The Panic Zone Part 30

"Did you murder Adam Corley because he knew of the operation?"

"No."

"What do you know of the Avenging Lions of Africa?"

"Nothing."

"What do you know of Said Salelee of Dar es Salaam?"

"Nothing."

Gannon heard a slight shuffle then felt a point of pressure under his chin. It felt like the tip of a steel blade.

"What do you know of the operation?"

"Nothing."

The blade's point traveled slowly down his throat to the center of his collarbone, tracing a pressure line without breaking the skin.

"Why did you travel to Rabat?"

"You have my pa.s.sport. I'm an American journalist."

"You are lying."

"Call the World Press Alliance in New York."

"Why did you come to Rabat?"

The blade's tip traveled down Gannon's chest and over his lower stomach to the top of his groin.

"Why were you in Adam Corley's home?"

"To meet him for a story."

"A story on the operation?"

"Yes, he had information."

"What kind of information?"

"I don't know."

The blade slowed as it traveled lower.

Gannon swallowed.

His blindfold was yanked off, light burned into his face and he sensed the silhouettes of several people outlined in the darkness. Standing before him was an unshaven, swarthy, muscular man about six feet four, sweating under a sleeveless T-s.h.i.+rt.

He wore combat pants.

His cigarette, half gone now, sat in the corner of his mouth. He dragged heavily on it, enveloping Gannon in foul smoke. Suddenly large hands reached from behind and gripped Gannon's head. Fingers reached around to his eyes and held his lids open.

"Why were you in Adam Corley's home?"

"He never showed up for our meeting."

"You are lying. What do you know of the operation?"

The man moved his cigarette closer to Gannon's right eye until the glowing tip was all Gannon could see. It burned like the sun as the man held it to within a hair of touching him.

Gannon felt its heat.

"No, please!"

"What do you know of the operation?"

"Corley was going to tell me more. Please!"

"More about what?"

"The connection between his research and a law firm in Rio de Janeiro. The firm may be tied to a global child-smuggling network and the bombing of a cafe that killed ten people."

"Is it tied to the operation?"

"I don't know."

"You do know!"

"No."

"Who killed Adam Corley?"

"I don't know. He was dead when I arrived."

"You're lying!"

"No, I swear!"

"I'm finished my smoke."

The man stepped back.

"Up!"

Chains clanked.

Racking pain shot through Gannon as he was pulled up by the wrist cuffs until he was suspended inches from the floor.

He struggled to breathe.

"Now you will become intimate with agony."

40.

Gannon's tormentor rolled a tray bearing a set of surgeon's instruments before him.

The man put on a blood-stained butcher's ap.r.o.n, a face s.h.i.+eld and tugged on white latex gloves. Then he selected a scalpel.

Gannon's breathing quickened.

The blade reflected the light just as a commotion spilled from another room. Someone had entered but remained at the edge of the darkness.

"Major, I respectfully request you release the prisoner now," an American voice said firmly.

"On whose authority?" an older voice said.

"My people have spoken to the ministry. Here is a fax authorizing you to surrender him to me."

In the dim fringes, someone shuffled a few pages of paper.

"As you can see by the summary," the American said, "Rabat police and the pathologist confirm Corley had been deceased prior to the prisoner's arrest at Corley's residence. And witnesses confirm the prisoner's whereabouts in the market and his hotel. He could not have killed Corley."

A long tense moment pa.s.sed.

"Should we obtain any further information," the American continued, "we'll share it with you."

More time pa.s.sed before a voice in the darkness muttered a command. Then Gannon's interrogator grunted, the chains jangled and Gannon dropped to the floor.

He did not know how much time had pa.s.sed before he was unshackled and taken to a bright, clean room. It appeared to be a medical examination room. He was left alone to take a hot shower. His body shook and he had to stop several times to lean against the wall and breathe.

He could not stop his tears.

When he finished he wrapped himself in a towel and sat on the only furniture available, a padded examination table.

What was happening?

He struggled to think.

Afterward, a doctor with white hair and a kind face under a few days of salt-and-pepper growth entered the room. Without speaking, he tended to Gannon's wounds then returned his belongings, his pa.s.sport, wallet and his clothes. While the doctor watched, Gannon was allowed to dress, as if the nightmare had never happened.

Everything was intact.

Except Gannon.

He couldn't stop shaking. Tears filled his eyes.

"This will occur for some time," the doctor said in accented English. "You will experience some bad nights, bad dreams. But you will be fine, I a.s.sure you. I have seen worse." The doctor patted Gannon's shoulder compa.s.sionately before starting to leave. "Return to America immediately, if you can. Say nothing of your experience."

"Doctor?"

The older man stopped at the door.

"Where are we and who controls this place?"

"I don't know."

"Who was the man who intervened--he sounded American."

"I don't know and I don't wish to know." He removed his gla.s.ses. "I don't know anyone here. I do as I'm told since they took me from my home in Kurdistan six months ago."

After the doctor left, Gannon stared at the white cinder block walls and battled to understand what had befallen him. His emotions swirled. He was angry at the violation but thankful someone had saved him from the horror that was coming from his captor.

Don't dwell on what he was going to do with that scalpel.

Now, as Gannon tried to recover, he faced question after question.

Why was Corley murdered? What was the information Corley had about this story? Who was the American who'd intervened? What the h.e.l.l is going on? Is any story worth my life?

Gannon gripped the edges of the examination table.

He would never give up. He would never surrender, being a reporter was all he was. He had nothing else in his life.

The door opened and a stranger entered: a man in his early fifties with short brown hair. His eyes were black ball bearings. They glared with an intensity that bordered on fury, above a grimace chiseled into a face of stone. He was just under six feet and wore khaki slacks and a blue golf s.h.i.+rt over his solid build. He held a slim binder with a file folder tucked inside. After a.s.sessing Gannon, he said: "Are you good to walk out of here?"

Gannon recognized the voice of the American who'd saved him.

"Walk to where?"

"My car. I'm taking you to your hotel so you can leave the country."

"And who are you?"

"Who I am is not important. Let's go."

The man slid on sungla.s.ses.

His car was a white Mercedes and neither of them spoke as it rolled soothingly along the unpaved road over a sun-scorched stretch of flatland for nearly half an hour before they came to a modern highway. Gannon noticed tiny scars on the man's chin and an expression void of emotion behind his dark gla.s.ses.

"So, who are you and who are you with?" Gannon asked.

Robert Lancer looked straight ahead, considered the question and said, "I'm a U.S. agent."