His telephone rang and he answered it as he read a report on a recent training exercise in the Brecon Beacons. The voice on the other end of the line was a typical upper-class British accent, polite but slightly bored, and the caller apologised for bothering the Colonel even though what he had to say was of the highest priority. “We have contact,” said the voice.
The Colonel put his pen down on the desk. “Where?” he asked.
“A house near Chesapeake Bay, not far from Baltimore,” said the voice. “Cramer followed a man there and was apprehended outside the house. We believe the man he was following was Matthew Bailey.”
The Colonel smiled. “Excellent,” he said.
“There was also a woman with Bailey. We don’t have a positive identification yet, but it could be Hennessy.”
“Even better,” said the Colonel. The operation was proving to be every bit as successful as he’d hoped. “How many men do you have on the ground there?”
“Two at the moment, but more on the way. I don’t want to move before we have sufficient manpower on site.”
“That is understood,” answered the Colonel.
“You realise there could well be some delay, and that Cramer has been compromised? I wouldn’t want any misunderstanding on this point.”
“That is also understood,” said the Colonel. That had been the position from the start. Mike Cramer was on his own. And he was expendable.
Joker coughed and spluttered awake, as water dripped down his face and splattered onto the concrete floor of the basement. He shook his head but immediately regretted it as the pain was acute, as if his brain was being squeezed by giant pincers. His eyelids were heavy and it required an effort of will to force them open. Mary Hennessy was standing in front of him, a red plastic tumbler in her hand. Satisfied that he had regained consciousness, she dropped the tumbler into a bucket of water which stood on the floor next to the workshop table. “Don’t fall asleep on me, Cramer,” she said. “I’d hate you to miss any of this.”
The bright fluorescent lights burned into Joker’s eyes and he screwed up his face as he tried to focus. His hands felt as if they’d swollen up like blood-filled balloons and that the slightest tear would cause them to burst. He tried moving his fingers. He could flex them, but the movement brought with it an agonising pain. He licked his cracked lips, trying to get some of the moisture from his face.
“Can’t talk, huh?” said Hennessy. “Perhaps you’d like a drink?” She bent down and refilled the tumbler. She held it to his lips but as his mouth opened gratefully she took it away. “Maybe later,” she said softly. “When you’ve told me what I want to know.” She let the tumbler fall back into the water.
He and Hennessy were alone in the basement. He didn’t remember the men going back up the stairs and closing the door, and he didn’t remember passing out. He was sure that the bucket of water wasn’t there the last time he was conscious. He looked down at it longingly. The surface rippled and Joker licked his lips again. This time, he tasted blood.
“Normally I give a little speech at this point,” said Hennessy, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. She took an elastic band and used it to tie back her hair in a ponytail. “I explain that you’ll tell me everything eventually and that you might as well save yourself the pain. I usually lie, too. I explain that once you’ve told me everything, I’ll let you go.” She smiled. A few strands of hair were loose across her forehead and she brushed them away. “But you’ve been through this before, so we don’t have to bother with the preliminaries.” Slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she started to roll up the sleeves of her white linen shirt. It was hot in the basement and she was sweating, the moisture glistening on her tanned skin as she moved. “Do you have anything to tell me, Sergeant Cramer?”
Joker shook his head, the movement making him wince. The tendons in his legs felt as if they were on fire and his toes ached from the effort of maintaining his balance. His shirt was ripped open at the front and she’d unzipped his jeans so that his stomach was hanging out, the white scar lying against the flesh like a snake burrowing down into his groin. “Not Sergeant Cramer,” he said, the words coming out slowly. “Not any more.”
“That’s right,” she said, smiling brightly. “You left the SAS, didn’t you?”
She finished rolling up her shirt-sleeves and wiped her hands on her cotton shorts. She breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling, droplets of sweat dripping down her cleavage. She undid the top button of her shirt and waved the material to and fro, trying to create a breeze that would cool her skin.
“So what was the problem, Mr Cramer?” She put the emphasis on the civilian title. “Couldn’t hack it any more?” She picked up a large pair of scissors and tested the point with her fingertips. Satisfied with their sharpness, she stood by Joker’s side, so close that he could smell her sweat. She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pushed the blades of the scissors up his arm, catching the material. “Was that it? Couldn’t take the pressure?” She began to cut the shirt, along the top of the sleeve to the neck, taking care not to catch his flesh. The scissors made small tearing sounds like an animal feeding.
