The Hunt

85

Kammler stared back at Narov through the gaffer-tape mask, his eyes burning with hatred.

She delved into her daysack, pulling out a small medical pack. She removed two syringes – the same ones with which she had recently threatened Isselhorst – and held them up where he could see them.

‘Two syringes,’ she announced. ‘One full of suxamethonium chloride, a paralytic. The other contains naloxone hydrochloride, an anti-opioid. I will spare you the complex science. The first is a respiratory depressant: it stops you breathing. Completely. The second reverses the effect.’

She stared into Kammler’s eyes. ‘Too long under the first, and you suffocate to death. Not enough of the second soon enough, and the effect is irreversible. But you know the best part of it? You are fully conscious the entire time, and you get to experience in clarity what it feels like to suffocate and die.’

She pulled her commando knife from her sheath, bent to Kammler’s forearm and began to slice away enough tape to attach a tourniquet, searching for a usable vein.

‘I insert a two-way valve so I can pump in both the chemical and the antidote. That way, I can make you experience what it is like to die over and over and over again.’

She reached up with the knife and cut an opening where Kammler’s mouth had to be. She smiled. ‘If you don’t want me to go ahead, now is the time to talk.’

She had partially freed Kammler’s lips. They were surrounded by a ragged rosette of torn and sliced tape. His expression was a mixture of fear and rage, as he turned his bile on his son.

‘You always were a filthy little commie shit! A traitor of the worst sort!’ he spat, the words mixed with gobbets of blood. ‘You bring shame—’

Narov’s pistol hand whipped around in another blow, the vehemence behind it throwing Kammler to the floor once more. In an almost involuntary action, Konig reached to help his father, but Narov stopped him.

She dragged Kammler up by his hair.

‘Is that the answer to the question I asked? No.’ Her voice rose an octave, the trace of a killer rage burning in her eyes. The effect was utterly terrifying. ‘Your son has more honour and integrity than you could ever wish for. So, answer very carefully, or keep your mouth shut.’

She turned to Falk. ‘You don’t need to see this.’

Falk shook his head. ‘I should have done more to stop him. I could have done more to stop him.’ He paused. ‘I am staying, at least until we have the information we need.’

Wordlessly, Narov turned back to Kammler. ‘So, I insert the first shot. This will stop you from breathing. During that time you can think about how you want to answer. The question is: where are your INDs dispersed and how do we stop them? After one minute without oxygen, your brain cells start to die. After three, you will suffer serious brain damage. Better have your answers ready.’

She held up the first syringe and carefully flicked any air bubbles to the top. The last thing she needed was to inject air into Kammler’s veins and kill him. She pushed the syringe until the first drops of liquid spurted out of the end.

That done, she reached out and inserted it into the valve hanging out of Kammler’s vein.

She plunged the syringe home. For a second there was no visible reaction, and then it was as if the top half of Kammler’s body just seemed to cease functioning. The regular rise and fall of his chest cavity, the intake and outflow of breath, even the movement of his eyes – all had stopped.

But his eyes remained open. Frozen wide with terror.

She checked his pulse. It was there, beating away. He had simply stopped breathing, and was utterly helpless to do anything about it.

Kammler was alive and conscious, yet experiencing what it was like to die.