What Doesn't Kill You (A Suspense Collection) (16 page)

It took Peter ten seconds to fully realize that he had
just witnessed an execution of an innocent American citizen.

“Shit has gotten serious, hasn’t it, Mister Anderson?”
Walsh raised his chin.

Kelton put the gun on the table, squatted next to
Linda’s body, and checked the pulse in the woman’s neck. The puddle of blood
underneath the body was slowly expanding. Peter felt his hair stand up on his
arms.

“What was that?” Peter turned his face to Walsh.

Kelton straightened himself up and made an ‘okay’ sign
with his right hand. Walsh pressed the button on the console and said, “Good
job, Sergeant.”

“Can you explain to me what happened back there?” Peter
asked. “Is Linda Pollack dead?”

Walsh nodded. “She sure is. Sergeant Kelton has shot
four holes in her chest. It would have been a miracle if she’d survived that. I
bet he hit the heart.”

Peter had a feeling that the colonel was fighting an
urge to smile as he replied.

“Are you telling me that you murdered an innocent
civilian just because Pollack doesn’t want to talk to you?”

“That’s an accurate way to describe it, Peter. We
warned Max that his loved ones will be hurt if he doesn’t answer our questions,
and now we’re simply keeping our word, that’s all. A threat is worthless if you
don’t act on it, Peter.” Walsh set his elbows on the desk and laced his hands
together. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, remember? You said
you agreed with that.”

“That’s insane.”

“No, Peter, that’s not insane at all.” Walsh clapped
Peter on the arm. “Let’s discuss it in my office.”

2.

Two hours and thirty minutes earlier

“Welcome to the Fairmont Training Center, Mister
Anderson,” Walsh said as he rose from his high-back leather chair.

Looking back weeks later, Peter asked himself if
Colonel Walsh had been a gentler, more trusting man before crossing paths with
Max Pollack. Being in charge of detaining a prisoner who had the power of mind
control and who could probably read thoughts as well would make a paranoid out
of most people. The stress, the pressure must be enormous. Perhaps that was
what had happened to the colonel; he had let the job eat him up.

A better question, though, was, ‘Has he, Peter
Anderson, become more paranoid than Colonel Walsh?’ Peter would know the
answer, but he’d wish he didn’t.

“Pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” Peter replied,
offering his hand. “I’m glad to be here.” 

Colonel Steven Walsh, a tall clean-shaven man in his
mid-forties with a touch of grey hair at the temples, had an honest face and a
firm handshake. As soon as they were done greeting each other, Peter caught
himself thinking that the colonel must be a trustworthy guy and a good boss to
work for. The funny thing was that even after the brutal and insidious
warm-up
session
with Max Pollack’s wife, which was less than three hours away, his
first impression of Steven Walsh would still have a chance of being true.

“How was your trip from Washington?” Walsh asked.
“Everything went fine?”

“Uneventful. Just the way I like it.”

“We are called a training center, but let me tell you
right away that training is not our focus. You, as an FBI man, can certainly
imagine why we would have a misleading name.”

Just like most secret military installations, the
Fairmont Training Center was as unassuming and underwhelming as could be.
Located in the middle of the woods, it consisted of two dozen or so grey-walled
box-like elongated buildings, none of which was taller than two stories. On the
way from the entrance gate to the headquarters, Peter had wondered if the
buildings were connected with each other by a series of underground tunnels. By
the way, there might be more than just tunnels down there. Given its highly
confidential and enigmatic status—Peter had had to go through a screening
interview and a lie-detector test before being allowed to come here—Fairmont
could be one of those places whose surface structures were just the tip of the
iceberg. Four fifteen-foot chain-link fences, each topped by barbed wire,
surrounded the base, providing protection from snoopy visitors. Peter was sure
that the entire forest around the installation was sprinkled with motion sensors,
cameras, and whatever else they were using to secure perimeters these days.  

“Before we proceed, I’d like to take care of a little
formality,” Walsh said. “I do it with everybody, so please don’t be offended.
Can I see your FBI credentials?”

Peter reached into his inner jacket pocket. “Sure.” He
held out his badge. Walsh took the badge and scrutinized it for half a minute.

“Thank you, Mister Anderson.” The colonel returned the
badge to Peter.

“Your people at the gate checkpoint have already looked
at it, by the way.”

“I know. I’m a bit OCD when it comes to security.”
Walsh rubbed his hands together.

“Are you expecting uninvited guests?”

“You can never be too careful, my friend.”

“I wouldn’t put so much trust in a piece of paper. What
if I forged my credentials?”

“I like your attitude. But I’m not relying on your
badge alone. Your boss sent me your photo yesterday, so I’m quite confident
that you are what you say you are.”

Was it going to be one of those exasperating
assignments where your every move had to be approved by the head honcho? Peter
hoped it wasn’t.

The colonel’s office had a much more austere interior
than Peter had expected based on what he had seen in movies. There were no
paintings or mahogany panels on the walls, Walsh’s desk had an unembellished
design and was as pedestrian as one you would find in the principal’s office of
a high school on a tight budget, the chairs and the sofa matched the desk in
its plainness, and the carpeting appeared as if it had been laid two decades
ago (which it probably had).

One of the biggest surprises was the fact that Walsh’s
office had no windows. Perhaps the colonel didn’t know that the top dog was
supposed to have an office with a view. Or maybe he hated sunlight. It was also
possible that the colonel didn’t trust iron bars to keep burglars out. What
could Walsh be protecting from thieves here? Diamonds? Gold bullion? His
baseball card collection? 

Peter wondered if the colonel’s safe was bolted to the
floor.

