Arch Enemy (29 page)

T
he chopper touched down at sixteen hundred hours. It was night already in the black waters of the Bering Sea. The frigid air filled the cabin as the doors slid open, carrying with it flurries of snow.

Morgan stepped onto the helipad out into the bitter cold on the deck of the oil tanker
Aurora Borealis
.

The chopper lifted off as he reached for the iced-over railing of the steps that led down to the deck. Morgan was met by a couple of surly men wrapped in thick parkas holding MP5s in one hand and the railing in the other. They were swaying with the ship.

Morgan followed them inside the bridge through an external hatch. The two men took off their parkas. The taller of the two said, “This one's yours,” and took off without another word.

The other was ginger, red-haired and freckled, with a short nose and high forehead. The overall impression was that of a little troll. “Jim Oehlert,” he said, taking off his parka. “Part of the long-term team here on the Good Ship Hellhole.”

“Dan Kinch,” said Morgan. Alias. Standard procedure.

The inside was not too much warmer than the outside, but Morgan took the cue and took off his jacket, shaking the snow off at the door.

“Sure you are,” said Oehlert. He stowed his H&K MP7 submachine gun in the armory and locked it with a key that he put back in his jeans pocket. “Well, welcome, I suppose. I got stuck with the task of showing you around. I may not sound very enthusiastic, which is because I'm not. But it beats the whole lot of nothing that most of us get to do on this ship.”

“You miss dry land?”

“Just every goddamn minute,” said Oehlert, holding on against the tilting of the vessel. Morgan didn't and stumbled against the wall. “Because there is not one where this bathtub is not swaying like it's at a Phil Collins concert.”

“Oil tanker, huh,” said Morgan, regaining his footing. “I expected a military ship.”

“Everyone expects a military ship for a clandestine operation,” said Oehlert. “Which is exactly why this is not one.”

“Clever,” said Morgan.

“Would you like a tour of the facilities? Of course you would. Why would you be here otherwise? Come on, I'll show you your bunk first. Give you a chance to drop off your stuff.”

Oehlert led Morgan through a bulkhead and down a long alleyway. “We have a chronic excess of vacancies up here, because as you might imagine, we're a skeleton crew.” He stopped and opened a steel door with a creak. “The upshot is you get your own room.”

The cramped room held two berths. Morgan tossed his duffel on one. Nothing valuable there, just a few changes of clothes and toiletries, so he had no problem leaving it behind.

“Come on,” said Oehlert. “I'll show you what you really want to see.”

They went down three ladder wells. Morgan felt the humming of the engines, which became more and more intense as they went down.

He calculated they were about halfway to the bottom hull of the ship when they turned fore, toward where the oil tanks would be on a regular tanker.

Oehlert unlocked a heavy steel door, which opened up into an enormous tank, an echoing emptiness. They moved forward on a suspended catwalk toward a room held up by steel beams disappearing into darkness on either side, Morgan assumed to attach to the hull.

Oehlert scanned his fingerprint on an electronic door, a strange contrast against the rough steel of the environment. The door admitted them into an anteroom, from which Morgan could see the interrogation room beyond through tinted reinforced glass. A man in rubber overalls was washing the floor with a massive hose, the water draining off toward the sides of the room.

“This here's Gillevet,” said Oehlert.

Definitely not his real name
, Morgan thought.

Oehlert pressed a button on a panel and spoke into a microphone. “Gillevet, why don't you come meet our newest guest.”

Gillevet gave them a thumbs-up and slung the head of the hose on a hook. He walked to the door out of the interrogation room.

Something about him gave Morgan chills. The way he moved was unnatural somehow. Inhuman. When he got close, Morgan looked into his eyes and saw only death. He reminded Morgan of Elvis, the hatchet man for the Saavedra cartel.

“This here is our interrogator,” said Oehlert.

“Might be good to get acquainted,” said Oehlert. “You guys might be spending some time together working on Praetorian.”

“Thanks, but I'd rather work alone.”

“Suits me fine,” said Gillevet. “Tough nut to crack. Haven't gotten a thing out of him in two months. Not a single word. Still, I'm taking my time. Working up to more . . . extreme methods.”

“Any insights you can offer would be valuable.” Morgan meant it more as flattery than anything else.

“The guy's a goddamn brick wall. How's that for insight?” Gillevet laughed, a hollow, metallic sound. “Wanna check out the facilities?”

Morgan motioned for him to lead the way. He put on disposable slippers, and Morgan did the same. Then he followed the torturer into the chamber.

Morgan had seen this kind of thing before. The interrogation room.

The lights hummed, harsh and cold, an uncompromising white. All surfaces inside were chrome: racks, a gurney, an operating table, a support table for instruments. The floor was of the seamless surgical type. The industrial cleaning hose still dripped from its hook overhead.

