?”

“Yes.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why?” Gazich shut his eyes as he was hit with a wave of pain.

“The café owner says those Russians were looking for you.”

“He’s not all right in the head. He owed them money. They were threatening him, so I stepped in to help him out. We Greeks stick together.”

Rapp looked down at him, his patience quickly running out. He squatted down on his haunches and said, “I’m not a particularly patient man, so I’m going to get down to business. I know who you are. I know you’re not Greek, I know that those Russians were sent to Cyprus to kill you, and I know you were in Washington two and a half months ago.”

“I’m afraid you are confused.”

“Confused.” Rapp chewed on the word for a moment. “I’m a lot of things, but confused is not one of them. I’ll tell you what I am, though. I’m the last man on the planet that you want to piss off any further than you already have. I don’t enjoy this shit, but each time you jerk me off with one of your bullshit answers, I lose what little sympathy I have for you.”

“You don’t strike me as the caring type anyway.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Do you care about the truth? About justice? Are you open to the idea that maybe your cocksure American attitude has blinded your judgment? Do you think it’s possible that maybe I’m not the man you’re looking for?”

Rapp grinned and scratched the black stubble on his chin. “Oh…boy. You just don’t get it. You’re in way over your head.”

“I would like to speak to a lawyer.”

“Lawyer,” Rapp laughed. “That’s a good one. Did I forget to show you my badge?” Rapp patted his pockets. “Oh that’s right. I forgot. I don’t carry one.” He leaned in closer. “There aren’t going to be any lawyers. No judge. No jury. Just a really painful interrogation, a confession, and then your execution. Based on your attitude so far, I’d say there’s about a ninety-five percent chance that’s the way things will turn out.”

Gazich licked his lips and blinked his eyes. Rapp’s words were having very little effect on him due to the fact that he was more focused on the ever-increasing pain that seemed to be shooting from every inch of his body. “And the other five percent?”