There were two of them, in boots and trousers, their muscular chests and thick arms glinting in the torchlight. Not a lot of pity and even less interest showed on their faces. They were professional torturers and had seen a lot of things themselves, so nothing this fellow underwent had much meaning to them.
“So again. Please. Speak. Water, food, comfort, morphine, schnapps, or that awful vodka shit you people like. Then you take us for a nice walk in the forest and point out where these bandits are hiding or your rendezvous, whatever is your next step. Then for you: more of everything, more than you’ve ever had in you whole life.”
The man stared at the ceiling through his swollen eyes. He said nothing.
Salid turned. “The torch. Again, in burnt and unburnt areas.”
He went upstairs and outside to sit in the sun and have another cigarette. He could see clouds of mist floating up from the waters of the River Prut. The roar of the water tumbling drowned out the screams.
He sat, smoking, thinking.
The man would break. Soon. No one could stand up to determined torture; that was an operational value shared by both SS and Arab nationalists actively plotting war against the British, whose ranks Salid would lead after the war was over and at last bring purity to Palestine. The Arab revolt of ’36 to ’39 was nothing! Why, the next time—
He glanced about. Today’s stroke was masterful. Instead of rolling into the village in his three panzerwagens, he halted a kilometer outside and sent fast-moving lightly armed flanking patrols around to see what they could flush. Indeed, they’d flushed this peasant. Now it was a matter of time. He would lead them, they would net the girl, and it would be another triumph for the great Salid. More important, it would get him sent out of this hellhole, with a huge Ukrainian Guards Army about to jump on him, and back to the Balkans, from whence, when the time came, escape was not only simpler but set up under the auspices of a certain section of the SS. He would get out, get back, and reemerge in his own world, though now a legend; he would be a great weapon in that war, the next one, and he would win the peace on the terms he thirsted for so voraciously.
He just needed this bastard to break now! Time was growing short. The offensive could break at any time, and who knew what that would unleash? That was why having permanent possession of the three panzerwagens was so important. With them, he could get his men up the mountains and over the Yaremche road to Uzhgorod. Without them, he might be another fool in a six-mile parade of hapless victims headed north to Lviv for the Red Air Force to strafe and bomb at will.
And this other thing: now Groedl had decided on a risky plan to catch the sniper. He would submit himself to her marksmanship, albeit from a good distance out. He would bet his life that she could not hit him, just as he would bet his life that she would have to try. Groedl had decided to make a visit to the delightful village of Yaremche. The White Witch would be lured into a trap, which he, Salid, would spring. But what if he failed? That thought petrified him. Allah would not let him fail. But it would be so much better if this bastard would crack and lead them to her—
“Captain, come quickly. He has—”
It was one of the torturers, and from the look of alarm on the face of the man, Salid understood the news could not be good. He rose and followed the man into the inn and down the cellar steps.
The peasant was still alive on the table. But . . . both of his eyes had been gouged out. They bled profusely. He shivered in pain, writhing against the binds of the rope.
“Why on earth would you do such a thing?” Salid demanded of his torturers. “For God’s sake, what use is he to us now?”
“We didn’t do it, Captain. He got his right hand loose, I don’t know how. And in a second when I had turned away to acquire a new torch, he used his thumb on each eye.”
The man said through his pain, “Be quite happy to guide you now, sir.” Then he laughed.
“Cut his fucking throat,” said Salid.
CHAPTER 29
Kolomiya
THE PRESENT
The Mercedes came hard, pulled almost even to the Chevy, and at that point, Bob gunned his own engine and lurched ahead slightly. The Mercedes responded as the heavy-footed driver put more into the pedal and his vehicle jumped ahead. Precisely as he pulled near even, Bob hit the brakes hard, and the satiny black German vehicle shot by on the left.
Swagger saw the open window, the muzzle come out, but then he dipped behind the Benz and gunned his own car and hit the bigger vehicle hard in the left taillight. The crunch of metal on metal sent a shock through the Chevy, his wheel fought him, but he gained control and rammed again. The big car wavered as its own driver fought for control, then lost it, went to brake, panic-skid, and, raising a howl of dust as it slid over road, shoulder, and grass, slewed to the left and came to a halt.