Gone Tomorrow - Lee Child [119]
Or maybe he had heard my end of the phone conversation.
“Keep watching,” Lila said in my ear.
I hit fast forward again. The taxi driver lay dead near Kabul for a spell and then the picture shut down and was replaced by a flurry of video noise. Then it opened up on a new scene. I hit play. Normal speed. An interior. Same kind of harsh light. Impossible to say whether it was night or day. Impossible to say where it was. A basement, maybe. Floor and walls seemed to be painted white. There was a broad stone slab, like a table. Smaller than the Afghan rock. Rectangular, manufactured for a purpose. Part of an old kitchen, possibly.
A huge young man was tied to the slab.
He was maybe half my age and twenty percent bigger all around.
He’s three hundred pounds of muscle, Jacob Mark had said. He’s going to the NFL.
Lila Hoth asked, “Do you see him yet?”
“I see him.”
He was naked. Very white under the lights. Different in every way from the Kabul taxi driver. Pale skin, tousled fair hair. No beard. But he was moving just the same. His head was jerking back and forth and he was screaming words. No! and Please! are recognizable in any language. And this was English. I could lip read quite easily. I could even sense the tone. Disbelief, mainly. The kind of tone a person uses when what was assumed to be an empty threat or even a cruel joke turns out to have been deadly serious.
I said, “I’m not going to watch this.”
Lila Hoth said, “You should. Or you’ll never be sure. Maybe we let him go.”
“When was this?”
“We set a deadline and we kept it.”
I didn’t reply.
“Watch it.”
“No.”
She said, “But I want you to watch it. I need you to watch it. It’s a question of maintaining the sequence. Because I think you’re going to be next.”
“Think again.”
“Watch it.”
I watched it. Maybe we let him go. You’ll never be sure.
They didn’t let him go.
Chapter 64
Afterward I hung up the phone and put the DVD in my pocket and made it to the lobby restroom and threw up in a stall. Not really because of the pictures. I have seen worse. But because of anger and fury and frustration. All those corrosive emotions boiled up inside me and had to find some release. I rinsed my mouth and washed my face and drank some water from the tap and stood for a moment in front of the mirror.
Then I emptied my pockets. I kept my cash, and my passport, and my ATM card, and my subway card, and Theresa Lee’s NYPD business card. I kept my toothbrush. I kept the phone that had rung. I dumped the other two phones in the trash, with the emergency charger, and the business card from the four dead guys, and the notes Theresa Lee had made from her partner’s messages.
I dumped the DVD, too.
And the Radio Shack memory stick, pink sleeve and all.
I didn’t need a decoy anymore.
Then, cleansed, I headed out to see if Springfield was still around.
He was. He was in the lobby bar, in a chair, with his back to a right-angle corner. He had a glass of water on the table in front of him. He was relaxed, but he was watching everything. You can take the man out of Special Forces, and so on and so forth. He saw me coming. I sat down next to him. He asked, “Was it folk music?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was folk music.”
“On a DVD?”
“There was some dancing, too.”
“I don’t believe you. You’ve gone all pale. Afghan folk dancing is pretty bad, I know, but it ain’t that bad.”
“It was two guys,” I said. “They had their bellies slit open and their guts lifted out.”
“Live on camera?”
“And then dead on camera.”
“Soundtrack?”
“Silent.”
“Who were the guys?”
“One was a taxi driver from Kabul and the other was Susan Mark’s son.”
“I don’t take taxis in Kabul. I prefer my own transportation. But it sucks for USC. They’re down a defensive tackle. Hard to find. I checked him out. Great feet, they say.”
“Not anymore.”
“Are the Hoths on the tape?”
I nodded. “Like a confession.”
“Doesn’t matter. They know we’re going to kill them anyway. Doesn’t really matter what we kill them for.”
“It matters to me.”
“Wise up, Reacher. That was the whole point of sending you the package.