Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [81]
As he considered this, a metal door clanged down the hallway, opening, hitting a wall, then closing. Whoever had thrown it open wasn’t happy. Voices drifted toward him as two pairs of footsteps reverberated against the walls, moving in his direction. He wrestled with his bonds again, trying to loosen them, the rope cutting into his flesh, rubbing his wrists raw. There was nothing in the Krav Maga training manual to deal with this, except for the rubber-encased, bite-activated potassium cyanide pill that Mossad operatives carried between cheek and jaw like chewing tobacco. Which he didn’t have.
Then a door in front of him clanged open and a voice said, “Your girlfriend is a stubborn little tart, Mr. Hatfield. I’ve seen men twice her size break under half the stress.”
Jack would know that smarmy voice anywhere. It was Adam Swain.
A hand grabbed the burlap bag and yanked it from his head. Swain stood near the door and another man, an ape Jack recognized from the attack in the alley, tossed the bag aside. He stepped back, standing to Jack’s right. He was carrying a black baton.
They were in a cell of some kind, the cement floor filthy, a tattered mattress atop a rusty bed frame against one wall. The walls were mottled with peeling green paint, the room illuminated by a single work light attached to a portable battery.
Jack guessed that they were in an abandoned hospital of some kind. Judging by the reinforced doors, it was probably a psychiatric facility.
He felt gutted and he was scared. Not Iraq-scared, where the enemy just wanted to kill you. This was semipersonal. They were going to want him to talk. It was a strange sensation: a strange calm settled over him as he literally felt his ego and id go to opposite sides of his head, the first curious to see if the other would break. He felt his id manning up.
“Is she dead?” Jack asked.
Swain ignored the question. “You don’t look surprised to see me. You assumed we’d keep an eye on you?”
“Of course. I’m not stupid.”
“You almost fooled us in Tel Aviv with your little black hat routine. Very clever.”
“Apparently not,” Jack said.
Swain was flipping through the Israeli passport Jack had been carrying. He dropped it and smiled. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We’re professionals, after all, and at least you tried.” He waved a hand. “And you’re here, aren’t you? In England. Which I’m sure the home secretary would be delighted to know.”
“What can I say? I like a challenge.”
“So I see,” Swain said. “But what about our agreement? I told you what would happen if you broke it.”
“Yeah, and I feel bad about that. I probably should’ve stuck around San Francisco so you could arrange a Dumpster death, or maybe toss me in a bathtub and slit my wrists.”
Swain’s eyebrows went up. “You’re assuming that was us?”
“Who else?”
“I just found out about al-Fida myself. Terrible way to go. Not that I really give a toss.”
“I thought you said he was an asset. Was that a lie?”
Swain didn’t answer.
Jack pushed. “So, if you didn’t kill him, who did?”
Swain smiled again. “Not everything is black-and-white, Jack. There are politics to consider. Protocol. There’s a very delicate balance at work here, and a lot of people involved. Dealing with a mongrel like al-Fida is below my pay grade.”
“Should I be flattered?”
Swain shrugged. “I don’t give a damn.”
“What about Bob Copeland? Was he flattered?”
“He made the mistake of associating with the wrong people, just as you have.”
“So why don’t you kill me. Get it over with.”
Swain huffed a dry chuckle. “I’d think you would have figured it out by now, considering what you just heard. My job isn’t simply to eliminate a problem but to extract information and respond accordingly.”
He nodded to the other man, who tucked the baton into a loop on his belt and disappeared into the darkness behind the work light. Jack flexed his wrists again, trying to pull a Houdini, stretch the ropes just enough to slip free. He heard the voice of his deceased