London Bridges - James Patterson [73]
To think about his future—and his past.
A CIA doctor arrived: a tall, paunchy man who looked to be in his late thirties, horsey, WASPish. His name was Jay O’Connell. He told us that an experimental truth serum had been approved for use on Cahill. O’Connell explained that variations of the drug were currently being used on terrorist prisoners at various prisons.
“It’s a barbiturate, like sodium amytal and brevital,” he said. “All of a sudden the subject will feel slightly drunk, diminished senses. After that, he won’t be able to defend himself very well against prodding questions. At least, we hope not. Subjects can react differently. We’ll see with this guy. He’s older, so I’m fairly confident we’ll nail him.”
“What’s the worst we can expect?” I asked O’Connell.
“That’d be cardiac arrest. Oh hell, it’s a joke. Well, actually, I guess it isn’t.”
It was early in the morning when Joe Cahill was moved out of the small holding room and brought into a larger one in the cellar with no windows. His blindfold and gag were removed, but not the binds around his wrists. We sat him in a straight-backed chair.
Cahill blinked his eyes repeatedly before he could tell where he was and who else was in the room with him.
“Disorientation techniques. Won’t work worth a crap on me,” he said. “This is really dumb. Nonsense. It’s horseshit.”
“Yes, we think so, too,” said Dr. O’Connell. He turned to one of the agents, Larry Ladove. “Roll up his sleeve for me anyway. There we go. This will pinch. Then it’ll sting. Then you’ll spill out your guts to us.”
Chapter 95
FOR THE NEXT three and a half hours, Cahill continued to slur his words badly and to act like a man who had half a dozen drinks or more in him, and was ready for more.
“I know what you guys are doing,” Uncle Joe said, and shook a finger at the three of us in the room with him.
“We know what you’re doing, too,” said the CIA guy, Ladove. “And what you’ve done.”
“Haven’t done anything. Innocent until proven guilty. Besides, if you know so much, why are we talking?”
“Joe, where is the Wolf?” I asked him. “What country? Give us something.”
“Don’t know,” Cahill said, then laughed as if something he’d said was funny. “All these years, I don’t know. I don’t.”
“But you’ve met him?” I said.
“Never seen him. Not once, not even in the beginning. Very smart, clever. Paranoid, maybe. Doesn’t miss a trick, though. Interpol might have seen him during the transport. Tom Weir? The Brits, maybe. Had him for a while before we got him.” We’d already checked with London, but they had nothing substantial about the defection. And there was nothing about a mistake in Paris.
“How long have you been working with him?” I asked Cahill.
He looked for an answer on the ceiling. “Working for him, you mean?”
“Yes. How long?”
“Long time. Sold out early in the game. Jesus, long time ago.” Cahill started to laugh again. “Lot of us did—CIA, FBI, DEA. So he claims. I believe him.”
I said, “He gave you orders to have Thomas Weir killed. You already told us that.” Which he hadn’t.
“Okay,” he said. “If I did, I did. Whatever the hell you say.”
“Why did he want Thomas Weir killed?” I continued. “Why Weir? What happened between them?”
“Doesn’t work that way. You just get your job. You never see the whole plan. But there was something between him and Weir—bad blood.
“Anyway, he sure as hell never contacted me. Always my partner. Always Hancock. He’s the one who got the Wolf out of Russia. Corky, the Germans, the Brits. I told you that, right?” Cahill said, then winked at us. “This stuff is good. Truth serum. Drink the grape juice, boys.” He looked over at O’Connell. “You, too, Dr. Mengele. Drink the fucking grape and the truth will set you free.”
Chapter 96
HAD WE GOTTEN the truth out of Joe Cahill? Was there anything to his drug-induced ramblings?
Corky Hancock? The Germans, the Brits? Thomas Weir?
Somebody had to know something about the Wolf. Where he was. Who he was. What he might be up to next.
So I was on the road again, tracking down the Wolf. Joe Cahill’s partner had moved