At Sword's Point by Katherine Kurtz, Scott MacMillan Page A

him to the chair arms, then knelt to tie the ankles.
    "Don't kill him, Bartholomew," he said, as he tightened the knots binding Eli's feet to the chair legs.
    "Just put some tape over his mouth," Bartholomew said. "I don't want him yelling until I'm ready."
    Producing a roll of silver duct tape, Father Dimitri tore off a six-inch section and plastered it over Eli's mouth.
    "Now what?" he asked, nervous perspiration rolling off his forehead.
    "Now, when he comes to, I ask him questions. Just watch," Bartholomew replied.
    He loosened the cincture around their captives neck. Eli's cheeks began to color as the blood rushed to his head, and his dull eyes popped open wide as he regained awareness. Seeing that the Mossad agent was conscious, Bartholomew slapped him across the face hard enough to send a gush of blood rushing from His nose.
    "Now listen to me, you goddamsonofabitch," Bartholomew said to Eli in Hebrew. "I'm going to do things to you that'll make the priest over there throw up, if you don't answer my questions. Understand?"
    Eli glared contemptuously at Bartholomew, who leaned closer and said, "Don't fuck with me, Jew, or I'll hand you over to the PLO when I'm finished." Bartholomew suddenly hit him again, turning Eli's nose into an unrecognizable pulp.
    Behind him, Dimitri gagged.
    "Now then. We are going to have a contest. In twenty-five words or less, what did the message say that you picked up at the Wailing Wall?" His fist slammed into
    Eli's face again, then he ripped the tape off his lips. "Well"?" Bartholomew said. "What did it say?"
    "Fuck you…"
    "Wrong answer, asshole," Bartholomew said, grabbing one of Eli's fingers and dislocating it.
    Eli screamed with the pain, and Bartholomew hit him again.
    "Oh, for God's sake!" Dimitri began, trying to pull Bartholomew away from Eli.
    "Exactly," Bartholomew said, shaking off the smaller man. "It's for God's sake that I'm asking these questions. Now," he said, turning his attention back to Eli. "What was in those messages?"
    "Like I said," Eli mumbled, "ff… aaaahhh!"
    Bartholomew held up Eli's little finger before his eyes.
    "Do you see this?" He flung the finger on the floor. "Now, I'm going to rip your cock off next, if you don't answer my question. And then, while you're sitting there wondering what life's going to be like without a cock, I'll gouge your eyes out." Bartholomew shoved his hand down inside Eli's trousers and grabbed him, yanking upward. "So, what did the message say?"
    "It's about some cop," Eli gasped.
    "A cop? Where? Tell me more," Bartholomew said, his grip on Eli tightening.
    "In Los Angeles. I don't know his name!" Eli was on the verge of passing out from the pain. "He prevented our hijacking a plane…"
    Bartholomew twisted Eli until he screamed in terror.
    "One of our agents was killed… oh, God… please stop… please…" Eli was whimpering, blood and tears washing down his face onto Bartholomew's black sleeve.
    "What else?" Bartholomew demanded.
    "Sapperstein told our team in Los Angeles to kill him…" Eli was panting heavily. "That's all. "I swear to God, that's all!"
    Bartholomew let go of Eli. "That wasn't so bad, was it? I didn't even have to make the priest puke."
    Eli's head rolled forward, and Bartholomew could tell that he was on the edge of unconsciousness. Reaching into his cassock, he pulled out a switchblade and flicked open the blade, deftly stabbing it deep behind Eli's ear. The Mossad agent died almost instantly.
    In the corner of the crypt, Dimitri retched.
    "How could you?" he said, looking up at the other priest through tear-filled eyes. "How could you?"
    "Easy. My school was run by the Christian Brothers." Bartholomew wiped the blade of his knife on Eli's chest. "Help me put this scum in one of these coffins, will you, Father? And then, maybe you could show me where the telephone is."

Chapter 8
    Dragging himself out of bed the next morning was a major effort. Drummond's head pounded like an out-of-balance washing