Silent Treatment

1

'The Doctor will see you now.'

The moment Ray Santana heard Orsino saythe words, he knew he was going to die, and die horribly.

Ten hours or so had passed since hisadhesive tape blindfold had been ripped away. Ten hours of being gagged andlashed to a high-backed chair — his head and chin taped so tightly, soexpertly, that he could not move at all. Ten hours of listening to the mariachibands and singers in the street above and knowing that for all the good theywould do him, the revelers might as well be celebrating their Fiesta de Nogaleson Mars. Ten hours without seeing any movement except the comings and goings ofa huge roach.

The roach was an inch and a half long.Maybe two. It padded out of a crack in the mildewed basement wall and made itsway, in no particular hurry, to the floor. Ray followed the insect with hiseyes until it left his field of vision, and waited for its return. For a time,he wondered about roaches — how they had sex, whether they chose one mate forlife. For a time, he pictured his own family — Eliza singing as she whippedtogether her incredible paella. . Ray Jr. diving headfirst into third. For atime he thought about his life before Eliza — the Road Warriors, the drugs …his decision to leave the gang and try college. . the irony of his ending upas an undercover agent for the DEA.

Now, after ten meticulously careful yearson the job, he was about to meet The Doctor. And soon — very soon, he suspected- he would be dead.

For no reason that he could understand,things had blown completely apart. The end of nearly three years of work was athand, and it was time to put together federal indictments and call in thetroops. His cover was as deep, as airtight as it had ever been. The meeting toturn his evidence over to Sean Garvey from the home office had been set up withPriority One precautions — four hours of steady movement, half a dozen decoysand back-checkers, and a route along which it was impossible to be followed.But suddenly, Alacante's men were all over them. And in seconds, just likethat, it was over. Not one shot in defense, not one punch. Just. . over.Garvey had been hauled away to God only knew where, and Ray had beenblindfolded, crammed in the trunk of a Mercedes, and driven back into town.After an hour, he was dragged to the cellar of a house and then through a long,damp tunnel to this basement.

Ray wondered if The Doctor had alreadybeen to see Garvey.

Ol' Garves might hold off for a littlewhile in naming names, Ray figured. But underneath his slick veneer, he was awimp. The first sight of his own blood, the first hit of real pain — theelectric cattle prod or knife or vise or whatever the hell they used — and hewould be spilling his guts. He would give up every fucking name he could thinkof, believing in his heart of hearts that if he didn't cause Alacante's peopletoo much trouble, they might let him live. Wrong!

'. . Tijuana?. . Oh, that would be aguy named Gonzales. He's had a little fruit stand downtown for the past threeyears, but he's really a U.S. Fed. . Vera Cruz? Yeah, I know that guy, too.. '

Shit, Garves, I'm sorry, Santana thought suddenly. I understand. . What the hell. I'm a field man. You 're a suit. I can sit here like KingTut, thinking you're trash for giving in to them. But they haven't touched meyet. Besides, you don't know a tenth of what I do about the Mexicanundercover organization. And I don't plan on telling that part no matter what.My goddamn initiation into the Road Warriors was worse than anything thesecreeps can do to me here, for chrissakes. Just do your best, Garves. Just doyour best. Try not to make it too easy for them.

Another half hour passed. Possibly longer.Santana closed his eyes and wished he could just will himself dead. Or at leastasleep. The air in the basement was stagnant and heavy with mold. Sucking it inthrough his nostrils took so much effort that sleep was impossible. How ironic.After three years, he had amassed enough information for several dozen majorindictments. His only real failure was not pinpointing the famous AlacantePipeline — the tunnel connecting one or more houses in Nogales, Arizona, withcounterparts in Nogales, Mexico. Now, unless he was sorely mistaken, he had notonly found the Pipeline, he had actually been dragged through it. Eliza wasright, as usual. He should have gotten out while he could — started up thelandscaping business he was always talking about, and left the heroics to thecrazies. Now. .

There was a scraping noise behind him — aportion of the wall was being swung aside. Seconds later, Orsino came intoview. An Alacante lieutenant and a remorseless killer, Orsino had survived ashotgun blast that had left him without half of his lower lip and jaw. Whatremained of his mouth was all on the right side of his face. Ray wondered ifperhaps Orsino liked it that way.

