The Orpheus Deception (15 page)
Read The Orpheus Deception Online
Authors: David Stone
“I see. Not very persuasive, is it?”
“I guess everybody feels that you have no choice. And you’ve done this kind of thing before, haven’t you?”
“If you’re talking about Calixto Obregon, he was in Matamoros. That was a Mexican prison, full of terminally stupid American dopers and drunken guards addicted to
La Mordida.
Fyke’s in Changi Prison. In Singapore. They don’t take bribes in Singapore. There’s no way in hell anyone can get to him there. Not if the SID is holding him. It can’t be done. It’s an operational impossibility, even for one of our best extraction teams. And they’re not going to let
any
American in to see him. The only way to—”
La Mordida.
Fyke’s in Changi Prison. In Singapore. They don’t take bribes in Singapore. There’s no way in hell anyone can get to him there. Not if the SID is holding him. It can’t be done. It’s an operational impossibility, even for one of our best extraction teams. And they’re not going to let
any
American in to see him. The only way to—”
“Cather knows that. He has a solution.”
That stopped him.
“And the solution is . . . ?”
Mandy lifted her hands, made an inclusive gesture that took in the room and somehow invoked most of Venice as well.
Not here.
“Fine. I’m going to be taking that on faith, am I?”
“Cather wants you to commit before we tell you. The thing is, he needs you to get Fyke out
alive.
Talking and walking.”
alive.
Talking and walking.”
“Which means Cather wants to know if Fyke got dismantled enough to have him compromise this mysterious
ongoing asset?”
ongoing asset?”
“Yes. He’d have to be debriefed. In person.”
“Setting aside the complete impossibility of extracting Fyke from Cluster C . . . unless Cather has something deeply brilliant in mind—”
“He does.”
“Even so, Fyke’s not going to be debriefed by
us.
Unless Cather’s going to let us know what he’s trying to protect. Fyke would have to be handed over to an Agency team that knew precisely what it was looking for.”
us.
Unless Cather’s going to let us know what he’s trying to protect. Fyke would have to be handed over to an Agency team that knew precisely what it was looking for.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Hell, Fyke may not even
know
what he knows. It could be anything—some insignificant event that Fyke had a glancing connection to. The SID could put him feetfirst into a wood chipper and he wouldn’t know why until he screamed it out at the very end. Poor bastard. This is as ugly as it gets.”
know
what he knows. It could be anything—some insignificant event that Fyke had a glancing connection to. The SID could put him feetfirst into a wood chipper and he wouldn’t know why until he screamed it out at the very end. Poor bastard. This is as ugly as it gets.”
“Yes. Nasty.”
“Very.”
“So, if this mission goes south . . . ?”
“Three muted cheers in the bubble, coffee and doughnuts all around, and another nameless star goes up on the Wall. What if the SID develops an interest in
me,
Mandy? I know all about Orpheus. The SID could get it out of me if they had enough time. Why would Cather risk that?”
me,
Mandy? I know all about Orpheus. The SID could get it out of me if they had enough time. Why would Cather risk that?”
“An excellent question. My guess is that whatever Fyke knows is at the very least of equal importance—”
“I fail and they have us both. Fyke
and
me.”
and
me.”
“You’re to have a microsurette.”
“Not a chance. One wrong move with those inserts and you’re a three-line obit on page sixty-two of
The Sentinel.
Anyway, if the SID took me in, they’d scan me just like they scanned Fyke. They’d see it.”
The Sentinel.
Anyway, if the SID took me in, they’d scan me just like they scanned Fyke. They’d see it.”
“One would assume that by then you’d have activated it, and the point would be rather moot.”
“All this just to get Ray Fyke out of Changi so the Meat Hookers can gut and flay him themselves. To protect an
ongoing asset
somewhere?”
ongoing asset
somewhere?”
“That’s what our business is, Micah. So. Will you do it?”
Dalton considered her red lips and snow-white neck while he worked out the odds. Mandy, waiting, knew what he was thinking. He had few other options, and most of them would likely either ruin him slowly or kill him outright. Dalton lifted his glass to Mandy, who raised hers and waited.
“Fine. I’m in.
Morituri.”
Morituri.”
“Te salutas,”
she replied, finishing an old joke, and they both drank. Mandy put her glass down, stood up. Dalton rose with her.
she replied, finishing an old joke, and they both drank. Mandy put her glass down, stood up. Dalton rose with her.
“How am I traveling?”
“I have papers in my room. Everything we’ll need.”
“We?”
“I’m going with you.”
“To Singapore? Like hell you are. And I don’t need a minder.”
“Yes you do, actually. Anyway, that’s the deal.”
“You knew I’d say yes, didn’t you?”
“We hoped.”
“Who’s in charge of this op, then?”
“Why, Micah. Darling. Of
course
you’ll be in charge.”
course
you’ll be in charge.”
“Yeah. I see that.”
“Knew you would. You’re a dear boy.”
“If we’re going to go flying off the grid into darkest Southeast Asia, we’ll need buckets of hard cash.”
