Джон Гришэм - The Partner

“Where in Brazil?”

Stephano managed a shrug, a stiff one. “I dunno. It’s a big country.”

“We have an outstanding warrant for him,” One said. “He belongs to us.”

Stephano shrugged again, this time a more casual one as if to say, “Big deal.”

“We want him,” demanded Two. “And now.”

“I can’t help you.”

“You’re lying,” snarled One, and with that both of them joined together in front of Stephano’s desk and glared down. Agent Two did the talking. “We have men downstairs, outside, around the corner, and outside your home in Falls Church. We’ll watch every move you make from now until we get Lanigan.”

“Fine. You can leave now.”

“And don’t hurt him, okay? We’ll be happy to nail your ass if anything happens to our boy.”

They left in step and Stephano locked the door behind them. His office had no windows. He stood before his map of the world. Brazil had three red lights, which meant little. His head shook slowly, in complete bewilderment.

He spent so much time and money covering his tracks.

His firm was known in certain circles as the best at taking the money and disappearing into the shadows. He’d never been caught before. No one ever knew who Stephano was stalking.

Another shot to rouse him. Then a shot to sensitize the nerves.

The door opened loudly and the room was suddenly lit. It filled with the voices of many men, busy men, all with a purpose, all with heavy feet, it seemed. Guy gave orders, and someone growled in Portuguese.

Patrick opened and closed his eyes. Then he opened them for good as the drugs found their mark. They hovered over him, busy hands everywhere. His underwear was cut off, without much finesse, and he lay bare and exposed. An electric razor began buzzing, hitting his skin sharply at points on the chest, groin, thighs, and calves. He bit his lip and grimaced, his heart hammered away, though the pain had yet to start.

Guy hovered above him, his hands still but his eyes watching everything.

Patrick made no effort to speak, but just to be safe, more hands appeared from above and slapped a thick strip of silver duct tape over his mouth. Cold electrodes were stuck to the shaved points with alligator clips, and he heard a loud voice ask something about “current.” Tape was then applied over the electrodes. He thought he counted eight sharp spots on his flesh. Maybe nine. His nerves were jumping. In his darkness, he could feel the hands moving above him. The tape stuck hard to skin.

Two or three men were busy in a corner, adjusting a device Patrick could not see. Wires were strung like Christmas lights across his body.

They were not going to kill him, he kept telling himself, though death might be welcome at some point in the next few hours. He had imagined this nightmare a thousand times in four years. He had prayed it would never happen, but he always knew it would. He always knew they were back there, somewhere in the shadows, tracking and bribing and looking under rocks.

Patrick always knew. Eva was too naive.

He closed his eyes, tried to breathe steadily and tried to control his thoughts as they scurried above him, preparing his body for whatever lay ahead. The drugs made his pulse race and his skin itch.

I don’t know where the money is. I don’t know where the money is. He almost chanted this aloud. Thank God for the tape across his mouth. I don’t know where the money is.

He called Eva every day between 4 P.M. and 6 P.M. Every day. Seven days of the week. No exceptions unless one was planned. He knew in his pounding heart that she had moved the money by now, that it was safely hidden in two dozen places around the world. And he didn’t know where it was.

But would they believe him?

The door opened again, and two or three figures left the room. The activity around his plywood cot was slowing. Then it was quiet. He opened his eyes and the IV drip bag was gone.

Guy was looking down at him. He gently took one corner of the silver duct tape and pulled it free so Patrick could talk, if he so chose.

“Thanks,” Patrick said.

The Brazilian doctor appeared again from the left and stuck a needle in Patrick’s arm. The syringe was long and filled with nothing but colored water, but how could Patrick know?

“Where is the money, Patrick?” Guy asked.

“I don’t have any money,” Patrick replied. His head ached from being pressed into the plywood. The tight plastic band across his forehead was hot. He hadn’t moved in hours.

“You will tell me, Patrick. I promise you’ll tell me. You can do it now, or you can do it ten hours from now when you’re half-dead. Make it easy on yourself.”

“I don’t want to die, okay?” Patrick said, his eyes filled with fear. They will not kill me, he told himself.

Guy lifted a small, simple, nasty device from beside Patrick and displayed it close to his face. It was a chrome lever with a black rubber tip, mounted on a small square block with two wires running from it. “See this,” Guy said, as if Patrick had a choice. “When the lever is up, the circuit is broken.” Guy delicately gripped the rubber tip with his thumb and index finger, and slowly lowered it. “But when it moves down to this little contact point here, the circuit is closed and the current moves through the wires to the electrodes attached to your skin.” He stopped the lever just centimeters from the contact point. Patrick held his breath. The room was still.

“Would you like to see what happens when the shock is delivered?” Guy asked.

“No.”

“Then where’s the money?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

Twelve inches in front of Patrick’s nose, Guy pushed the lever down to the contact point. The shock was instant and horrific — hot bolts of current ripped into his flesh. Patrick jerked and the nylon ropes stretched. He closed his eyes fiercely and clamped his teeth together in a determined effort not to scream, but gave up after a split second and let out a piercing shriek that was heard throughout the cabin.

Guy lifted the lever, waited a few seconds for Patrick to catch his breath and open his eyes, then said, “That’s level one, the lowest current. I have five levels, and I’ll use them all if necessary. Eight seconds of level five will kill you, and I’m perfectly willing to do that as a last resort. Are you listening, Patrick?”

His flesh still burned from his chest to his ankles. His heart pumped furiously and he exhaled quickly.

“Are you listening?” Guy repeated.

“Yes.”

“Your situation is really quite simple. Tell me where the money is, and you leave this room alive. Eventually, we’ll take you back to Ponta Porã, and you can carry on as you see fit. We have no interest in notifying the FBI.” Guy paused for drama and toyed with the chrome lever. “If, however, you refuse to tell me where the money is, then you’ll never leave this room alive. Do you understand, Patrick?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Where’s the money?”

“I swear I don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell you.”

Guy snapped the lever down without a word, and the currents hit like boiling acid. “I don’t know!” Patrick screamed in anguish. “I swear I don’t know.”

Guy raised the lever, and waited a few seconds for Patrick to recover. Then, “Where’s the money?” he asked calmly.

“I swear I don’t know.”

Another scream filled the cabin, and escaped through the open windows, into the crevice between the mountains where it echoed lightly before losing itself in the jungle.

The apartment in Curitiba was near the airport. Eva told the cabdriver to wait in the street. She left her overnight bag in the trunk, but carried her thick briefcase with her.