'It is time,' he growled, with theinflated pride of a small man thrust into the company of a legend. 'Time foryou to meet The Doctor.'

An average-looking man in his earlyforties, medium height, stepped forward. His face was remarkable only for howcompletely unremarkable it was. Not handsome, but not unattractive. Nounusual features. No tics. No scars. Brown hair cut short. Hairline not receding.No glasses. He was wheeling a stainless steel cart on top of which was atattered leather valise. His back was turned to Ray as he flipped the suitcaseopen.

Ray's knuckles blanched as he clutched thearm of the chair.

'My name is Perchek. Dr. Anton Perchek,'the man said.

Santana's stomach tightened. Bile shot upinto his throat. The name was a death sentence. The Doctor. Everyone inthe agency — everyone in Washington — knew who Perchek was. But as far as Rayknew, no one had ever seen so much as a photograph of him.

'I can tell from your expression that myname is one you recognize,' Perchek said, favoring Ray with an enigmatic smile.'That's good. That's very good.'

Ray's mouth had gone dry. Anton Perchek,M.D., Soviet-born and — trained, had long ago left his native country. Now, hebelonged to no country and to every country. A true son of the world. For overthe years, The Doctor had built a reputation for being the best in the world atwhat he did, which was to keep torture subjects alive, awake, and responsive.He was seldom without employment. Sri Lanka, Bosnia, Paraguay, Iraq, SouthAfrica, Haiti — wherever there was conflict or political repression, there wasa demand for his services. There were even rumors — unsubstantiated — that he did occasional jobs for the CIA. A U.S. federal grand jury hadindicted Perchek in absentia for complicity in the deaths of several Americanundercover operatives, two of whom Ray knew well.

'So, Senor Santana,' he said, his Spanishunaccented but sterile. 'Would you prefer I address you in English?' He waitedfor a response. Then he turned and noticed the adhesive tape pulled tightlyacross Ray's mouth. He chuckled at his own oversight. 'My apologies, SenorSantana. Senor Orsino?'

His half mouth twisted in what might havebeen a grin, Orsino stepped forward and viciously tore the tape off — firstfrom across Ray's face, then from under his chin.

'So,' Perchek asked again. 'Spanish orEnglish? What will it be?'

Ray flexed the tightness and spasm out ofhis jaw. 'Your Spanish is better than mine,' he said.

'I've been led to believe your MexicanSpanish is quite good, actually — especially for someone from the Bronx. Butvery well. English it will be.'

His English, with perhaps the slightestBritish tinge, was no less fluent than his Spanish. Ray suspected that the mancould have conversed in any number of languages.

'I speak twelve others, actually,' hesaid, as if reading Santana's mind. 'Although my Arabic and Swahili may begetting a bit rusty.'

His average face smiled down at Ray. Butin that moment, Ray noticed something that wasn't the least bit average. It wasthe man's eyes. The irises were as pale as any he had ever seen — almosttranslucent. Ice blue was the closest he could come to labeling them. Infact, ice blue was a near perfect description, for they were as hard and ascold as a human's eyes could be.

'I don't know what this is all about.' Rayforced out the words.

The ice-blue eyes sparked. Otherwise, Perchek's demeanor remained unchanged.

'Then we shall help you learn,' he said.

He handed Orsino a length of twine andmotioned to the light fixture overhead. Once the twine was secured and danglingdown, Perchek turned to his valise. He produced a plastic bottle of intravenoussolution, connected it to a plastic infusion tube, and suspended it from thetwine.

'Zero point nine percent sodium chloride,'he said, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. 'Normal saline.'

He tightened a latex tourniquet just aboveSantana's left elbow, waited a few seconds for the veins to distend, and thenslipped in an intravenous catheter with the ease of one who had performed themaneuver hundreds of times. Next he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around theother arm and secured it in place.

'Listen to me,' Ray said, struggling for atone of calm and reason. 'Orsino, you've got to listen. I was setting up thatFed, Garvey. He was about to sell me some information on the new DEA strategyagainst Alacante.'

'You are lying,' Orsino said.

'No, it's the truth.'

'We shall see what is the truth and whatis not,' Perchek said, drawing up a slightly turbid solution into a largesyringe. He inserted the long needle through a rubber port into the infusiontubing, and taped the syringe to Ray's forearm. 'We shall see very soon. Mr.Orsino?'