“We’ll have it. Whatever we need.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I have rooms at La Giostra. We can go there now?”
An invitation?
Dalton shook his head.
“No. In the morning.”
Mandy gave him a meaningful look.
“Are you still in Porter’s suite?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” she said, with an uneven smile that did not light her eyes.
The buzzer at the entrance to the suite chirped twice.
“Yes?” said Dalton, giving Mandy a warning look.
“It’s me. Alessio.”
Dalton set the Ruger down as Brancati pulled the tapestry back, filling the entrance with navy blue and gleaming black leather, his seamed face set and stony. He nodded to Mandy Pownall.
“Please excuse me, Signorina Pownall.”
Mandy, who had seen surveillance pictures of Brancati but had never seen the man in the flesh—especially not in the striking uniform of a major in the Carabinieri—had a look of frankly sexual delight on her face. She did not exactly
sparkle
at him, but Brancati’s face colored just a little and he gave her a brief, predatory once-over before turning back to Dalton, who was now on his feet and wary.
sparkle
at him, but Brancati’s face colored just a little and he gave her a brief, predatory once-over before turning back to Dalton, who was now on his feet and wary.
“You need to come,” said Brancati. “I have a boat waiting.”
“Where?”
“The Lido beach. Near the
ospedale.”
ospedale.”
“Now?”
“Now,” said Brancati.
8
Cluster C, Changi Prison Complex, Singapore
Fyke had been here—wherever
here
was—for either the last four weeks or since the Rape of Nanking, during which time he’d been beaten so often—they wore padded leather gloves and cheerfully delivered short, sharp, lead-weighted rap-and-slaps, as if his head were a speed bag—beaten so vigorously that he felt he was now sufficiently stunned to sit in the House of Lords. They had been careful in only one regard. They never damaged the incision in his back, where the SID doctors had removed his tag. Decent of them, really. Oddly, his beaters had asked no questions at all, had not even spoken to each other, as if he had just been one of the Nautilus machines. Anyway, all that had stopped a while ago, he was reasonably sure.
here
was—for either the last four weeks or since the Rape of Nanking, during which time he’d been beaten so often—they wore padded leather gloves and cheerfully delivered short, sharp, lead-weighted rap-and-slaps, as if his head were a speed bag—beaten so vigorously that he felt he was now sufficiently stunned to sit in the House of Lords. They had been careful in only one regard. They never damaged the incision in his back, where the SID doctors had removed his tag. Decent of them, really. Oddly, his beaters had asked no questions at all, had not even spoken to each other, as if he had just been one of the Nautilus machines. Anyway, all that had stopped a while ago, he was reasonably sure.
Or not.
Time was a relative concept, as either Einstein’s or Fyke’s very first hooker had once pointed out. Lately, his keepers—three SID knuckle-dragging goons he called
Big Dink, Little Dink,
and
No Dink—
had taken to running the light-and-dark-and-cold thing—keeping the lights on for hours, then turning them off for hours, or days, or ten minutes, there was no way to tell, since he was naked and therefore watchless—by the way, it had been a
lovely
watch, too, an original thirties-era Hamilton that had belonged to a Marine Recon vet he had worked with in Mogadishu—the Skinnies had gotten at him while he was still alive, but Fyke had dropped in on them like the Hammer of God. Killing all the Skinnies hadn’t saved the Recon vet, but he did save the Hamilton—it was still on the guy’s wrist, although the guy’s wrist was some distance from what may have been the rest of him—well, anyway, the Recon vet was longtime dead, and Fyke figured they’d be reunited soon—he found himself humming a bar or two from “Memories” and clapped a stopper over that as soon as he realized it. Perhaps he was completely losing it. For a while now, Fyke had taken to sitting in a corner of the stark, staring, chill-to-the-bone white cell and watching the big, thick door—padded, so he couldn’t hurt himself, as was the whole room—watching the door the way a caged cat will watch the door: coiled, ready.
Big Dink, Little Dink,
and
No Dink—
had taken to running the light-and-dark-and-cold thing—keeping the lights on for hours, then turning them off for hours, or days, or ten minutes, there was no way to tell, since he was naked and therefore watchless—by the way, it had been a
lovely
watch, too, an original thirties-era Hamilton that had belonged to a Marine Recon vet he had worked with in Mogadishu—the Skinnies had gotten at him while he was still alive, but Fyke had dropped in on them like the Hammer of God. Killing all the Skinnies hadn’t saved the Recon vet, but he did save the Hamilton—it was still on the guy’s wrist, although the guy’s wrist was some distance from what may have been the rest of him—well, anyway, the Recon vet was longtime dead, and Fyke figured they’d be reunited soon—he found himself humming a bar or two from “Memories” and clapped a stopper over that as soon as he realized it. Perhaps he was completely losing it. For a while now, Fyke had taken to sitting in a corner of the stark, staring, chill-to-the-bone white cell and watching the big, thick door—padded, so he couldn’t hurt himself, as was the whole room—watching the door the way a caged cat will watch the door: coiled, ready.
