Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [37]
He pressed it to the Turk’s Adam’s apple. “Answer me or you’ll bleed out on a dirty bathroom floor. Who are you working for?”
“N-no one,” the Turk sputtered. “I—I wasn’t following you, I only came here to use the—”
Haddad pushed the knife into the soft flesh of the man’s throat. Blood began to trickle around the steel blade.
“You think I’m a fool?” Haddad hissed. “I saw you in Sofia, sitting in the hotel lobby. And on the train before that. How do you think your whore wound up with a plastic bag over her head?”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Stop insulting me with lies!”
Haddad withdrew the knife, grabbed him by the collar again, and jerked him onto his knees. The Turk cried in pain as his kneecaps slammed into the bathroom tile. Haddad again put the knife to his throat.
“I won’t ask again,” Haddad said. “Who are you and why are you following me?”
But the Turk said nothing and that was the wrong strategy to employ. Haddad had no qualms about making good on his threat. The only question was how much of his head would still be attached to his body when Haddad was done.
“You’ve made your choice,” Haddad said under his breath. He put a thumb and index finger into the man’s eyes, pressed back so his head was against the door and his throat was exposed, then pressed the blade to flesh.
The Turk stiffened. “Wait! Wait!”
Haddad stopped. Waited.
The Turk’s voice trembled. “I was telling the truth. I … I don’t work for anyone. I was following you because I want to join you.”
That surprised Haddad. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to join your cause.”
“Why didn’t you say so back in the hotel? Why did you hesitate with a knife to your throat?”
“I wanted to be sure in Sofia. Here, I wanted you to see I had courage.”
Haddad laughed. “And what about the woman in Sofia? Did she want to join me, as well?”
“She was no one. A simple whore. I saw her go to your room so I hired her to follow you from the hotel.”
“More lies,” Haddad said.
“No … no, I’m telling the truth! I know all about the Hand of Allah. I know all about your operation.”
Haddad hesitated. “And what operation would that be?”
The Turk paused a moment, lowering his voice almost reverentially as he suddenly spoke English. “Roadshow.”
Haddad stared at him for a long moment. He had no idea what the Turk was talking about. He had his orders, but he knew of no operation by that name.
But what startled him was that he’d heard the word before. Spoken by Imam Zuabi during a telephone conversation several weeks ago as Haddad had waited outside his doorway. He could remember nothing else about what had been said; it hadn’t seemed important. But that word—now that he’d heard it again—came back to him with clarity. And it troubled him.
Was this something else Zuabi was keeping from him?
He looked at the Turk. “This is nonsense. There is no Operation Roadshow.”
“Why would I lie? You have my life in your hands.”
Haddad pressed the knife against the Turk’s throat again as if to prove that point. “Then where did you hear about it?”
“I … I don’t remember. On the street. People talk…”
“What people?”
“I told you, I don’t remember.”
“And I don’t believe you,” Haddad said. “Tell me now or I swear to Allah—”
Suddenly, the Turk brought his left elbow up hard, digging it into Haddad’s chin. Pain tunneled through Haddad as he stumbled back, loosening his grip on the knife. Before he could recover, the Turk jumped to his feet and shot a hand out, grabbing hold of the bigger man’s wrist, twisting so that the joint was bent with the force of the Turk on one side, the weight of Haddad’s body on the other. It was a basic combat technique,