Full Black

CHAPTER 66

Harvath would have liked nothing more than to have beaten Ashford to death, but the Old Man had been very specific not only about where he could hit him, but how hard. In case they needed to use him operationally, there were to be no blows to his head, neck, or face.

The punch had completely knocked the wind out of the MI5 operative, and after removing everything from his pockets, Harvath dragged him down a narrow interior hallway to the room that had been set up for the interrogation. It was important that they work fast.

They needed to keep him mentally off-balance. The harder they came at him the harder it would be for him to concoct a story. Kicking open the door, Harvath dragged Ashford inside.

Reed Carlton knew one very important thing about the MI5 operative. It was the only pressure point he needed to conduct a successful interrogation.

Harvath dropped Ashford into a prisoner restraint chair that looked as if it had been designed for Hannibal Lecter.

“What the hell are you doing?” the man wheezed, as the air began to rush back into his lungs.

He struggled, but Harvath struck him again, this time in the solar plexus, almost knocking back out what little air he had recovered.

When he ceased struggling, Harvath worked quickly to strap him in. When he was finished, the MI5 operative’s torso, limbs, and head were completely immobilized.

On a table in the corner was a large black bag. Harvath removed a small handful of what looked like pieces of candy, dropped them in his pocket, and walked back over to Ashford.

“Why are you doing this?” the man demanded once more.

Harvath removed one of the ammonia inhalant ampules from his pocket, and placing it under Ashford’s nose, cracked it open.

The Brit’s eyes shot open wide and he tried to twist his head to get away from the smell, but he couldn’t. Harvath waited a moment and then did it again.

“Stop it!” Ashford shouted, but Harvath kept going until he had used up all the ampules he had in his pocket.

“I want Reed here, right now,” Ashford demanded.

Harvath ignored him as he retrieved three large strobe lights and, placing them on stands, positioned them about a foot away from the MI5 operative’s face.

“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?” Ashford was now screaming. “Do you know the kind of trouble you’re in? Do you?”

Harvath smiled. The Brit was getting nice and worked up. Walking back over to the black duffel, he removed a pair of stereo headphones with an extralong cord. Placing the headphones over Ashford’s ears, Harvath then ran the cord back to a large boom box sitting under the table and plugged it in.

It had been Carlton’s idea to exacerbate Ashford’s propensity for migraines. That’s why the plane had taken off from London without beverages. Dehydration was a frequent migraine trigger. Harvath, though, had wanted the man to suffer.

Stress, strong odors, bright strobing lights, and loud music were also migraine triggers. Turning the boom box on and the volume all the way up, Harvath then walked over and activated the strobes.

When Ashford began to scream again, Harvath pulled a roll of duct tape from his bag, tore off a piece, and placed it over the man’s mouth.

Fishing a Power Bar and a large bottle of water from the duffel, he stepped outside for his Interrogators Local Union 152-sanctioned break.

When Harvath stepped back into the room ten minutes later, Ashford’s face was wet with tears. Harvath slowly turned off the strobes. He then calmly turned off the music and removed the headphones. Next, he removed the piece of tape from over the man’s mouth and dismantled the strobes, putting all of the equipment back near the table. Moments later, Reed Carlton walked into the room carrying a red file folder in his left hand.

“Hello, Robert,” he quietly said as he approached his old friend.

“Why are you doing this?” the MI5 man stammered.

“How do you feel, Robert?”

“How do you think I feel, you bastard?”

Carlton motioned for Harvath to bring him a chair, which he placed several feet in front of Ashford.

“He doesn’t need to have his head restrained like that,” said the Old Man.

Harvath walked behind him and released the strap.

“Does that feel better, Robert?” Carlton asked.

“Up yours.”

The Old Man ignored the insult. “Robert, I believe you know how this works. I have a series of questions that I will ask you once and only once. If you lie to me, it’s all over. Do we understand each other?”

“May I have some water?”

“Answer my questions and I’ll be happy to give you some water. I’ll also be happy to give you one of those,” he said, pointing at the bottle of pills sitting on the table that Harvath had removed when cleaning out the man’s pockets.

“And then what? You hand me over to the authorities here or back in the U.K.?”

The Old Man shook his head. “No. That’s not an option. You and I go back a long time. You know what I’m capable of, both good and,” he paused, “less than good. So, I’m going to give you a choice. If you cooperate, you’ll have to leave MI5 and leave the U.K., but I’ll resettle you with a new identity. You go into retirement and I never want to hear from you or see you ever again.”

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

“Then no one will ever see you or hear from you again.”

“I’m not leaving the Security Service.”

“I’m not here to bargain with you, Robert. You know full well that I can make good on either of the two options I offered you.”

Ashford didn’t respond. His head was killing him. It felt as if someone had split it wide open with an axe. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Carlton opened his folder. “Why don’t you start by telling me about the hit on Larry Salomon.”

“Who?”

The Old Man shook his head, closed his file, stood up, and began walking away.

Ashford looked at him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry it had to end like this, Robert.”

“I told you, I don’t know any Larry Salomon. You can’t do this. You can’t just kill me. You won’t kill me.”

Carlton walked back to his chair, set his file folder down, and sprang at the MI5 man. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he torqued the man’s head back. “Thousands of Americans are dead and you think I’m going to play games with you?”

“I’m not involved with the terrorist attacks! Why are you doing this, Reed? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who put you up to this?”

The Old Man bent the Brit’s head back even farther. “I know the routine, Robert. Deny, deny, deny, and then launch counteraccusations. It isn’t going to work. I’ve offered you an incredible deal, you son of a bitch. It’s better than you deserve. Don’t be an idiot. Take it.”

“But you don’t have a thing on me. I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

Carlton looked at Harvath and said, “Go get him.”

“Go get who?” asked Ashford as Harvath left the room.

“Shut up.”

“Reed, you and I are friends.”

The Old Man wasn’t listening to him. “What changed you, Robert? Was it money? Is that what this is all about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Show a little character, Robert. Show some dignity. I have offered to let you disappear into retirement. Take the offer.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” the MI5 man insisted. “I don’t know any Larry Salomon. I’m not involved in these horrible terrorist attacks. All I know is that if you had one shred of proof, you’d produce it.”

As the man finished his sentence, Harvath wheeled Yaroslav Yatsko into the room in a wheelchair.

“Hello, Robert,” the Russian said.