Ready?
Not exactly.
If he tried to stand, he’d fall over sideways. He couldn’t go two rounds with Elton John. He scrubbed at his naked arms with the padded cotton mittens—thumbless—that they had strapped on him after he’d tried to pluck out his carotid—an old SID trick to frustrate prisoners who wanted to arrange their own exits; actually, he’d tried it only to freak out Big Dink and get him to say something. On the other hand, regarding the whole carotid-plucking-out thing, and notwithstanding the fact that his old Escape and Evasion teacher at Hereford, a dipsomaniacal Ulsterman named McAvity, hotly contended that he had actually seen it done, Fyke’s heart wasn’t really in it. Not quite yet, anyway.
He’d check in again on the idea in a few weeks, if he was still alive. At any rate, for all of the above reasons, Ray Fyke was finding his mental clarity harder to locate than Michael Moore’s neck.
When he was more lucid—after the last beating?—pain concentrated the mind wonderfully, but not for very long—he had tried to figure out why the SID was interested in him at all. Yes, he had once been SAS, and, yes, he had once been seconded to the Americans at London Station and had got up to all sorts of sticky work with those dashing boyos—he flashed briefly on Kosovo and a hard-faced, pale-eyed Special Forces spook he’d nicknamed the Crocodile because of the snaky way he could slither up on a sentry . . .
Dalton.
Micah Dalton . . . that was his name.
Known as SHRIKE to London Station, one of the famous Bird-men. Actually, Mikey had been a pretty good fieldman, for an American. He’d met him in the Horn and worked on a couple of tricksy ops in Pakistan and then later in Kosovo . . . A very good man—could drink you into a coma, too, which was saying something, coming from an SAS man—and there had been others, other ops and other jolly good toffs to work with . . .
Of course, all of that was
before . . .
before . . .
Before his
last
mission . . . before it all went to rat shit in one cataclysmic, self-inflicted cluster fuck. Don’t go there, Raymond, old lad. Don’t ever go there . . . God, he could use a drink . . . But, for the life of him, he could not get a grip on
anything
that he would have that the SID might be interested in. He hadn’t been in the field since
. . . before.
last
mission . . . before it all went to rat shit in one cataclysmic, self-inflicted cluster fuck. Don’t go there, Raymond, old lad. Don’t ever go there . . . God, he could use a drink . . . But, for the life of him, he could not get a grip on
anything
that he would have that the SID might be interested in. He hadn’t been in the field since
. . . before.
On the other hand, in the good-news column, he still had most of his teeth, and he still retained the field-issue kit of fully operational male genitalia, which the SID was famous for ripping out right after your Intake because it amused the hell out of them and demoralized the hell out of you, sitting there . . . Cold. Naked. Toothless.
He tried to say “testicleless” out loud, but it was just too damn hard. Anyway, as you can imagine, it was all very depressing. And it all meant
. . . nothing.
Just bloody bad luck. Should have had the Agency tag taken out after he went dark. Never got around to it. And, anyway, the battery had died the year
. . . before.
. . . nothing.
Just bloody bad luck. Should have had the Agency tag taken out after he went dark. Never got around to it. And, anyway, the battery had died the year
. . . before.
He figured that the SID was just rooting around inside his brain on the off chance that they’d come across something intriguing. Just fishing, really. Putting a mixed bag of Intel into their computers—raw data—and then seeing if anything related to other data, cross-checking files and names, that would explain the disorganized and routine nature of his interrogation.
If the SID had reason to believe he was in possession of something truly spectacular, they’d have a team of truly gifted sadists working on him night and day. This felt more like a training mission that Big Dink was running for the edification of Little Dink and No Dink:
Yon Captive Brit: How to Deconstruct.
Well, anyway, whatever it was they were up to, he was going to die here—he’d heard enough about the SID from everyone in the business—so the idea was to hold up his end and not let these
fucking
Asiatics see a Noble Briton crawl. So, as he was saying, he crouched there naked in the corner and watched the door like a feral cat. And while he watched it, he drifted off a little—the mind becomes a wanderer when the body is in a box—and, this time, it wandered farther away than the walls of . . .
fucking
Asiatics see a Noble Briton crawl. So, as he was saying, he crouched there naked in the corner and watched the door like a feral cat. And while he watched it, he drifted off a little—the mind becomes a wanderer when the body is in a box—and, this time, it wandered farther away than the walls of . . .
Changi Prison.
Cluster C
in Changi Prison.
That’s
where he was.
in Changi Prison.
That’s
where he was.
Crikey.
Changi Prison. Three-time nominee for Worst Festering Rathole in This Spiral Arm, by the Venusian Academy of Darts and Fetters. Oh my. Better to close your eyes for just a second and think of your mummy.
So he did. His eyes grew heavy, and he began to slide.
Sleep came in on little cat’s feet; his eyes grew heavy . . .
. . . And then he
soared.
soared.
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