The tips of the scissors grazed Joker’s neck and he tried to twist his head away. The movement caused him to lose his balance and his full weight pulled down on the chains which bit into his swollen wrists. Hennessy waited until he’d hauled himself back on to the balls of his feet before continuing to cut away the shirt, this time from the sleeve down to the shirt tail. She reached the bottom of the shirt and it fell loose around Joker’s waist. She walked behind him, stroking his back with the handle of the scissors. Joker’s skin crawled. He wondered if he could kick her hard enough to do damage, but he dismissed the thought. Even if he killed her, the men were still upstairs and he could see no way of freeing himself from the chain around his wrists. “You’re not so fit any more, are you, Mr Cramer?” She cut the opposite side of his shirt away and threw the scraps of material onto the floor. She walked slowly back to the workbench and put down the scissors before turning back and scrutinising the man hanging before her. “I remember last time what a hard body you had, Mr Cramer. Flat stomach, strong thighs, muscular arms. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on you then. Have you taken a look at yourself recently?” She slowly walked up to stand in front of him and placed a soft hand on his stomach.
“Do you have a girlfriend? What does she think about the mark I left on you?” She drew one red-painted nail along the thick scar. “Or are you too embarrassed to show it to anyone?”
She forced down the zipper of his jeans and pulled them down around his knees. She left them there, killing any idea he had of trying to kick her. In one swift movement she yanked down his boxer shorts, leaving him totally exposed. Joker felt his manhood shrink and his scrotum contract, sensing danger and trying to beat a retreat. Hennessy smiled at his reaction. “Can’t talk? Is that it?” She bent down and refilled the tumbler. “Perhaps a drink might help.” She threw the water into his face, hard. This time Joker managed to open his mouth and drink some of the water. He swallowed gratefully.
“So, why were you following Bailey?” she asked.
Joker dragged up what saliva he could and spat at her. He missed, and Hennessy smiled and shook her head sorrowfully. She refilled the tumbler with fresh water and put it on the workbench. “I thought you’d say that,” she said as she ripped open the box of salt. She poured a handful into the tumbler and stirred it with the blades of the scissors. “You know the routine, Mr Cramer. Any time you want me to stop, just start talking.” She picked up one of the kitchen knives and held it up to the light as she scrutinised the stainless-steel blade. She seemed unhappy with her selection and chose another. She walked over to Joker and held the tip of the blade under his nose, close to his left nostril. It was a short-handled knife with a sharp point, the type used to cut vegetables. She flicked the nostril with the blade, but not hard enough to draw blood. Joker stared at the knife. Hennessy rested the point against his left nipple and gently circled it with the blade, the way a lover might tease with her finger. She walked around Joker slowly, her eyes on his, drawing the knife along his skin but not cutting the flesh.
“I’m not alone,” said Joker.
Hennessy licked her lips. “If the cavalry was waiting outside, I rather think they’d be in here by now, don’t you? Face it, Mr Cramer. It’s just you and me. Oh, I forgot to tell you — our nearest neighbours are a mile away and we’re in the basement. The previous owner used it as a playroom for his three young children, so it’s well soundproofed. Feel free to scream your heart out.” She paused to allow her words to sink in. When she spoke again her voice sounded almost friendly. “Why were you following Matthew Bailey?” she asked.
“You,” hissed Joker.
“You were after me?” she said, testing the point of the knife with her thumb. “And when you found me? What then?”
Joker remained silent.
“There was a gun in your car,” she said.
“Not mine,” he croaked.
He bit down on his lip in anticipation of the pain to come. He heard her take a breath, then she pushed the point of her knife against his shoulder and twisted it so that it screwed into his flesh like a drill, gouging into the muscle so deeply that he was sure she’d go through to the bone. Joker screamed and twisted away, trying to escape the blade but his momentum swung him back, driving it even deeper. His scream became a roar, the pain so intense that it swamped the agony of his wrists.
Hennessy took the tumbler of salt water and, with a smile that was almost canine, threw it onto the new wound. Joker screamed and passed out.
Cole Howard was reading through the file on Carlos the Jackal when his phone rang. It was Kelly Armstrong.
“Hiya, Kelly, how’s LA?” he asked.
“Actually, Cole, I’m calling from Dulles Airport. The credit card was a dead end, so Jake Sheldon said I should give you a hand in Washington. That seems to be the focus of the investigation, right?” Howard closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He’d hoped that he’d seen the last of Kelly Armstrong for a while. At least until he’d wrapped up the investigation. “Hasn’t he spoken to you yet?” she asked.
“No, he hasn’t,” said Howard, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Well, never mind,” said Kelly. “He filled me in on the investigation so far and agrees that I’d be of more use working with you. Could you arrange clearance for me at the White House? I should be there within the hour.”
“Okay,” said Howard. “You know that we’ve identified the people in the desert?”
“Sheldon’s already briefed me,” she said, with maddening cheerfulness. “Ilich Ramirez Sanchez and the IRA. It’s a strange combination. How’s the computer simulation going?”
“Slowly,” admitted Howard. “And now we know of the IRA involvement, we’re going to have to widen our search. I’ll explain when you get here.”
