Клайв Касслер - Typhoon Fury

“That’s one possibility,” Juan said. He wouldn’t reveal that he had the Oregon , a better solution than trying to convince a foreign nation’s coast guard to stop a ship at sea.

Beth, who’d been silently watching up until now, said, “This might seem like a strange question, but did you see any artwork while you were held captive?”

Ocampo gave her a confused look. “What kind of artwork?”

“Paintings.”

Ocampo shook his head slowly. She looked hopefully at the other chemists, but none of them had seen any, either.

“What are you going to do with us?” Maria asked. “Locsin will kill us if he finds us.”

Juan had been considering that question during the discussion. If they simply dropped Ocampo and his people at a hospital, it was possible that Locsin and his men might track them down to keep them from talking to the authorities.

In return for the information Ocampo had given them, Juan thought he could convince Overholt to put them up in a CIA safe house until Locsin was captured or killed. They might also be able to think of additional info that would help them further.

“I think I have somewhere you can stay safely until we can find out what Locsin is up to. And I have a friend who can sew up that arm.” He’d have Julia Huxley, the Oregon ’s doctor, meet them and tend to Ocampo’s wound before they were taken to the safe house.

It was still a few hours before they would get back to Manila, and Juan wanted to be ready to go as soon as they arrived. He texted Max to prepare the Oregon for sailing and had him tell Murph and Eric to search for anything they could find out about the Magellan Sun .

24

THAILAND

Gerhard Brekker was fascinated by the behavior of Alastair Lynch, who was handcuffed to a metal chair bolted to the floor. During the entire night of “enhanced interrogation techniques,” as the Americans liked to call them, Lynch had barely uttered a whimper no matter how much water was poured on his face or how many electrical shocks he endured. But now, as dawn broke through the remote shack’s grimy window and Lynch watched Brekker wave a small white pill in front of his face, the compromised British Interpol agent howled and screamed as if the mere sight of the withheld Typhoon tablet was the worst torture imaginable.

“Please!” Lynch cried to Brekker, his lips flecked with spittle. “I need my morning dose!”

Brekker looked at the other men in his employ with an amused smile. He’d seen a lot of violent and strange behavior in his days with South Africa’s National Defence Force, as had the five men who’d left it to join his private military contracting firm. All of the native Afrikaners around him—compatriots who remembered the glory days of Apartheid from their youth—had participated in police actions and fought against rebellions throughout Africa, but they’d never seen someone blubber uncontrollably at the prospect of not getting his drug fix.

Brekker leaned over until he was only inches from Lynch’s face.

“Why do you need it so badly?” he calmly asked in a soft Afrikaner lilt. Shouting was not his way. He found he was more likely to get the results he wanted when he was rigorously in control, both of his captive and himself.

“It’s my medicine!” Lynch yelled. “You have no right to keep it from me!”

“I don’t care about what you think I have a right to do. Besides, you still haven’t given me the information I asked you for.”

“I told you! I don’t know where the pills come from!”

Brekker stood up, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and took a seat on a beat-up wooden bench opposite Lynch. He ran his hand over his mustache and shut his eyes for a moment. Though the yelling wouldn’t attract any attention because they had chosen this crummy hovel for its isolation, it was getting tiresome. Brekker hadn’t slept all night, and Lynch’s screeching was giving him a headache.

“I’ve had enough with the shouting,” he said, fixing Lynch with a glare. “The longer you shout, the longer it will take for me to give this to you.”

Lynch’s desperation was still evident, but he managed to lower his voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just give me the pill and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“I don’t think you will. I think you’ll just shut up again.”

“I won’t!” Lynch yelled, before calming down again. “I won’t. I promise.”

“You got this from somewhere,” Brekker said. “We know it’s from some Filipino gang, but we haven’t the slightest clue where to start looking for them. Now, it’s obvious you know something or you wouldn’t have been tailing us in the first place. So, tell me what you know.”

Lynch’s eyes flicked back and forth between Brekker and the pill. Something was still holding him back. Brekker had seen it before. Lynch was scared of someone who he thought would do far worse to him than anything Brekker could do.

A little push was needed.

Brekker took out the second pill and put both of them on the floor. He adjusted the position of his boot so that the heel was poised over them. He slowly lowered the heel, making it clear he was close to crushing them to powder.

“No!” Lynch wailed.

“I’m waiting for the information I know you have.” His heel kept moving down.

Lynch watched in wild-eyed horror until the boot’s rubber sole was almost on top of the pills. “All right! All right! I’ll tell you.”

Brekker stopped but didn’t move his boot away from tablets. Lynch was convinced that Brekker would destroy these precious commodities, even though the South African had no intention of harming what was a potential gold mine for him.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“His name is Locsin. Salvador Locsin.”

Brekker glanced at Altus Van Der Waal, his second-in-command. The short but powerfully built former commando thought for a moment, then said, “Communist insurgent from one of the southern islands. Not much known about his financial dealings.” It was Van Der Waal’s job to keep up on all the hot spots around the world so they’d know where their services would most likely be needed.

“How do they deliver the pills?”

“It’s a dead drop somewhere in Bangkok. The location changes every week.”

“Is this your last pill? Does that mean you have a drop tomorrow?”

Lynch nodded quickly.

“Why did Locsin want this pill back so badly?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me everything.”

“But you’re with Interpol,” Brekker said. “Surely you know much more than one of his average clients.”

“I suppose he didn’t want anybody else to get their hands on it,” Lynch said.

“I think I can see why.” Brekker pulled out Lynch’s ID. He looked at the picture, which seemed to be less than three months old. In it, Lynch had a pencil-thin neck and narrow shoulders. Brekker looked up, and the sunken cheeks and cleft chin were the same, but Lynch’s bulging neck and muscular trapeziuses now seemed to belong to a professional bodybuilder.

“Have you been working out a lot lately?” Brekker said.

Lynch shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“Or has this Typhoon given you a little boost?”

Lynch averted his eyes for a moment before going back to the pills on the floor. “It helps.”

“I bet it does. What do you do for Salvador Locsin? I bet someone in your position would be perfectly placed to give him warnings about any potential interceptions of his drug shipments.”

Brekker’s boot still hadn’t moved.

“Yes, you’re right,” Lynch said, his lips trembling. “He needed someone on the inside, and I have access to police databases and major operations throughout Southeast Asia.”