Orsino knelt, positioning himself so thathis face was just a foot or so from Ray's. Santana mentally recoiled from theman's breath, heavy with the odor of cigarettes and garlic, and stared withrevulsion at the yellowed half rows of teeth.

'Names,' Orsino said, a small bubble ofspittle forming at the good side of his mouth. 'The Mexican undercover agents.All of them.'

Ray looked past the man to where Perchekstood. He wondered what awaited him within the tattered valise. Truth serum,perhaps. Reputedly, Perchek usually left the dirty work to his employers. Hisjob was to use his drugs to keep subjects alive and awake. But it seemed hardto believe the crass, slow-witted Orsino would have the patience and skillrequired to do an effective job of inflicting just the right increments ofpain.

'I don't know any of them, Orsino,' Raysaid. 'You've got to believe that.'

During his year of training with theagency, there were a number of classes the cadets had shared with their CIAcounterparts. One of them was formally entitled Dealing with HostileInterrogation. The trainees referred to it as Torture 101. The instructor, aformer fighter pilot named Joe Dash, had spent four years in a Vietcong prisoncamp. He had no eyes.

'There are three things you must alwaysbelieve when being hostilely interrogated,' Dash stressed. He believed thatthere were always three points essential to any subject. Three — no more, noless. 'First, that anything you are promised in exchange for answers isbullshit. Second, that if you don't give them what they want, they may decide tohold off killing you and try again another day. And third, and most important,that as long as you are alive, there's a chance you'll be rescued!

'We want those names,' Orsino said. 'Iswear, I don't know any of them. You've got to believe me.'

'There are three stages you should gothrough in responding to hostile interrogation. Each stage should be draggedout as long as humanly possible. First, deny knowing anything. And keep denyingit. Next, admit that you know some things but give them misinformation — especially if they'll have to spend time verifying what you say. The longer ittakes them to determine you're lying, the better the chance that you'll berescued — take it from one who was. The third stage is telling them what theywant to know. Whether you are forced to that stage or not depends a little onwhat you're made of and a lot on how good your interrogators are.'

Orsino reached out a meaty hand andsqueezed Ray's cheeks so tightly their insides touched. 'I'm glad you didn'ttell us,' he rasped. He stepped back. Immediately, Ray was transfixed by theice blue eyes.

'Do you know any chemistry at all, Mr.Santana?' Perchek asked. 'No matter. You may be interested to know the chemicalname for the contents of that syringe. It is four-chloryl, four-hydroxy,trimethyl, six-fluorodimethyl carbamate. Actually, there are two chemical sidechains as well, so the name is even longer.'

'I'm impressed,' Ray said.

'The short chemical name is hyconidolhydrochloride. A chemist friend did the synthesis, but my own research producedthe concept.'

'Bravo.'

'You see, Mr. Santana, at the end of everypain nerve in the human body is a chemical transmitter that connects it withthe next nerve and fires it off. The impulse shoots up that nerve, and anotherjet of transmitter connects it with the next. Et cetera, et cetera. Eventually — quite rapidly, actually — the message is transmitted from the point of injuryto the pain center of the brain and. . ouch!'

'Nicely put.'

Santana already knew where Perchek washeading. He was sure his understanding showed in his eyes.

'Hyconidol almost matches, atom for atom,the pain fiber neurotransmitter chemical. That means I can fire those nervesoff all at once and at will. Every single one of them. Think of it, Mr.Santana. No injury… no mess … no blood. Just pain. Pure pain. Except in thework I do, hyconidol has absolutely no clinical value. But if we ever do marketit, I thought an appropriate name for it might be Agonyl. It's incrediblestuff, if I do say so myself. A small injection? A little tingle. A larger one?Well, I'm sure you get the picture.'

Ray's mouth had become desert dry. Thepounding within his chest was so forceful that he felt certain The Doctor couldsee it.

Please don't do this, he screamed silently. Please. .

Perchek's thumb tightened on the plunger.

'I think we'll start with somethingmodest,' he said. 'Equivalent, perhaps, to nothing more than a little coolbreeze over the cavities in your teeth.'

The last voice Ray heard before theinjection was Joe Dash's.

There are three ways a man canchoose to handle dying. .