Oregon Files 08 - The Jungle by Clive Cussler

Author:Clive Cussler
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-04-20T23:00:00+00:00

JUAN MARKED TIME by the twin ravages of hunger and thirst. The hunger was a dull ache that he could handle. It was the thirst that was driving him mad. He had tried pounding on the door to get someone’s attention, but he knew that they hadn’t forgotten him. They were breaking him down bit by bit through deliberate deprivation.

His tongue felt like a seared piece of meat that had been rammed into his mouth, and his skin had stopped sweating so that it felt papery and brittle. No matter how he tried not to think about it, images of water flooded his mind—glasses of it, lakes of it, whole oceans of it. It was the worst form of torture. They were letting his mind betray him the way Croissard and Smith had. He realized that the waterboard treatment had only been a lark, a way for them to amuse themselves. If it had worked, fine. If not, they already had the second phase of his interrogation mapped out.

This was their tried-and-true method of breaking prisoners, and he was quite sure it had never failed.

Suddenly the bolt securing his door snapped back with a metallic echo, and the hinges squealed like nails on a chalkboard. Two guards were there. Neither had weapons other than the rubber truncheons slipped under their belts. They stomped into the room and lifted Cabrillo from the floor. The Burmese are not usually big people, and these two were no exception. In his exhausted state, and with only one leg, Cabrillo was deadweight, and the soldiers staggered under him.

Cabrillo was dragged down the corridor toward where he had been waterboarded. The dread he felt was like a load of stones had been packed around his heart.

But they continued past the door and went farther down the hallway to another interrogation room. This one was square, cement, and had a table and two chairs. One was bolted to the floor, the other was occupied by the interrogator with the cultured voice. On the table was a carafe of water, its sides dewy from the humidity, and an empty glass.

“Ah,” the interrogator greeted him with a smile that was part bonhomie, part reptilian. “Good of you to join me, Mr. Smith.”

They were still using that name, Juan thought. They either hadn’t tortured MacD or he hadn’t broken. Or this guy was smart enough not to reveal what he’d learned from their other prisoner.

Juan was dumped into the chair, and it took everything in him to remain erect and keep his eyes on the interrogator and not ogle the pitcher. His mouth was too dry to speak.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the interrogator said, pouring water into the glass so that the ice cubes clicked musically. “I am Colonel Soe Than. In case you were wondering, you have been our guest here at Insein for two and a half days.”

He set the glass in front of Cabrillo. Juan sat as still as a statue.

“Go ahead,” Than encouraged. “I will not think any less of you.

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