his arm around so I could lever it against my own. I held his hand in a secure thumb-lock. It wasn’t a perfect position, but it wasn’t bad either. I could snap his thumb that way and, more important, it allowed me to keep my other hand on the gun.
“We haven’t known each other long, Crust. One mission. I don’t even know your real name. Or why the CIA has you talking with a half-baked Scottish accent. So it’s truth or dare time. Tell me what I want to know or I blow a hole in your skull.”
Crust coughed. A loud, squeaky cough.
“Blair, my real name’s Blair,” Crust said, his accent as flat as a prairie snow. “The Scottish accent was mission protocol back when we were targeting Kate Shaw.”
Like that, Crust had completely lost the brogue. One minute he was from the Highlands and the next he simply sounded American, neutral, nothing identifiable about his accent at all. I applied a little more pressure to his thumb, bending it the way it wasn’t supposed to go.
“So why keep up the Scottish thing, Blair ?”
“I don’t know. I got into it, I guess. Look, you’re a badass, Mike. I get it,” Crust said. “If you’re telling me Jean-Marc attacked you, I have no idea why, all right? Not a clue. He was supposed to debrief you, that’s it. Did he say anything? Did he give you any kind of idea why he wanted to cut your throat?”
“Not much,” I said.
“So what did he tell you?”
“He asked me what I had found.”
“And?”
“And I told him.”
There was a loud knock from the other side of the door. I was going to have to bring our little Q and A session to a close before we drew unwanted attention. But I still had nothing.
“Look,” Crust said. “Cards on the table. I didn’t send Jean-Marc to kill you.”
“Why should I believe you?” I said.
“Because it’s the truth.”
“So what aren’t you telling me?”
There was another bang at the door, this one accompanied by loud talk in Turkish. I applied more pressure to Crust’s thumb. I was debating breaking it. I didn’t want to do it, because I wasn’t sure how effective it would be as an interrogation technique. Then again, there was a chance he wasn’t taking me seriously. It was a fine line. As it was, Crust spoke before I needed to decide.
“The mole,” Crust said. “I’m not telling you about the mole.”
I played it cool. I saw no reason to portray any reaction at all. Not until I had the facts.
“Why aren’t you telling me about the mole?” I asked.
Crust looked at me, exasperated, as though I had finally broken through.
“Because we thought you were it,” he finally said.
Chapter 13
T HERE WAS ANOTHER loud bang at the wooden door. I ignored it. Crust had broken through to the good stuff. He was talking. And I was pretty sure he would keep talking. But I wanted to make it easy for him. I wanted the words to flow right out.
“Get up,” I said.
Crust rose.
“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Would you like to return my well-oiled pistol?”
“Sure,” I said. “But I need to trust you with it first.”
“No problem, Mike,” Crust said, motioning toward the door. “But to get some, you’re going to have to give some. Follow me!”
I still didn’t know whose side Crust was on. Not really. But I knew I needed to find out. So I picked up the yatagan and let him pull back the barrel bolt and open the door. The welders were standing around, not suspicious so much as curious. But Crust didn’t try to pick up an acetylene torch to cauterize my throat. All he did was pause in front of the dirty, half-open roll-down door and say, “You might want to put that away.”
But I didn’t. I kept the gun exactly where it was. The arabesque trills of Turkish pop music drifted in from the street while I pulled my backpack onto both shoulders and draped the checkered towel over the Browning, yatagan in my left hand. I probably looked like a pirate, but I didn’t care. In
“We haven’t known each other long, Crust. One mission. I don’t even know your real name. Or why the CIA has you talking with a half-baked Scottish accent. So it’s truth or dare time. Tell me what I want to know or I blow a hole in your skull.”
Crust coughed. A loud, squeaky cough.
“Blair, my real name’s Blair,” Crust said, his accent as flat as a prairie snow. “The Scottish accent was mission protocol back when we were targeting Kate Shaw.”
Like that, Crust had completely lost the brogue. One minute he was from the Highlands and the next he simply sounded American, neutral, nothing identifiable about his accent at all. I applied a little more pressure to his thumb, bending it the way it wasn’t supposed to go.
“So why keep up the Scottish thing, Blair ?”
“I don’t know. I got into it, I guess. Look, you’re a badass, Mike. I get it,” Crust said. “If you’re telling me Jean-Marc attacked you, I have no idea why, all right? Not a clue. He was supposed to debrief you, that’s it. Did he say anything? Did he give you any kind of idea why he wanted to cut your throat?”
“Not much,” I said.
“So what did he tell you?”
“He asked me what I had found.”
“And?”
“And I told him.”
There was a loud knock from the other side of the door. I was going to have to bring our little Q and A session to a close before we drew unwanted attention. But I still had nothing.
“Look,” Crust said. “Cards on the table. I didn’t send Jean-Marc to kill you.”
“Why should I believe you?” I said.
“Because it’s the truth.”
“So what aren’t you telling me?”
There was another bang at the door, this one accompanied by loud talk in Turkish. I applied more pressure to Crust’s thumb. I was debating breaking it. I didn’t want to do it, because I wasn’t sure how effective it would be as an interrogation technique. Then again, there was a chance he wasn’t taking me seriously. It was a fine line. As it was, Crust spoke before I needed to decide.
“The mole,” Crust said. “I’m not telling you about the mole.”
I played it cool. I saw no reason to portray any reaction at all. Not until I had the facts.
“Why aren’t you telling me about the mole?” I asked.
Crust looked at me, exasperated, as though I had finally broken through.
“Because we thought you were it,” he finally said.
Chapter 13
T HERE WAS ANOTHER loud bang at the wooden door. I ignored it. Crust had broken through to the good stuff. He was talking. And I was pretty sure he would keep talking. But I wanted to make it easy for him. I wanted the words to flow right out.
“Get up,” I said.
Crust rose.
“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Would you like to return my well-oiled pistol?”
“Sure,” I said. “But I need to trust you with it first.”
“No problem, Mike,” Crust said, motioning toward the door. “But to get some, you’re going to have to give some. Follow me!”
I still didn’t know whose side Crust was on. Not really. But I knew I needed to find out. So I picked up the yatagan and let him pull back the barrel bolt and open the door. The welders were standing around, not suspicious so much as curious. But Crust didn’t try to pick up an acetylene torch to cauterize my throat. All he did was pause in front of the dirty, half-open roll-down door and say, “You might want to put that away.”
But I didn’t. I kept the gun exactly where it was. The arabesque trills of Turkish pop music drifted in from the street while I pulled my backpack onto both shoulders and draped the checkered towel over the Browning, yatagan in my left hand. I probably looked like a pirate, but I didn’t care. In
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