Agent Zero. Джек Марс

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ confused. Your pupils are abnormally dilated, despite the light. What is real, ‘Professor Lawson’?”

      The sheikh. By any means necessary.

      “When our memories fail us…”

      Last known whereabouts: Safe house in Tehran.

      “Who are we?”

      A bullet sounds the same in every language… Who said that?

      “Who do we become?”

      You said that.

      Reid felt himself slipping again into the void. The interrogator slapped him twice, jarring him back to the concrete room. “Now we may continue in earnest. So I ask you again. What… is… your… name?”

      You enter the interrogation room alone. The suspect is cuffed to a looped bolt in the table. You reach into your inner suit pocket and produce a leather-bound ID badge and open it…

      “Reid. Lawson.” His voice was uncertain. “I’m a professor… of European history…”

      The interrogator sighed disappointedly. He beckoned with one finger to the brutish, scowling man. A heavy fist plowed into Reid’s cheek. A molar bounced across the floor in a wake of fresh blood.

      For a moment, there was no pain; his face was numb, pulsing with the impact. Then a fresh, nebulous agony took over.

      “Nnggh…” He tried to form words, but his lips would not move.

      “I ask you again,” said the interrogator. “Tehran?”

      The sheikh was holed up in a safe house disguised as an abandoned textile factory.

      “Zagreb?”

      Two Iranian men are apprehended on a private airstrip, about to board a chartered plane to Paris.

      “Madrid?”

      The Ritz, fifth floor: an activated sleeper cell with a suitcase bomb. Suspected destination: the Plaza de Cibeles.

      “Sheikh Mustafar?”

      He bargained for his life. Gave us everything he knew. Names, locations, plans. But he only knew so much…

      “I know you are remembering,” said the interrogator. “Your eyes betray you… Zero.”

      Zero. An image flashed in his head: A man in aviator sunglasses and a dark motorcycle jacket. He stands on the street corner in some European city. Moves with the crowd. No one is aware. No one knows he’s there.

      Reid tried again to shake the visions from his head. What was happening to him? The images danced in his head like stop-motion sequences, but he refused to acknowledge them as memories. They were false. Implanted, somehow. He was a university professor, with two teenage girls and a humble home in the Bronx…

      “Tell us what you know of our plans,” the interrogator demanded flatly.

      We don’t talk. Ever.

      The words echoed through the cavern of his mind, over and over. We don’t talk. Ever.

      “This is taking too long!” shouted the tall Iranian man. “Coerce him.”

      The interrogator sighed. He reached for the metal cart—but not to turn on the polygraph machine. Instead, his fingers lingered over the plastic tray. “I am generally a patient man,” he told Reid. “But I admit, my associate’s frustration is somewhat contagious.” He plucked up the bloody scalpel, the tool he had used to cut the small silver grain from his head, and he gently pressed the tip of the blade against Reid’s denim jeans, about four inches above the knee. “All we want to know is what you know. Names. Dates. Who you’ve told about what you know. The identities of your fellow agents in the field.”

      Morris. Reidigger. Johansson. Names flashed across his mind, and with each came a face that he had never seen before. A younger man with dark hair and a cocky smile. A round-faced, friendly-looking guy in a starched white shirt. A woman with flowing blonde hair and steely, gray eyes.

      “And what became of the sheikh.”

      Somehow Reid was suddenly aware that the sheikh in question had been detained and taken to a black site in Morocco. It wasn’t a vision. He simply knew.

      We don’t talk. Ever.

      A cold chill ran down Reid’s spine as he struggled to maintain some semblance of sanity.

      “Tell me,” the interrogator insisted.

      “I don’t know.” The words felt strange rolling from his swollen tongue. He glanced up in alarm and saw the other man smirking back at him.

      He had understood the foreign demand… and answered back in flawless Arabic.

      The interrogator pushed the tip of the scalpel into Reid’s leg. He screamed as the knife penetrated the muscle of his thigh. He instinctively tried to pull his leg away, but his ankles were bound to the chair legs.

      He clenched his teeth hard, his jaw aching in protest. The wound in his leg burned fiercely.

      The interrogator smirked and cocked his head slightly. “I will admit, you’re tougher than most, Zero,” he said in English. “Unfortunately for you, I am a professional.” He reached down and slowly tugged off one of Reid’s now-filthy socks. “I don’t get to resort to this tactic often.” He straightened and stared Reid directly in the eye. “Here is what is going to happen next: I am going to cut off small pieces of you, and show you each one. We will begin with your toes. Then the fingers. After that… we will see where we stand.” The interrogator knelt and pressed the blade against the smallest toe of his right foot.

      “Wait,” Reid pleaded. “Please, just wait.”

      The other two men in the room gathered on either side, watching with interest.

      Desperate, Reid fingered the ropes that held his wrists in place. It was an inline knot with two opposing loops tied with half hitches…

      An intense shiver ran from the base of his spine to his shoulders. He knew. Somehow he just knew. He had an intense feeling of déjà vu, as if he had been in this situation before—or rather, these insane visions somehow implanted in his head told him he had.

      But most importantly, he knew what he had to do.

      “I’ll tell you!” Reid panted. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

      The interrogator glanced up. “Yes? Good. First, however, I am still going to remove this toe. I would not want you to believe that I was bluffing.”

      Behind the chair, Reid gripped his left thumb in his opposite hand. He held his breath and jerked hard. He felt the pop as the thumb dislocated. He waited for the sharp, intense pain to come, but it was little more than a dull throb.

      A new realization struck him—this was not the first time that had happened to him.

      The interrogator sliced into the skin of his toe and he yelped. With his thumb opposite its normal angle, he slipped СКАЧАТЬ