Lee Child - MatchUp

“Remember that scene where Rambo was tied to upright bedsprings,” Rudy said, “while the Russian interrogators ran electricity through the metal springs, torturing him?”

“Where would they have found bedsprings in the jungle?” Max asked.

“You’re starting to get on my nerves. I told you. Allow for artistic license. So Rambo starts shaking and shaking from the electricity, rattling the bedsprings, and all of a sudden the guys torturing him realize what’s happening, and Rambo’s so crazy with pain and rage, he—”

The sound of a car door being opened through the speaker interrupted them.

“Tysons Corner,” Simon’s voice said to someone.

THE TAXI TOOK AN OFF-RAMP from the rush of traffic on the 495. Avoiding the huge shopping malls and corporate buildings that Tysons Corner was known for, it reached a quiet street of attractive houses and expensive landscaping. Conscious of how swiftly time was passing, Simon forced himself to follow protocol, giving the driver an address two blocks away. The watcher at the safe house would think it suspicious if he arrived at the front door in a taxi rather than first cleaning his trail on foot. Paying the driver, Simon waited until the taxi disappeared around a corner.

As dark clouds threatened rain, he pulled out the cell phone he’d been given and hurried toward his destination. He continued to assume that anything he said could be overheard, so he didn’t bother using the number programmed into the phone and instead spoke directly to the blank screen.

“Prove that Liz is still alive.”

LIZ FELT A SURGE OF hope as Simon’s voice spilled from the speaker.

“Send a video update. Now.”

Max pressed a button on the console. “Marta?”

“Do it,” the woman’s Russian-accented voice ordered. “Let him see you damage her a little more.”

“Cool,” Rudy said.

Her stomach cramped as he turned toward where she was cuffed to the Nautilus machine, her arms stretched painfully above her head.

“Hey, Max, I’ve got an idea,” the broad-shouldered Russian said. “Why don’t we make our own Rambo movie?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember, when he was tied to the bedsprings.”

“You should see a shrink. You’ve got Rambo on the brain.”

“No, listen. When they weren’t shooting electricity through him, the guys torturing him heated his knife and made it look like they were going to burn out one of his eyes.”

THE SAFE HOUSE WAS A split level, with a huge lawn and a two-car garage under lace-curtained windows. Walking toward it, Simon told the phone, “I said I want a video update.”

“Your impatience is nothing compared to mine,” the voice of the Russian woman replied.

The phone made a chiming sound that indicated a text message had arrived. Simon opened an attachment. With a mixture of fear and rage he again saw Liz positioned on the padded bench, but this time her arms were stretched above her head, her wrists still locked around the metal pole. More blood covered her face. Abruptly her arms jerked higher, the force great enough to slam her head back against the wall.

She groaned.

With equal abruptness, her arms fell, only to be jerked upward again as if she were a puppet.

Her head sagged forward.

The camera tilted down to reveal the scarred hand that Simon had seen earlier. The angle suggested that it belonged to the man who held the camera. The fingers gripped a long, saw-backed knife, holding its blade against the noisy blue flame of a butane blowtorch set on a table.

“Out there, you might be the law, but in here, we are,” a voice with a Russian accent said. He seemed to be quoting from something. “Mess with us, and we’ll show you a war you’ll never believe.”

“Yeah,” another Russian voice said. “You don’t want us to come for you, Murdock.”

Who the hell was Murdock?

They sounded insane.

The point of the blade glowed red as the camera followed it toward Liz. She pressed her head desperately back against the wall. The fiery tip moved toward her left eye. She struggled to turn her head, but the blade went this way and that, matching her frantic movements. At once, it shifted toward her ear and branded it with the silhouette of the knife’s tip.

Liz screamed.

The video ended.

“It’s six minutes after twelve,” the Russian woman’s voice said from the cell phone. “You have less than nine hours to give me my brother.”

He lowered the phone.

Struggling not to show how agitated he was, he put the phone in his pocket and approached the safe house’s front door. As he pressed the doorbell, he peered up toward where he assumed a concealed camera watched him.

“Simon Childs,” he said. “Cassidy sent me.”

He waited while someone inside compared his face to the image in his electronic file.

A lock buzzed.

He turned the doorknob, entered, and showed his ID.

Thickly carpeted stairs led down to the left and up to the right. A man in a dark sport coat, a white shirt, and a loosened tie studied him from the bottom level. The open coat revealed a pistol in a holster on his belt.

“You looked like that phone call was bad news,” the man said.

“I’m getting married in ten days. The reception’s a logistical nightmare.”

The man nodded sympathetically. “The second time I got married, the caterer had a heart attack two days before the wedding. Cassidy says you might have seen Nick Demidov before.”

“His name isn’t familiar, but his photograph is. I think he’s someone the European task force picked up when I was in London.”

“London? Then he’s lying and he does speak English?”

“That’s one of the things I came to find out.”

He descended the stairs to a room that had a leather sofa and chair with plush cushions that showed no indication of having been sat upon. A coffee table was bare. At the far end, fake logs were stacked in a gas fireplace where blue flames wavered with artificial steadiness.

“Can’t get the chill out of this basement,” the man said.

“You’re here alone?”

He pretended to sound puzzled, when he actually felt relieved.

“Until nine p.m. when my relief checks in. No need for anyone else. The way this place is set up, one agent at a time is all that’s necessary. It’s not as if Demidov’s a heavy hitter and needs protection. But hey, maybe he’ll lead us to somebody big. I’m John Fadiman, by the way.”

They shook hands.

Then Fadiman led him into a room, where several video monitors showed the approaches to the house. Simon noticed a ring of keys and a cell phone next to a half-full coffee cup on a desk. He switched his attention to a glass wall that revealed an adjacent bedroom with little furniture. Wearing a black shirt and trousers, a dark-haired man lay on a narrow bed. His eyes were closed and his hands were folded on his chest. He had a heavy, expressionless face.

“That’s all he’s been doing since we put him in there,” Fadiman said. “Either he needs a lot of sleep, or else he’s been locked up before and knows how to pass the time.”

“That’s the man I saw in London. Are we visible to him?”

“It’s a one-way glass.”

“Then I need to go in there so Demidov can see my face. Once he recognizes me, he won’t be able to keep claiming that all he speaks is Russian.”

Fadiman nodded and stepped toward a door on the right. He pressed numbers on an electronic pad. With a soft click, the door unlocked.