Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“Ideal,” echoed Pendergast.

“I’m glad you see it our way.”

“I understand you’ve been collecting your test subjects from among undocumented people arriving at the southern border.”

“ Undocumented people .” The general frowned. “You mean illegal aliens? They suit our purposes very well. No one is likely to come looking for them. They’re a self-selected group, if you think about it — deserving of no consideration.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” said Gladstone, straining at her bonds.

“Another unsolicited outburst. Please gag her.”

Gladstone did her best to resist, but the waiting soldiers stepped forward and, holding her head immobile, stuffed a cloth in her mouth and wrapped duct tape around it.

The general kept his gaze on Pendergast. “Perhaps my explanation has persuaded you to cooperate?”

Pendergast said nothing.

“You seemed interested.”

“I am interested — interested in the profoundly psychotic pathology I see on display in both you and the doctor.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s remarkable you’ve managed to brainwash so many soldiers with this folie à deux. Or perhaps they don’t know the extent of the atrocities committed here?”

“I warned you,” said Alves-Vettoretto. “He’s a snake.”

“We didn’t need to brainwash anyone. When we first established this operation, we were careful to identify soldiers disaffected with the transformation of the U.S. Army — disgusted with the loosening of discipline, the admittance of homosexuals, the placing of women in combat roles, and the indiscriminate mixing of races.” His voice rose in volume. “We selected patriotic, tough, God-fearing boys who obey orders without question, not the sniveling, politically correct enlisted men you see in today’s—” He caught himself, took a deep breath, exhaled. “I’m getting off subject. Our soldiers are well aware of what we’re doing — and support it one hundred percent.”

“It seems you and your men were born seventy-five years too late, and in the wrong country,” said Pendergast.

The general ignored this. “We’re on a schedule here, and all this is wasting precious time. You will now answer my questions or the good doctor will inject your associate with the drug. Dr. Smith? Reinsert the needle, but hold off the injection until I give the command.”

Smith picked up the needle again, examined it, then stepped forward. He slid it into the IV port and looked up at the general with anticipation.

“I will ask again: who knows about this facility?”

Gladstone stared pleadingly at Pendergast. But he didn’t answer.

“You know what’s going to happen, of course. Surely you aren’t going to put her through this? It will be on your shoulders.”

Silence.

“We normally just let them bleed to death. And you will be watching.”

“I can only ask you: please, do not do this,” said Pendergast.

“Then answer my question.”

A long silence. Son of a bitch, answer him! Gladstone thought, moaning and squirming.

The general sighed, then nodded to the doctor. “Inject.”

“Wait,” said Pendergast sharply.

The general glanced back at him.

“Very well. I’ll answer your questions: you have my word.”

The general smiled and gestured to Smith to pause.

Pendergast went on. “Nobody knows of this facility but me, Dr. Gladstone, and the late Dr. Lam.”

The general arched his eyebrows. “Nobody?”

“That’s correct.”

“What about your partner? We know you’re not working alone.”

“He is en route from Mexico to the U.S. and I wasn’t able to contact him.”

“Why didn’t you tell the task force?”

“No time. More to the point: We’d become sure there was a mole in the investigation, someone very close to the center. I couldn’t trust anyone.”

The general smiled. “Now, how did you identify the source of the amputated feet?”

“It was a drift analysis program, developed by Drs. Lam and Gladstone.”

“In their lab?”

“Yes.”

“Does anyone else have it?”

“No.”

“An unfortunate fire will take care of that. Well, I’m relieved to know we’re safe — at least for now. Dr. Smith, you may remove the needle.”

Alves-Vettoretto spoke. “How do you know he’s telling us the truth?”

“An excellent question! You haven’t been around long enough to appreciate my methods. The fact is, we will know soon enough if Mr. Pendergast has lied or not.”

Gladstone, moaning and struggling, saw Alves-Vettoretto frown in confusion.

“You’re wondering how I can be so sure,” the general said. “Because he is about to witness, with his own eyes, the effects of the drug on a subject. You see — Dr. Smith already administered the H12K to Dr. Gladstone. He did that when he first inserted the IV. There’s nothing in that other needle but saline. Once Mr. Pendergast sees what happens... and knows the same will happen to him... then he will be totally forthcoming, if he has not been already.” He turned to Pendergast with a smile and checked his watch. “It takes about an hour for the drug to act on the brain. Almost forty minutes have gone by since Dr. Smith inserted the IV. That means we have another twenty until the show begins.” He gestured at the long mirror on the wall. “It can get rather messy, unfortunately, so let us retire to the observation room and watch from there.”

He turned. “Ms. Alves-Vettoretto. You haven’t seen the results of the drug in action yet, have you?”

She shook her head.

“Then, by all means, please join us.”

When Coldmoon was about two hundred yards from the main building, the swamp gave way to a thin forest of sickly pines growing upon sand. The storm had finally broken for real. A heavy rain came down, accompanied by lightning, booming thunder, and gusts of wind that pressed the trees down and almost blew him off his feet. Coldmoon was glad of it. Even though he was soaked, the night was muggy and warm and he was grateful for the rain now washing away the mud from his skin and clothes. It also provided excellent cover — there was almost no chance that, in this chaos, he would be seen or heard.

He walked through the forest and soon came to a looming cinder-block wall, about fifteen feet high, with spikes along its top. It was too smooth and high to climb, and the trees on either side had been cleared back at least a hundred feet.

He’d have to go in through the gate. What a shame... for the guards.

He moved back into the forest and walked parallel to the wall until he could see the cluster of lights that must represent a gate.

How many were on guard?

Keeping away from the road, moving with greater caution now, he approached and paused in a thicket about fifty feet from the gate. He could see a single man — a soldier — inside a gatehouse, brightly lit. He raised his binocs. The man was thumbing through an issue of Maxim , looking bored. Could it be there was only one? That would be most convenient. Of course, there were also cameras mounted above the gate, four of them, providing full coverage. Someone would be monitoring those.

He circled closer, creeping on his belly, until he was within fifteen feet. The water was lashing the windows of the guardhouse, making it hard for the guard to see out even if he were looking, which he wasn’t. It really did look as if there was only one.

Coldmoon continued crawling until he was at the guardhouse itself. The door was shut, as was the sliding window. But was it locked?

Moving with infinite care, glad of the noise of the storm, he edged around to the door and reached up. The wind was shaking the flimsy metal shack.