The room had the vibe of a deep underground bunker. The
steady, sterile light of fluorescent tubes helped make the commander’s office a
place where you could end up working late into the night without noticing it.

A perfect setup for a workaholic.

The colonel was twirling a Marlboro cigarette pack in
his right hand, which Peter found somewhat curious: for whatever reason, the
absolute majority of the smokers he knew didn’t advertise their habit.

Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet.
Peter had forgotten where he’d
heard this phrase—it must have been decades ago, for sure—and didn’t know why
it had stuck in his memory. He remembered that the phrase was an advertising
slogan (for Hamlet cigars, obviously). It did fit the situation, didn’t it?

How did that commercial end, by the way?

“Now, first things first.” Walsh opened the black
plastic folder in front of him, picked up the two top sheets of paper, which
had text printed on both sides, and handed them to Peter. “This is a
confidentiality agreement. Please read and sign it.”

When Peter began to read the document, which was simply
titled ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ and didn’t seem to differ from any other
government confidentiality form, Walsh continued, “I suppose you signed a
similar paper with the FBI. This one comes from the Department of Defense.” He
leaned back in his chair. “I love these guys. They think a piece of paper can
stop a guy from blabbing his mouth.”

“It’s not a perfect solution, but I guess it’s better
than getting your tongue cut off.” Peter put his initials wherever required,
then signed the agreement, and returned it to the colonel.

Maybe Walsh picked a windowless office in order to
protect himself from a sniper’s bullet? Peter’s boss, who had personally
handcuffed half a dozen drug lords back in the day and developed the habit of
always sitting with his back against the wall, would call that a healthy
paranoia.

The thought was late to the party, but Peter didn’t
mind it. Then he added another idea to the mix: this could be a precaution
against long-range laser listening devices that allowed you to eavesdrop from a
distance by detecting vibrations of the window glass. No windows—no vibrations.

Walsh smiled. “You have a sense of humor. I like that.”
He signed his name in the witness section of the agreement and placed it back
in the folder. “By the way, a person without a tongue can still write and type.
Just an observation.”

“True.”

“I’ll tell you this: when it comes to protecting state
secrets, nothing beats the good old dungeon.”

Peter thought for a few seconds, then nodded, and said
with an earnest look on his face, “I guess you’re right.”

Walsh burst out laughing. “I’m glad you’re not one of
those sensitive stuffed shirts with a stick up their asses.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Now, let’s get to business. Did your supervisor
explain to you the nature of your assignment?”

“I was told that you’re holding a high-value individual
and that I’m supposed to assist you in interrogating him.”

Walsh nodded. “Yes, that’s what your task is in a
nutshell. By the way, I heard very good things about your interrogation skills.
How many spies did you break?” His eyes glimmered playfully. Before Peter
replied, the colonel went on, “Did they tell you what kind of high-value
individual we’re dealing with here?”

“No. Mister Fuhrman didn’t give me a lot of specifics.”

“Oh, I see. He didn’t give you specifics because he’s
not privy to them. Don’t worry; I’ll provide you with all the details in the
course of time.” Walsh grabbed a bottle of water from the top of the fireproof
safe, which sat behind him, unscrewed the cap, and took two sips. “It’s going
to be fun, my friend. It’s going to be fun, I promise.”

“So who’s the client?”

“He’s name’s Max Pollack.” Walsh opened a drawer on his
left, pulled out a half-inch thick binder, and handed it to Peter. “Here’s everything
you need to know about him. Pollack is a Navy SEAL. Perhaps I should say ‘was;’
I doubt they’ll ever let him continue serve. He’s been on SEAL Team Two for the
last four years. They’re stationed at the Little Creek Amphibious Base in
Virginia Beach.”

“Twenty six years old,” Peter muttered as he scanned
the page with Pollack’s biographical information.

“Yes, he’s pretty young, but don’t let his age fool
you, Peter. He is very dangerous. Dangerous in a way you’ve never imagined, and
I’m not exaggerating.”

“What kind of information are we trying to get out of
him?”

“We believe Pollack knows something very important to
the national security of our country. However, we have virtually no idea what
it is. Pollack refuses to talk.” Walsh woke up his laptop and entered the
password. “Two weeks ago, Pollack and his unit were sent to an uninhabited
Arctic island called Bradford Island.” The colonel made a few clicks with the
mouse and then turned the screen, which displayed what appeared to be a map, to
Peter. “The island is not that big, just eight square miles. It’s located about
three hundred and fifty miles west of Greenland.” He poked his finger at the
screen, pointing out the island.

“It belongs to Canada, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. But our Canadian friends didn’t mind us visiting
that place. Their helicopter took off from the Thule Air Force Base.” Walsh
touched the laptop screen again, under a red dot on the west coast of
Greenland. “Here it is.” He settled back in the chair. “The mission was top
secret, and I can’t tell you all its details. I’m going to tell you this: all
of Pollack’s unit mates were killed in that mission. Max is the only survivor.”
Walsh kept silent for a moment. “Whoever killed those SEALs chose to let
Pollack live. Why? What kind of deal did Pollack cut with them?”

“Do you suspect that Pollack has gone rogue?”

“That’s possible. One thing is for sure: he’s hiding
something from us.”

“When am I meeting Pollack?”

“In four hours.”

Peter fanned the pages of Pollack’s file, evaluating
how long it would take to look over it, and said, “Okay. Sounds good.”

“Before you leave, I have an important question for
you, Peter, and I want you to think carefully before answering it.” Walsh
leaned forward and continued, “How good are you at following instructions?”

After a short silence, Peter replied, “I believe I’m
pretty good at it.” He was struck by how serious the colonel looked and sounded
at the moment.

“Excellent. One more question. Have you heard the
expression ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs’?”