Part 28 (1/2)

”Forget it.”

”The Regiment trained me how to withstand torture. Name, rank, regiment. That's what you give them-that, and nothing else. I tried. I reckon I lasted a day before I buckled.”

Milton had received the same training, and then another course-degrees of magnitude more intense-when he joined the Group. Theory was one thing. Practical experience during training was another, but it could only approximate what it was like to be in the control of a trained interrogator with no ethical limits on the means available to him. Milton had been with soldiers who boasted that they would never buckle under torture. That was bulls.h.i.+t. All you could do was delay the inevitable. It wasn't a question of will. It was a question of biology. The torturer would always get what he wanted: it was just a question of when.

”I told you,” Milton said. ”Forget it. It's not your fault. I don't blame you.”

”Wish I could say that made me feel better.”

”Enough self-pity. It's not going to get us anywhere. We need to work out how to get away from here. What do you know about them?”

He paused.

”Hicks?”

”They're bad guys. Albanian mafia. Ex-Kosovo Liberation. I served in Kosovo, and those boys were f.u.c.king maniacs. And this guy...” Hicks paused. ”Pasko? He's beyond that. He's a f.u.c.king psychopath.”

”How many others?”

”I've seen three. One of them is called Llazar. There's another, a big one-shaved head, tattoos.”

”I've had the pleasure of his acquaintance,” Milton said. ”That's the brother of the man I killed. His twin. He brought me over, I think. Anyone else?”

”I'm not sure. But I haven't been conscious the whole time.”

”All right,” Milton said. He shuffled around so that he could lean his back against the wall next to Hicks. ”What about Sarah?”

”I haven't seen her. But I doubt this was the best move she ever made.”

Milton didn't answer, and they both let the silence go unchecked.

”We're in a hole,” Hicks finally said after a long moment.

”Look on the bright side,” Milton said. ”I found them. The bad guys. That's what I wanted. I'm where I want to be.”

”Are you having a laugh?”

”It's not exactly how I would have liked it.”

”What are you going to do?”

”Make trouble.”

IT WAS DIFFICULT to judge the pa.s.sage of time, but Milton guessed that no more than a couple of hours had pa.s.sed when the key was turned in the lock and the door opened.

Light from the single bulb bled inside, framing the man in the doorway in silhouette. It was enough for Milton to see that he was holding a knife in his hand.

The man took a step into the room. It was the big man, the twin of the man Milton had killed.

”Get up.”

Milton stayed where he was. ”What are you doing?”

”You come with me.”

”Not until you tell me what's going on.”

A second man came inside. The first man stepped closer and held the knife against Milton's throat. He pressed the point against his larynx and then down to his chest. Milton was defenceless; he remained stock-still, his attention focussed on the scratch of the blade as it traced across his skin all the way down to his sternum.

”You will get up,” the man said.

The second man stepped forward and grabbed Milton's shoulders. He allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

”So you're the brother?” Milton said.

”The brother?”

”Of the man I killed.”

It was dark, but Milton thought he saw a flash of white teeth. ”Yes,” the man said. ”I am Florin. My brother was Drago.”

Florin stabbed a finger at Hicks and said something else that Milton didn't understand. The second man stooped down, grabbed Hicks by the lapels of the gown he was wearing, and tugged him to his feet. He took a key from his pocket and released the chain from the hook on the wall. The man put Hicks's arms behind his back and hooked the newly free cuff around his spare wrist. He locked it and led Hicks out of the room.

Florin stepped around Milton until he was behind him and then shoved him in the back. Milton stumbled, bounced off the wall, but managed to maintain his balance.

”Out,” Florin said. ”Or I cut your throat.”

Milton did as he was told.

Chapter Fifty-Three.

THE FIRST THING that Milton saw as he was pushed into the room was the bed frame with no mattress. He knew what it was: a parilla. He had seen them before, in South America and Africa. He had seen how effective they were, too, how men who had been strong and insolent had been reduced to pathetic facsimiles of themselves after just a few minutes at the hands of a skilled torturer. He had stood over a bed in Baghdad and watched as an al-Qaeda functionary had buckled and then broke, revealing a few more breadcrumbs along the trail that eventually led to Osama. But he had never experienced one for himself. The prospect was not appealing.

Milton took everything in. The room was large. There was a metal table, a row of shelves and coffins stacked up against the wall. There was a single wooden chair next to the parilla and a wooden table next to it. Metal rings had been fixed along one of the walls. Milton watched as Hicks was dragged across the room, the cuff around his right wrist unfastened and then locked around one of the rings. Hicks slumped down, his back against the brick. There were no windows. Two doors: one through which they had entered and another in the opposite wall. The light came from halogen strips overhead.

There were three men in the room with them. Florin was behind him, his hand grasping the bunched-up fabric of Milton's s.h.i.+rt. The second man was next to Hicks, a pistol in his hand. A third man, one whom Milton had not seen before, was adjusting the dials on an electricity box on a table next to the parilla.

Milton flexed his arms a little, but the shackles were still taut. He was going to have to get them off before he could do anything.

The second door opened and a fourth man came into the room. He was big and brawny, with a shaven head and a pitiless mien. He was rolling up the sleeves of a denim s.h.i.+rt, folding them back to reveal thick forearms that had been decorated with ink. Milton could see the family resemblance: this must be Pasko, the father of Florin and Drago.

He spoke in English. ”Is this him? Milton?”

”Yes, Father.”

Pasko approached Milton, stopping when he was a foot or two away, and then coolly appraised him. ”You are unimpressive,” he said with a derisive curl of his lip.