And for the moment, Danilo couldn't know where his papers were.
She rearmed the security system and made a hasty exit. No one in the cramped building had noticed her. She found a room in a small hotel downtown, near the Museum of Contemporary Arts. The Asian banks were open, and it was almost four in Zurich. She unpacked a compact fax and rigged it to the phone jack in her room. The small bed was soon covered with sheets of instructions and wire authorizations.
She was tired, but sleep was out of the question. Danilo said they'd come looking for her. She could not go home. Her thoughts were not on money, but on him. Was he alive? If so, how much was he suffering? How much had he told them, and at what price?
She wiped her eyes and began to arrange the papers. There was no time for tears.
WITH TORTURE, the best results come after three days of episodic abuse. The more obstinate wills are slowly broken. The pain is dreamed of, and looms larger as the victim waits for the next session. Three days, and most people break and crumble into small pieces.
Guy didn't have three days. His prisoner was not one taken in war, but a U.S. citizen wanted by the FBI.
Around midnight, they left Patrick alone for a few minutes to suffer and think about the next round. His body was drenched with sweat; his skin red from the voltage and the heat. Blood trickled from under the tape on his chest where the electrodes had been stuck too tightly and were burning into his flesh. He gasped for breath and licked his dry shriveled lips. The nylon ropes on his wrists and ankles had rubbed the skin raw.
Guy returned alone, and sat on a stool next to the sheet of plywood. For a minute the room was quiet, the only sound was Patrick breathing and trying to control himself. He kept his eyes closed tightly.
"You're a very stubborn man," Guy said finally.
No response.
The first two hours had yielded nothing. Every question had been about the money. He didn't know where it was, he'd said a hundred times. Did it exist? No, he had said repeatedly. What happened to it? He didn't know.
Guy's experience with torture was extremely limited. He'd consulted an expert, a really twisted freak who seemed to actually enjoy it. He'd read a crude how-to manual, but finding practice time was difficult.
Now that Patrick knew how horrible things could get, it was important to chat him up.
"Where were you when your funeral took place?" Guy asked.
There was a slight relaxing of Patrick's muscles. Finally, a question not about the money. He hesitated and thought about it. What was the harm? He was caught. His story was about to be told. Maybe if he cooperated they'd lay off the voltage.
"In Biloxi," he said.
"Hiding?"
"Yes, of course."
"And you watched your graveside service?"
"Yes."
"From where?"
"I was in a tree, with binoculars." He kept his eyes closed and his fists clenched.
"Where did you go after that?"
"Mobile."
"Was that your hiding place?"
"Yes, one of them."
"How long did you stay there?"
"Off and on, coupla months."
"That long, huh? Where did you live in Mobile?"
"Cheap motels. I moved around a lot. Moved up and down the Gulf. Destin. Panama City Beach. Back to Mobile."
"You changed your appearance."
"Yeah. I shaved, colored my hair, dropped fifty pounds."
"Did you study a language?"
"Portuguese."
"So you knew you were headed here?"
"Where's here?"
"Let's say it's Brazil."
"Okay. Yeah, I figured this was a good place to hide."
"After Mobile, where did you go?"
"Toronto."
"Why Toronto?"
"I had to go somewhere. It's a nice place."
"Did you get new papers in Toronto?"
"Yeah."
"You became Danilo Silva in Toronto?"
"Yeah."
"Did you take another language course?"
"Yeah."
"Dropped some more weight?"
"Yeah. Another thirty pounds." He kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the pain, or at least live with it for the moment. The electrodes on his chest were smoldering and cutting deeper into his skin.
"How long did you stay there?"
"Three months."
"So you left there around July of '92?"
"Something like that."
"And where did you go next?"
"Portugal."
"Why Portugal?"
"Had to go somewhere. It's a nice place. Never been there."
"How long were you there?"
"Coupla months."
"Then where?"
"Sao Paulo."
"Why Sao Paulo?"
"Twenty million people. A wonderful place to hide."
"How long did you stay there?"
"A year."
"Tell me what you did there."
Patrick took a deep breath, then grimaced when he moved his ankles. He relaxed. "I got lost in the city. I hired a tutor and mastered the language. Lost a few more pounds. Moved from one small apartment to another."
"What did you do with the money?"
A pause. A flinch of the muscles. Where was the wretched little chrome lever? Why couldn't they continue chatting about the chase and lay off the money?
"What money?" he asked, with a passable effort at desperation.
"Come on, Patrick. The ninety million dollars you stole from your law firm and its client."
"I told you. You got the wrong guy."
Guy suddenly yelled at the door. It opened instantly and the rest of the Americans rushed in. The Brazilian doctor emptied two more syringes into Patrick's veins, then left. Two men huddled over the device in the corner. The tape recorder was turned on. Guy hovered over Patrick with the chrome lever in an upright position, scowling and angry and even more determined to kill him if he didn't talk.
"The money arrived by wire to your law firm's account offshore in Nassau. The time was exactly ten-fifteen, Eastern Standard. The date was March 26, 1992, forty-five days after your death. You were there, Patrick, looking fit and tanned and posing as someone else. We have photos taken from the bank's security camera. You had perfect forged papers. Shortly after the money arrived it was gone, -sent by wire to a bank in Malta. You stole it, Patrick. Now, where is it? Tell me, and you'll live."
Patrick took a last look at Guy, and a last glance at the lever, then he closed his eyes tightly, braced himself, and said, "I swear I don't know what you're talking about."
"Patrick, Patrick-"
"Please don't do it!" he begged. "Please!"
"This is only level three, Patrick. You're halfway there." Guy pushed the lever down, and watched the body bolt and straighten.
Patrick screamed with no restraint, a scream so fierce and horrible that Osmar and the Brazilians froze for a second on the front porch. Their conversation stopped in the darkness. One of them offered a silent prayer.
Down the road, a hundred yards away, a Brazilian with a gun sat by the dirt trail and watched for approaching cars. None were expected. The nearest dwelling was miles away. He too offered a small prayer when the screaming started again.
Chapter 4
IT WAS EITHER the fourth or fifth call from the neighbors that sent Mrs. Stephano over the edge, and it also forced Jack to tell his wife the truth. The three men in dark suits loitering outside the car parked in the street directly in front of their house were FBI agents. He explained why they were there. He told her most of the Patrick story, a serious breach of professional etiquette. Mrs. Stephano never asked questions.