N’DJAMENA, CHAD
The kidnapped Vespa driver stirred at the sound of a key in the lock. He had lost track of time, and suspected that was not coincidental. Judging by the fading light through the narrow window, it was evening. Probably the third day.
He rose from the floor where he had been trying to sleep. But his captors kept a bare bulb illuminated in the high ceiling—too high to reach. He was sore, tired, hungry—and frightened.
Two men opened the door and motioned him out. One carried a truncheon and appeared capable of using it. The prisoner accepted the tacit invitation and stepped into the adjoining room. He had been blindfolded when he arrived, and welcomed the view of his immediate surroundings.
Directed to a chair, the man sat and was immediately grasped from behind. Two other thugs secured him with cargo straps around the chest and abdomen, pinning his arms.
The older man turned from a companion and regarded the prisoner. In French-accented English, he said, “Your passport says that you are David Scourby, an Englishman. We know that you are David Olmert, and you are Israeli. You are working with at least two other Jewish agents, and you have been watching us. You are going to tell us why.”
Olmert’s mind raced. They didn’t know who I was before. That’s why it took three days. But they still don’t know about Alex and the others.
I have to tell them something.
“We were interested in the French security company.”
The inquisitor smiled grimly. His right hand snapped out, striking Olmert’s left cheek. “We know that! We caught you reporting their takeoff!”
Strapped into the chair, Olmert could only glare at his tormentor.
“Who did you report to?”
“To my superior, of course.” And so the game goes, each step leading to the next.
The Frenchman’s left fist struck the bridge of Olmert’s nose.
An ambidextrous bastard.
“Well?” The interrogator spat it out.
Olmert shook off the blow. “Nathan. That’s the name he uses.”
“Your accomplice is known to you by an alias?” Left, right, left. Hard, full-force punches, expertly delivered. This time they drew blood. Olmert tasted the salty tang on his tongue. He knew that his nose was broken.
Forcing himself to focus, he realized that he had seen the thug before. Through a rifle scope—the day the two competing contractors had been murdered along the Aozou Strip.
That knowledge settled over David Olmert like a shroud.
N’DJAMENA
It was time.
“Etienne, call Gabrielle in here.” Marcel’s voice was irritated, petulant.
Etienne Stevin recognized the signs.
Olmert was again strapped to his chair. He looked the worse for wear following a full day of threats, cajolery, and beatings. Not even cigarettes to the soles of his feet elicited full disclosure.
Marcel Hurtubise tolerated Gabrielle Tixier for any number of reasons, not least of which was her sadomasochistic streak. She specialized in humiliation.
Entering the room, the young woman wielded a pair of scissors that she snipped playfully around her face. She wore a sleeveless blouse, tied at the midriff, with a pair of green shorts.
She strode slowly to Olmert, fixing his eyes with hers. She made a point of smiling and saw the fear cross his face. He knows what’s coming, she thought. C’est bon.
She traced the curve of his cheek with the point of the scissors, lingering around the eyes. Then she began cutting his shirt away. Marcel watched impassively; Etienne was less detached. He shifted on his feet and licked his lips.
Gabrielle gave the little-girl pout that she had mastered as a child. It had worked on Papa, up to the point that he became aroused by it. She had fled at thirteen and met Marcel six years later. Yes, he was cunning, violent, and amoral, but he was generally good to her. Sometimes she wondered why; childhood abuse often left victims doubting their own worth.
This was not one of those times.
She waved a manicured finger in the captive’s face. The sheen on his skin told her all she needed to know. Gabrielle Tixier had long since been able to sense the presence of fear.
“You are not very talkative, mon cher. Don’t you like to make conversation with your hosts?” She gave an exaggerated roll of her blue eyes. “Oh! Now I understand. All this male atmosphere. It is so dull, isn’t it?”
She stepped close and placed her hands behind Olmert’s head. She stroked his matted hair with her left hand, cooing at him.
Then, with her right hand, she snipped his left earlobe. He screamed in pain and surprise. “Bitch!”
“There, you see?” She caressed his cheek with her free hand. “It is so much nicer to talk to little Gabrielle. Actually, I am doing us all a favor. I have shown you that we make no idle threats, and perhaps that will save you much pain. Also, it may save us some time. It depends on you, mon petit.”
She held his jaw and snipped the right earlobe as well. Blood trickled down his neck. “Let that be a lesson to you, chéri.”
The pout again. “Now, won’t you tell me what Marcel and Etienne want to know? Please?”
Olmert’s face was reddened with fear and rage. He glared at her with hateful eyes. “Why should I talk? You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“Did I say such a thing? No, of course not. But as I said, you can save yourself much pain.” She curled the ends of her mouth. “Oh, yes. A great deal of pain.”
Slowly, as if choreographed, Gabrielle turned to the two men and nodded. They walked away without looking back. Olmert felt a shudder, a liquid tremor in his bowels.
Gabrielle clicked the scissors again. Without speaking, she began cutting away the rest of his shirt. It was awkward, as he was tied to the chair, but she proceeded with enthusiasm, humming to herself.
When the shirt was gone, she cut a slice from each pectoral. Then she turned to his trousers.
She pulled the tattered remains of Olmert’s pants from beneath him and flung them across the room. Then she leaned over him, allowing her breasts to press against his chest, and carefully snipped through his briefs. First the left side, then the right. The shorts fell away.
Still grasping the scissors, she clasped his head in her hands. Stroking his face, she gave him the little-girl pout. “Won’t you talk to Gabrielle, David? Before I have to cut you…” She glanced downward.
He turned his face away, choking down a sob.
Three minutes later Gabrielle emerged from the room. “He broke, poor boy. They always do, you know. But there is not much to tell. Most of what he said, you already guessed. He is working for a cutout, a private contractor with ties to Israeli intelligence. His field partner is an American. They were at the airport to confirm that the other contractor had left after … well, after their team disappeared.”
Marcel leaned forward. “What does he know about that?”
She shrugged. “I did not ask. You said you wanted to know why they were observing the other firm and who pays them.”
The former Legionnaire rubbed his stubbled chin. “All right. I will ask him myself, but he will not talk about that. He’s not stupid. He knows it would mean a bullet for him.”
“Then…”
“Then he gets a bullet anyway. Whatever he says.”