The central feature, under operatory lights like in a dentist's office, was the stainless steel Navy chair, with built-in steel loops for hand and ankle cuffs.

“We have the autoclave over here, and our . . .
instruments
.” He opened the door to the expensive-looking sterilization device. Hot humid air blew out. On the shelves inside lay assorted medical and dental equipment. Sharp edges and points were a recurrent theme among them.

“Everything is sterile in here during an interrogation,” said Oehlert. “Wouldn't want the inmates to catch any infections and die.”

“Is that common?”

“Not under my watch,” said Gillevet.

“It's true,” said Oehlert. “Dr. Tuttle always sings the praises of Gillevet's technique. Very clean. Let's move on. There's more to see.”

The interrogation room held another door on the far wall. They left Gillevet behind as Oehlert undid the heavy crossbar and swung it open. This led into a long catwalk toward the front, enclosed as far as Morgan could see by an arch of steel mesh.

“That guy gives me the creeps,” Oehlert said when they were out of earshot.

They walked forward until they came upon two chambers, on either side of the catwalk, suspended in the massive tanks, much like the interrogation room.

“These are cells. Whenever we take any prisoner out, we have their handcuffs attached to this rail,” he said, pointing up at the metal rod above them that followed the catwalk from the interrogation room all the way down.

They passed the first two cells. Morgan peered in to the one on his right, but couldn't get a good angle and didn't see anyone inside. They approached the second pair of cells.

“On the right is one of our
permanent
residents,” Oehlert said. “Been here at least twenty years. We bring him around for
enhanced interrogation
now and then. But it's really more for old times' sake.”

He banged on the door, which resounded with a series of deep metallic
clangs
, seeming to echo throughout the expanse of the hollow ship. The old man startled awake, mumbling.

“How you doing, Sergey?”

“Lick my balls, Oehlert.” He spoke through a thick Russian accent. His voice was hoarse and ancient.

“Nice guy,” said Oehlert.

They walked past a couple more cells with nothing more than their footsteps on the catwalk to mark their progress. Oehlert seemed to get more nervous the farther they went—something about the quality of his steps, the way he carried himself.

It was undeniable. Oehlert was scared.

They stopped in front of a cell marked
11
. He banged on the door, but noticeably less hard this time.

“You nerd bastard. Come out of the shadows and meet your new friend.”

Morgan peered in through the tiny Plexiglas window on the cell door and saw a figure looming in the darkness in the corner of the cell.

“Want me to turn on the floodlights?” asked Oehlert. “We use 'em when we don't want to give them the luxury of sleep. They should give you a good look.”

“Don't worry,” said Morgan. “I'll see him soon enough.”

Morgan stared into the darkness that held the enemy, this man that had become part of the blackness, as insubstantial as the shadow that held him.

But no. All men had bodies and so did he. And all men could be broken.

M
organ watched through the two-way mirror into the empty interrogation room. The weather had calmed and the boat rocked gently, but being in the enclosed space was still wreaking havoc on his inner ear.

The steel door to the cells was unlocked and opened. Two guards pulled a chained man in an unmarked orange jumpsuit, a rough-spun burlap sack covering his head. He stumbled as he walked down the corridor, which prompted the guard in front to yank him so hard he stumbled again and nearly fell.

“All yours,” said Oehlert.

“Can you turn off the cameras?” Morgan asked.

Oehlert shook his head. “Not even General Strickland can get you that in here.”

Praetorian was made to sit down on the Navy chair with a kick to the back of his knee. The two guards secured his hands first and then his feet. They left the room, locking it behind them.

“He's all yours,” said Oehlert. “Return him in relatively decent condition to us when you're done. Otherwise, have at it.”

Morgan put on the disposable cotton slippers over his socks—a ridiculously dainty act, given the circumstances—and walked into the interrogation room. Oehlert shut the door behind him.

The closing of the door muffled all noise from the outside, except the occasional groan from the ship.

Morgan circled the man, who was motionless, head still covered by the sack. He could hear the man's breathing, just barely. It was even. No fear. No physical arousal. For all he knew, he was about to be tortured, but this man didn't seem to feel a thing.

And somehow his organization was working on the outside, even while he was in here. And somehow, months of interrogation yielded nothing from him.

This was a frightening man.

His body was slight, but powerful. Morgan could tell by the definition of his muscles. This was recent, too—this man had been working out in his cell.

Praetorian's right hand was bandaged, Morgan noted. Blood had seeped through, leaving red spots on the gauze. Amateur work. Was this Gillevet's doing? Had to be.

Morgan had watched the tapes the day before. It was hours and hours of no reaction. Threats and pain meant nothing to Praetorian. Violence didn't elicit any kind of emotional response. Not so much as a wince.

Morgan checked the handcuffs. They were secure. The ankle cuffs as well.

Morgan had lain in his bunk the night before, nausea washing over him as he thought about what he would do at that very moment.

Morgan pulled the sack off Praetorian's head.

His features were distinctly Korean—jet-black hair, greasy and unwashed, hanging straight down to about his high cheekbones, face bony and more angular than average. And through the hair, the black, black eyes looked back at Morgan, or past him, with an unnatural calm, as if he were contemplating infinity.

Morgan checked his body language for the standard signs you look for in an interrogation. They were all missing. No attempt to avert his eyes, to turn away, to shut himself in. Whatever was happening in his head, Morgan knew one thing: this man knew no fear.

Morgan pulled the second chair from the corner of the room and set it in front of Praetorian's.

He sat down, looking the Korean straight in the eyes. For minutes, he watched, taking the measure of the man—the abyss, which gazed also into him. He thought he saw something, hardly a twitch.

That was it. That's what he was looking for. The chink in the armor.

Curiosity.

Morgan got up and banged on the door to the viewing room.

“I'm done,” he said.

The door opened. Gillevet was on the other side of it. He closed and locked it. The other door to the interrogation room opened, and the two guards walked in to put Praetorian away.

“What was that? You didn't even touch him!”

“Is that what you did in your first session with him?” Morgan asked. “Rough him up?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, how did that work out for you?”

Later, Morgan lay in his bunk, still getting used to the swaying of the ship, trying to let it rock him to sleep. Exhaustion washed over him like waves, but when he closed his eyes, he saw the dead eyes of Praetorian staring back at him.

D
ay 2. Morgan waited in the interrogation room as they brought in Praetorian and sat him down. As on the previous day, Morgan waited for the guards to vacate the room before he removed Praetorian's hood.

Morgan sat facing him again. They looked at each other for minutes on end. But this time, the man spoke.

“You are different.” His speech was refined, precise. He might have attended a New England preparatory school for all the accent he had. “Not like the usual animal that comes in here. Who are you?”

“Take a guess.”

“You are CIA,” said Praetorian. “Maybe some other intelligence agency. I recognize the arrogance. You do not fear the law or anything else. You may have been ordered here, but that's not why you came.”

Morgan gave him stony silence, which seemed to amuse him.

“Do you think you are a good man?” Praetorian asked.

“I try.”

“Yes, you do.” Morgan felt like he was the subject, and Praetorian some kind of scientist. “You don't like being here, unlike the petty sadist Gillevet, who takes his small pleasures where his government lets him. But you are also not just here to say you did your duty. You don't think it's enough to just show people you tried.”

“I care about what happens to the next people your organization plans to kill.”

“So the Acevedo initiative went as planned then? I am glad to hear it.”

Damn it
. That was careless of him, to let that slip. But he had also learned something. Praetorian was proud. This was a fault line, something to exploit.

“Tell me,” said Praetorian, “was it spectacular?”

“It was . . . something,” Morgan said. “Was it your design?”

Praetorian just grinned.

Morgan pressed. “Were the unrighteous punished?”

Praetorian burst out laughing, an unsettling, mechanical sound. “I am not a messiah. I am not an avenging angel.”

“Then what are you?”

“What are
you
?” he retorted. “We have established that you believe you are a good man. But you see the corruption of this world. You see, just as you give your life to the eradication of the enemy, that the rot has taken hold of the roots of your own side and is slowly climbing up that tree. How does that make you feel?”

“No side is perfect,” he said. This wasn't good. Praetorian had him on the defensive. “I can be a patriot without—”

“And yet you fantasize, don't you? About being let loose. About leaving behind the shackles of your duty, of your
ethics
, and simply doing what you must. What you know in your gut is right.”

Morgan swallowed hard. “Is that what you do?”

“I am the logical conclusion of you,” he said. “I am what you would be if you were truly free. I am what you may one day become. If you have the courage.”

“I'm exactly who I want to be.”

“Do you know what your superiors
do
?” he snarled. “Those petty bureaucrats in the Pentagon? Oh, if I could show you every filthy secret I've dredged up. Not the country-saving lies. The ones told for money and privilege and sex. Or worse, for respect of their peers, one more rotten than the other. Are these the people you want to serve?”

Morgan motioned to Praetorian's hand. “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“Is this what makes you different?” he asked, emitting the horrible mechanical laugh again. “That you
care
enough to ask about my hand?”

“It's just a question,” said Morgan. “Maybe I can help.”

“And what would you want in return?” Somehow Praetorian still talked as if he had all the power in the room.

“You know,” said Morgan. “I need information.”

“I'll let you in,” he said. “I'll let you know me.”

“And in exchange I get Gillevet to stop hurting you?”

“Sure,” Praetorian said, not appearing particularly interested in the prospect.