“I’m on my way,” she said brightly and hung up, leaving Howard with a dead phone pressed against his ear. Helen came up to his desk and handed him a handwritten note. While he was on the line, Jake Sheldon had phoned and he wanted Howard to return his call. Howard went over to the office coffee machine and poured himself a black coffee. What he wanted more than anything was a real drink.
Joker knew it was a dream, he knew that Mick Newmarch was dead and buried in the graveyard in Hereford, but that didn’t stop the horror of what he saw. He was handcuffed to a radiator, his wrists sore from pulling against them, his arms aching from the wrenching. He was throwing himself from side to side, trying to slip out his bleeding wrists, trying to pull the hot pipe away from the wall, trying anything so that he could help Newmarch and stop the gut-wrenching screams. He kept trying to avert his eyes from what was happening in the centre of the room but the cries and the screams kept pulling him back.
His head slowly turned as if it was being forced around against his will. The lights were on in the farmhouse kitchen, the drapes drawn and shutters closed. Mick Newmarch was sprawled naked on a heavy oak table, his wrists shackled to the table legs at one end, his feet bound with hemp ropes at the other. His white skin was flecked with blood. Newmarch’s head was thrashing from side to side and he kept trying to raise his shoulders off the table like a wrestler resisting being held down for the count. Standing over him, wearing a bloodstained apron like some demented butcher, was Mary Hennessy, her blonde hair tied back with a piece of black ribbon. That was wrong, Joker knew, her hair back then wasn’t blonde, she was a brunette.
Hennessy had a pitcher in her hands and she poured water over Newmarch’s face as he struggled. The water slopped off the table, carrying with it the blood from his wounds, and they pooled together on the tiled floor in pink rivers. The procedure had been the same for more than four hours. The verbal threats, the torture, the wounding, and then, once her victim had slid into unconsciousness, the water. “Come on Sass-man, look at your friend,” she said to Joker. “Look at him. You’re next.”
She carried the empty jug back to the sink and refilled it from the cold tap. On the table, Newmarch sobbed like a baby, the cries wracking his whole body like spasms. Joker wanted to help with all his heart, but there was nothing he could do. After the first three hours she hadn’t been interrogating Newmarch: there had been no need for that because he’d told her everything. The two SAS men had been undercover, working as labourers on a farm close to the border during the day and hanging around the local pubs at night, trying to pick up any intelligence which would help the Army in its fight against the IRA. Newmarch had slipped up, his room had been searched and he’d been caught with a Smith amp; Wesson automatic under his mattress. They’d come for them at night, put black hoods over their heads and thrown them in the back of a Land-Rover. When the hoods had been removed they’d found themselves handcuffed in the farmhouse with Mary Hennessy.
She’d started on Newmarch first, for no other reason than that he’d sworn at her when she asked them for their names and rank. She’d told him in minute detail what she planned to do, and her words had chilled Joker. Not what she’d said, but the way she’d said it, as if she was relishing the experience. She’d used the bolt-cutters first, removing Newmarch’s fingers one at a time, waiting between amputations for him to regain consciousness and using a poker heated on the farmhouse range to cauterise the wounds so that he wouldn’t die from loss of blood. Newmarch had told her everything as he begged her to stop. He told her what he and Joker were doing, where they were based, previous operations they’d worked on, and the names of six other SAS men who were working undercover in the border country.
Hennessy took a large, shiny knife and held it up so that Joker could see it. “Watch, Sass-man,” she said. She held his gaze almost hypnotically, and try as he might he couldn’t look away. She reached down to Newmarch’s groin and with her left hand she cupped the man’s scrotum like a greengrocer weighing plums. She edged the blade under the testicles, keeping it horizontal. Newmarch screamed, a blood-chilling yell that echoed around the white-walled kitchen, and then slowly, almost sensually, Hennessy sliced the knife upwards, severing the scrotum. Newmarch passed out, but the silence was worse than the screaming. Joker had never seen so much blood, it poured like a waterfall over the table and splashed onto the tiles. Hennessy walked over to Joker, the ruptured tissue in her hand, and slapped him across his face, left then right. That was wrong, thought Joker, she hadn’t slapped him until later, until he was shackled to the table. He knew that he was dreaming, but the slaps kept coming, burning his cheeks. It was only a nightmare, one he’d had many times before, but the pain in his wrists was excruciating.
Slap, slap, slap. Joker opened his eyes. It was no dream, he was still hanging from the pipe and Mary Hennessy, blonde and three years older than when she’d tortured and killed Mick Newmarch, stood before him. “Wake up, Cramer,” she said. She drew back her hand and slapped him again. He blinked and felt tears sting his eyes. “Are you crying, Sass-man?” she asked.