The Partner Read Online Free PDF Page A

Danilo couldn’t know where his papers were.
    She rearmed the security system and made a hasty exit. No one in the cramped building had noticed her. She found a room in a small hotel downtown, near the Museum of Contemporary Arts. The Asian banks were open, and it was almost four in Zurich. She unpacked a compact fax and rigged it to the phone jack in her room. The small bed was soon covered with sheets of instructions and wire authorizations.
    She was tired, but sleep was out of the question. Danilo said they’d come looking for her. She could not go home. Her thoughts were not on money, but on him. Was he alive? If so, how much was he suffering? How much had he told them, and at what price?
    She wiped her eyes and began to arrange the papers. There was no time for tears.

    With torture, the best results come after three days of episodic abuse. The more obstinate wills are slowly broken. The pain is dreamed of, and looms larger as the victim waits for the next session. Three days, and most people break and crumble into small pieces.
    Guy didn’t have three days. His prisoner was not one taken in war, but a U.S. citizen wanted by the FBI.
    Around midnight, they left Patrick alone for a few minutes to suffer and think about the next round. His body was drenched with sweat; his skin red from the voltage and the heat. Blood trickled from under the tape on his chest where the electrodes had been stuck too tightly and were burning into his flesh. He gasped for breath and licked his dry shriveled lips. The nylon ropes on his wrists and ankles had rubbed the skin raw.
    Guy returned alone, and sat on a stool next to the sheet of plywood. For a minute the room was quiet, the only sound was Patrick breathing and trying to control himself. He kept his eyes closed tightly.
    “You’re a very stubborn man,” Guy said finally.
    No response.
    The first two hours had yielded nothing. Every question had been about the money. He didn’t know where it was, he’d said a hundred times. Did it exist? No, he had said repeatedly. What happened to it? He didn’t know.
    Guy’s experience with torture was extremely limited. He’d consulted an expert, a really twisted freak who seemed to actually enjoy it. He’d read a crude how-to manual, but finding practice time was difficult.
    Now that Patrick knew how horrible things could get, it was important to chat him up.
    “Where were you when your funeral took place?” Guy asked.
    There was a slight relaxing of Patrick’s muscles. Finally, a question not about the money. He hesitated and thought about it. What was the harm? He was caught. His story was about to be told. Maybe if he cooperated they’d lay off the voltage.
    “In Biloxi,” he said.
    “Hiding?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “And you watched your graveside service?”
    “Yes.”
    “From where?”
    “I was in a tree, with binoculars.” He kept his eyes closed and his fists clenched.
    “Where did you go after that?”
    “Mobile.”
    “Was that your hiding place?”
    “Yes, one of them.”
    “How long did you stay there?”
    “Off and on, coupla months.”
    “That long, huh? Where did you live in Mobile?”
    “Cheap motels. I moved around a lot. Moved up and down the Gulf. Destin. Panama City Beach. Back to Mobile.”
    “You changed your appearance.”
    “Yeah. I shaved, colored my hair, dropped fifty pounds.”
    “Did you study a language?”
    “Portuguese.”
    “So you knew you were headed here?”
    “Where’s here?”
    “Let’s say it’s Brazil.”
    “Okay. Yeah, I figured this was a good place to hide.”
    “After Mobile, where did you go?”
    “Toronto.”
    “Why Toronto?”
    “I had to go somewhere. It’s a nice place.”
    “Did you get new papers in Toronto?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You became Danilo Silva in Toronto?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you take another language course?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Dropped some more weight?”
    “Yeah. Another thirty pounds.” He kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore