believe that they will not be able to lie under influence of the drug. Most people, even thugs like this, don’t have the first clue about truth serum...other than what they see in the movies.”
“You said there was a third part?” Lyons asked.
“Why, yes,” James said, setting the syringe down and reaching into his bag of tricks to withdraw an electronic box with a digital display and a nylon cuff attached to it. “We make them think they’re also hooked up to this.”
“A polygraph?”
James shook his head. “No, actually this is just an automatic blood-pressure machine but we make the subject think it’s a polygraph.”
“Ah,” Schwarz said with a nod. “Very crafty.”
“I am, aren’t I?” James quipped.
He retrieved the syringe, wheeled and went through the door into the adjoining room, where Able Team had secured their prisoner to a chair with plastic riot cuffs. They had also blindfolded him and put gun muffs over his ears to provide a disorienting effect. No point in the guy hearing or seeing anything going on around him. Night had now settled on the city, its lights twinkling in the distance through the one-way windows installed in the safe house that had the added feature of being bullet resistant.
James applied the cuff to the man’s arm before ripping away the ear protection and blindfold. He sat on the edge of the table just in front of the chair and assumed the sternest expression he could muster. Actually, these kinds of head games were somewhat amusing and James didn’t mind playing whatever role he had to in order to get the intelligence they needed.
“Good evening,” he began. “That device attached to your arm is a highly specialized lie detector. In a moment, I’m going to turn it on and begin asking you questions. In addition to the polygraph, I’m also going to administer a drug designed to force you to answer my questions honestly. You would call this truth serum, but I would call it good insurance. You will not be able to resist and you will be forced to comply.”
The prisoner had first worn a mask of hatred and defiance, but as James talked the man’s expression changed to something much less confrontational. James could tell that he wouldn’t have any trouble extracting the truth from the guy even if he didn’t end up having to administer the drug. Of course, he’d loaded a very small dosage and he wouldn’t administer more unless he perceived the subject wasn’t telling the truth.
“Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“I... You mean you ain’t going to torture me?”
“We could go that way, if you’d like,” Lyons interjected.
James looked like he wanted to counter Lyons but then thought better of it. This was Able Team’s show and he’d only been brought in to assist and observe. Lyons was still in charge and James wouldn’t contradict his friend and colleague on any point unless it crossed the boundaries of his expertise.
“There’s no need to torture you,” James replied. “As I’ve already explained, this device and the pharmacological agents I’m about to administer are the only things required. That is, unless you’d like to skip that altogether and answer my questions without that intervention.”
“I’m no squeal, blackie.”
“Blackie?” Schwarz said. He looked at Blancanales. “What is this, the 1850s?”
Blancanales shrugged in way of reply.
“Okay,” James said as he administered the injection in the man’s vein. “Have it your way, asshole.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Casablanca, Morocco
As soon as Abbas el Khalidi finished reading the secure message on his computer, he picked a massive paperweight off his desk and heaved it across the room with a disgusted sigh.
The tumult brought two guards and a secretary into the room, all three of whom he ordered to get out. They backed out of the room with conciliatory bows, diligent to close the doors after them. They had worked for Khalidi long enough to know that he wasn’t to be meddled with in such a mood as this and would rue the day they ever departed from protocol. Khalidi had never been known as a lenient master—he was even less so when he discovered the Americans were screwing up his plans.
Again! he thought. Those sons of dogs are always trying to interfere!
Khalidi didn’t need the money, but that was hardly the point. He’d grown up a poor man on the streets of this very city, earning his way from a part-time paper route to the head of a news agency that had become one of the most powerful and influential of its kind throughout the world. Syndicated in nearly seventy countries with more than one billion subscribers, Khalidi had made his mark on the international media.
His notoriety as a newsman who knew no equal—a status that had earned him his “Prince Story” title—had also been the thing that allowed him to operate in relative privacy and seclusion. These were things Khalidi prized above all else, the power to determine his own destiny and control what information he would release to people while withholding the juiciest tidbits for himself.
Juicy and profitable, he reminded himself.
Still, it had not been about the money as much as the power. This was why his slaving operation in America had grown to such massive proportions, an operation so large that it defied conventional belief. Khalidi had his hand in a very big pie. The teen children of the American dogs were ripe for the harvest and brought a most handsome price on the international trafficking market. None of the so-called white slaves moved in or out of the country without Khalidi knowing about it. Sure, there were a few operations here and there, but they were mostly run by hoodlums and two-bit thugs. These individuals didn’t believe in quality of their work while Khalidi staked his personal reputation on it. And what had it yielded him in return? Greedy underlings who were so incompetent it bordered on pulp fiction cliché. That kind of mishandling could also expose his newspaper corporation, Abd-el-Aziz, to inquiry by the local government as well as international law-enforcement scrutiny.
The half-million-dollar ransom he’d lost, thanks to the pair of bunglers he’d now ordered his American contacts to find and terminate, wasn’t any issue. They still had the young girl and boy in question and his network could get them out of the country in the next twenty-four hours. Barring any other foul-ups, Khalidi figured this would blow over in a short time.
And what was the death of a congressman and a senator? The Americans didn’t generally like their elected officials anyway, conspiring to assassinate or expose them to public ridicule at every turn.
No, Khalidi figured he shouldn’t let this bother him in the least.
He decided to cheer up by having a long lunch at his favorite local establishment, a restaurant that served a fabulous array of traditional Arabic dishes, before taking the remainder of the afternoon off in favor of a long drive along the Moroccan coastline. Khalidi navigated the A5 out of Casablanca, top down on his Mercedes Benz SL-Class convertible, and drove south. He’d decided to change his usual northern route—one that often ended with a trip by ferry into the coastal Spanish city of Tarifa—in favor of a trip to the Doukkala-Abda region capital city of Safi. While most had a problem entering Spain from Morocco due to the intense narcotics trafficking out of his country, the real enterprise behind Khalidi’s
