The Last Man

Chapter 21
JALALABAD, AFGHANISTAN

RICKMAN no longer wondered if his ribs were broken - he was convinced. Three of them, he was pretty sure. Both eyes were now firmly closed, the skin so swollen and tight that he probably looked like he was morphing into an insect. His tongue told him that two of his teeth were knocked out and a third was chipped. He had finally broken. He'd heard the maxim many times before - everyone broke. He was no different, of course, and no one would expect him to hold out for very long. He had lived a life insulated from physical pain. He'd been hired for his intellect, not, like Mitch Rapp, for his predatory instincts. Emotional agony Rickman could write the book on, but this physical stuff was an entirely different game. He had prepared himself. In a broad conceptual sense, he understood what it would be like and that it would not last forever, that the physical scars would heal.

Nothing, however, no amount of meditation and careful consideration could prepare him for the absolute brutality, the hair-splitting agony that would result from his nerve endings being so assaulted. There was some embarrassment that he couldn't even last two days. Barely twenty-four hours after the torture started, Rickman caved. The secrets came flowing out in a torrent. He babbled from one subject to another like a crack addict who could not keep a train of thought. It would take multiple experts to decipher what he had really said, and that was intentional on Rickman's part. There was just enough truth in his words to make them believe him, but there were also traps and deceptions that would give the CIA the time they would need to maneuver and possibly save a few people. There were also a few scores to be settled, some enemies who would now have to answer to the Taliban and defend what he'd said they'd done. The words would be a waste, as they always were with groups like the Taliban. The group was all that mattered. Individual needs were not important. The more the person tried to deny something that couldn't be proven, the more it looked to these obtuse fools as if that person was putting himself before the needs of the group. Unable to decipher what had really happened, the Taliban would act predictably. They would kill the perceived traitor. It was a complex mix of facts, outright lies, half-truths, and complicated misinformation that was possible only with Rickman's genius.

They thought they were in control, but they weren't. By the time he was done with them, Rickman would have these fools killing each other. Terrorist would be pitted against terrorist. Unfortunately, a few allies would be killed, but his side was not without fault. Soldiers died every week in this war. A few intelligence assets weren't worth getting too spun up about.

Rickman heard the door open, and he didn't bother to try to open his eyes. He'd stopped trying hours ago. They were too puffy to work properly. He felt a certain sense of calm. The end was near, and then the pain would stop.

"It is time," a steady, soft voice announced.

Rickman sighed. He so much preferred this one to the others. He was smart and actually knew what questions to ask. "But I'm having so much fun." Rickman tried to smile through his swollen lips.

"I know you are, but we all have our orders to follow."

"Yes," Rickman said, "we all must be good soldiers."

The man squatted next to Rickman, keeping his back to the camera. Deftly, he slid an unseen syringe into the crook of Rickman's left arm while pretending to take the man's pulse. He depressed the plunger. He doubted Rickman noticed the prick. The man's body was so overwhelmed with pain that this little stab wouldn't even register.

"So now that I've begun talking it would be nice if we could conduct the follow-up questions in a more civilized setting."

"Hmm . . ." The man seemed to be pondering Rickman's request. "There's only one problem."

"What's that?"

"You lied to us."

"I did not lie to you. I told you what you wanted to know."

"Ahh . . . I find it interesting how you phrased that. You told me what I 'wanted to know.' That is not what I wanted. I wanted the truth."

"I gave you the truth."

"You did not," the man said in a voice bereft of emotion.

Rickman grew nervous and began coughing up blood. "I've told you everything," he managed to blurt out in his defense.

"You are a devious man." His tone had shifted to that of a disappointed father. "We all know this. So the beatings will have to continue, but don't worry. You will learn very quickly that your games are not worth the effort."

"Please." Rickman blindly reached out, clutching for the man's arm. "I am doing everything you have asked of me."

The man stood and took a step back. "Not everything. You have told us a few of your secrets, but you have also told us many lies. That means we will have to do this the hard way."

"Please!" Rickman started crying. "I will tell you what you want to know."

The man was wearing a mask over his face and shook his head sadly. "You will tell me the truth . . . not what I want to know. The truth is the only thing that will save you."

"I will tell you the truth, then," Rickman pleaded.

"Yes, you will." The man turned and walked past the camera, its red light glowing. In the hallway he took off his hood and tossed it on a wooden table. The two men were waiting like obedient dogs for instructions on what do next. Vazir Kassar was apprehensive about how to proceed. He didn't have much confidence in these men. One of them started to speak, but Kassar held up a hand. The men had at least learned that much. Kassar despised people who talked too much and had explained to the two halfwits that there was nothing they could say that he hadn't already thought of.

After fishing out a cigarette and lighting it, Kassar exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, "It is time to increase the pain."

Both men nodded eagerly. The taller of the two said, "The genitals . . . can we hit him in the genitals now?"

"Yes, you may hit him in the genitals." Kassar took no joy in this. It was simply part of the job. "I have given you the area I want you to focus on. Where I know he has lied. You will increase the pain until he tells us the truth. Yes?"

"Yes," both men answered.

Kassar waved for them to proceed. He took another puff of his cigarette while the two simpletons put their masks on. Kassar couldn't shake the feeling that these two fools might somehow mess this up. There were no guarantees in life, and definitely none in the dangerous waters where they were swimming. Kassar settled into a wooden chair and watched the single monitor. He checked the time on his watch and made a quick calculation. "This shouldn't take long," he said to himself.

Rickman was strung up once again by his wrists. They had yet to lay a hand on him, but he was already sniffling. The men began taking turns slapping him in the head and heaving insult after insult at him. Kassar could tell that the CIA man was losing control of his legendary wits. He'd been awake for a day and a half and he'd been beaten so severely that he could barely stand. He was exhausted and on the verge of a complete collapse.

The men paused for a moment and then without warning one of them took a rubber hose and swung it up between Rickman's legs, striking him in the groin. A glob of blood exited Rickman's mouth as his entire body convulsed forward. His sniffles turned into sobs and his chin was coated with spit, tears, and blood. Rickman was begging for them to stop, but the men paid him no heed. They were literally kicking the crap out of him as Rickman defecated in his boxers. This only upset the men more. The slaps were now replaced with punches.

Kassar watched Rickman slump suddenly, his legs completely giving out. The Pakistani moved closer to the screen and tried to see what was wrong. It was not unheard-of for a subject to lose consciousness during an interrogation. Kassar checked his watch again and frowned as the two men continued to beat their unconscious prisoner.

It took them another minute to realize that something was wrong, and by then it was too late.