standard from the Forties. He felt his sanity tilt.
His prisoner's coughing snapped him back to normal. The exhaust was thicker inside the van.
"Can't breathe," the man said. "Don't.
Drew closed the door. He walked in front of the van, along the white-stone path to a log bridge spanning a stream, where he dropped a few pebbles into the water. The air smelled cool and sweet.
With apparent indifference, he glanced back toward the van. The interior was obscured by haze, but he could nonetheless see the man writhing in the passenger seat. More important, the man could see him. Drew stretched his arms and leaned against the railing on the bridge. From the van, he heard screaming.
Shortly, when the screams began to subside, Drew left the bridge to stroll back along the white-stone path. He opened the driver's door and shut off the engine. "How are you doing?"
The man's face was faintly blue. His eyelids were three-quarters closed. As a breeze helped the exhaust to drift from the van, Drew gently tapped his cheeks. "Don't go to sleep on me. I'd hate to think I was boring you. I asked you, how are you doing?"
The man retched, dry-heaving. "You son of a bitch."
"That well, huh?"
The man coughed again, hacking desperately to clear his lungs. "You bastard, you gave me your word."
"About what?"
"You promised. No killing, no torture."
"I'm keeping my promise. You're the one to blame if it's torture. Asphyxiation's supposed to be peaceful. Like going to sleep. Relax and drift with the flow. Make it easy on yourself."
The man wheezed, his eyes red, watering. "And this is what you call not trying to kill me?"
Drew looked insulted. "I meant it. I haven't the slightest intention of letting you die."
The man squinted. "Then?"
"I've got questions. If you don't answer them, I'll give you another dose of exhaust. And another if I have to. The monoxide's bound to have an effect. Only you can judge to what extent, though there's always the risk that your mind will become too weak for you to realize when you shouldn't stay quiet any longer."
"You think I'm afraid of dying?"
"I keep telling you, death's not at issue here. You'll survive."
"Then why the hell should I talk?"
"Because you're facing something worse than death. What's in your future, if you don't talk" - Drew scratched his beard stubble - "is brain damage. Permanent."
The man turned pale.
"You'll be a vegetable."
"They should have told me."
"Told you what?"
"How good you are. Since the moment I woke up, you haven't stopped screwing with my mind. You've
played a half-dozen personalities. You've kept me off-balance all the time. Crazy? Hell, you're as sane as they come."
Drew turned on the engine again and shut the door.
Chapter 3.
Two sessions later, the man started answering questions. It took a while. He was semicoherent by then, and his statements were frequently garbled. But though forced to be patient, Drew at least felt confident that the man was telling the truth, for the carbon monoxide made him so groggy that it destroyed his inhibitions and in that respect was somewhat like sodium amytal. Two hours later, Drew had learned about as much as he figured he could expect.
But he wasn't encouraged. The hit had been purchased in as professional a manner as it had been carried out. For obvious reasons, the rule was that the client was never directly involved with the operation. If something went wrong, if a member of the team was captured or decided to try to blackmail his employer, there wasn't any direct trail back to whoever had paid the bill. Instead, the client got in touch with a broker, who contacted a sub-broker, who hired the necessary talent and made sure that the job was done. Except for the team itself, none of the principals met face to face. Arrangements among the client, broker, and sub-broker were conducted by intermediaries, using neutral phones. Nothing was ever communicated on paper. Fees were transferred through anonymous Swiss or Bahamian
His prisoner's coughing snapped him back to normal. The exhaust was thicker inside the van.
"Can't breathe," the man said. "Don't.
Drew closed the door. He walked in front of the van, along the white-stone path to a log bridge spanning a stream, where he dropped a few pebbles into the water. The air smelled cool and sweet.
With apparent indifference, he glanced back toward the van. The interior was obscured by haze, but he could nonetheless see the man writhing in the passenger seat. More important, the man could see him. Drew stretched his arms and leaned against the railing on the bridge. From the van, he heard screaming.
Shortly, when the screams began to subside, Drew left the bridge to stroll back along the white-stone path. He opened the driver's door and shut off the engine. "How are you doing?"
The man's face was faintly blue. His eyelids were three-quarters closed. As a breeze helped the exhaust to drift from the van, Drew gently tapped his cheeks. "Don't go to sleep on me. I'd hate to think I was boring you. I asked you, how are you doing?"
The man retched, dry-heaving. "You son of a bitch."
"That well, huh?"
The man coughed again, hacking desperately to clear his lungs. "You bastard, you gave me your word."
"About what?"
"You promised. No killing, no torture."
"I'm keeping my promise. You're the one to blame if it's torture. Asphyxiation's supposed to be peaceful. Like going to sleep. Relax and drift with the flow. Make it easy on yourself."
The man wheezed, his eyes red, watering. "And this is what you call not trying to kill me?"
Drew looked insulted. "I meant it. I haven't the slightest intention of letting you die."
The man squinted. "Then?"
"I've got questions. If you don't answer them, I'll give you another dose of exhaust. And another if I have to. The monoxide's bound to have an effect. Only you can judge to what extent, though there's always the risk that your mind will become too weak for you to realize when you shouldn't stay quiet any longer."
"You think I'm afraid of dying?"
"I keep telling you, death's not at issue here. You'll survive."
"Then why the hell should I talk?"
"Because you're facing something worse than death. What's in your future, if you don't talk" - Drew scratched his beard stubble - "is brain damage. Permanent."
The man turned pale.
"You'll be a vegetable."
"They should have told me."
"Told you what?"
"How good you are. Since the moment I woke up, you haven't stopped screwing with my mind. You've
played a half-dozen personalities. You've kept me off-balance all the time. Crazy? Hell, you're as sane as they come."
Drew turned on the engine again and shut the door.
Chapter 3.
Two sessions later, the man started answering questions. It took a while. He was semicoherent by then, and his statements were frequently garbled. But though forced to be patient, Drew at least felt confident that the man was telling the truth, for the carbon monoxide made him so groggy that it destroyed his inhibitions and in that respect was somewhat like sodium amytal. Two hours later, Drew had learned about as much as he figured he could expect.
But he wasn't encouraged. The hit had been purchased in as professional a manner as it had been carried out. For obvious reasons, the rule was that the client was never directly involved with the operation. If something went wrong, if a member of the team was captured or decided to try to blackmail his employer, there wasn't any direct trail back to whoever had paid the bill. Instead, the client got in touch with a broker, who contacted a sub-broker, who hired the necessary talent and made sure that the job was done. Except for the team itself, none of the principals met face to face. Arrangements among the client, broker, and sub-broker were conducted by intermediaries, using neutral phones. Nothing was ever communicated on paper. Fees were transferred through anonymous Swiss or Bahamian
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