Read Online Brain Storm by Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Thrillers, Men's Adventure, Chiun (Fictitious Character), Remo (Fictitious Character)
Ads: Link
place. If they've lost faith in me..."
"They can't," Newton pleaded. "Not now."
Holz smiled reassuringly. "I'll do my best. But it would help if you could get the interface project further ahead of schedule."
"I'll redouble my efforts."
"That might help," Holz admitted. In his mind, he wondered how this would be possible. Newton already spent at least twenty hours a day at the lab.
But that wasn't his concern. For all Holz cared, Newton could drop dead tomorrow. As long as he perfected his process today.
With an encouraging slap on the back that was devoid of anything resembling sincerity, Lothar Holz left the main R&D lab.
Once he was gone, Newton exhaled a nervous puff of air.
He hadn't told Holz that there was a snag. A huge snag.
Yes, the man named Smith had the most orderly mind the scientist had ever seen, but in that orderli-ness there was an area that was blocked off and had so far proved impenetrable to their best efforts. Its real-world counterpart would be a filing cabinet with many drawers. Most of them were wide open for inspection but there was one at the bottom that was locked securely. Why?
With renewed vigor, Dr. Curt Newton, P.C.—
Physical Cryptologist—vowed that he wouldn't rest until he had broken into that mysterious bottom drawer.
6
"You have lied to me."
The man spoke English precisely. Carefully. He had obviously been educated in one of the finer universities in England. But the clipped words—seemingly sheared off at their consonants by the razor-thin lips—were imperfect. Captain Josef Menk preferred it that way.
The young man swinging from the bare beam in his small office on the island of Usedom was Menk's latest pupil, scheduled to learn the true horrors awaiting the young boys unlucky enough to land on the wrong side of this war.
An army corporal, not much younger than the dangling man, had just brought in a piece of paper that Josef Menk had taken officiously. Of course it was for show. To the Geheime Staatspolizei, much these days was show.
"You are not French," Menk commented absently at the exhausted, sweating man who dangled from the frayed ropes before him. He perused the paper in his hand a moment longer. When he was satisfied that sufficient time had elapsed to let the information sink in, he placed the square white sheet on the surface of his immaculate desk. He paused to stub out his cigarette in the spotless green glass ashtray.
He walked slowly over to the dangling man, who didn't cower at his approach. Menk bent at the waist, placing his gloved hands on the black woolen knees of his Gestapo uniform. He leaned in close. When he whispered, his mouth was no more than an inch away from the young man's ear.
"A man who lies under torture, hmm? You are very brave. What do you suppose I should do with you?" he asked softly, so that the man would have to strain to hear the words.
"Frangais," the man croaked.
Menk slapped the man sharply across the cheek.
He had ordered his personal tailor to stitch a network of tiny ball bearings into the finger seams on the back of the glove. It increased the pain while simultane-ously increasing Menk's pleasure. He smiled at the fresh trickles of blood that ran from three new gashes just above the man's jaw.
"American," Menk corrected. He leaned back against his desk and made a show of reading the information that he had already memorized before he had even entered the office. "Smith, Harold. Office of Strategic Services. You are a long way from Washington, Herr Smith."
The young man didn't react. He stared straight ahead, at the concrete wall of the converted stone house.
There was a hint of black stubble across his normally clean-shaved jaw. His eyes were a watery, almost steel gray. His nondescript hair was cut short, too short to be totally disheveled by the five days he had so far spent suspended in Captain Josef Menk's torture chamber. His skin was pale, his clothing plain. But in his demeanor there was a certain
"They can't," Newton pleaded. "Not now."
Holz smiled reassuringly. "I'll do my best. But it would help if you could get the interface project further ahead of schedule."
"I'll redouble my efforts."
"That might help," Holz admitted. In his mind, he wondered how this would be possible. Newton already spent at least twenty hours a day at the lab.
But that wasn't his concern. For all Holz cared, Newton could drop dead tomorrow. As long as he perfected his process today.
With an encouraging slap on the back that was devoid of anything resembling sincerity, Lothar Holz left the main R&D lab.
Once he was gone, Newton exhaled a nervous puff of air.
He hadn't told Holz that there was a snag. A huge snag.
Yes, the man named Smith had the most orderly mind the scientist had ever seen, but in that orderli-ness there was an area that was blocked off and had so far proved impenetrable to their best efforts. Its real-world counterpart would be a filing cabinet with many drawers. Most of them were wide open for inspection but there was one at the bottom that was locked securely. Why?
With renewed vigor, Dr. Curt Newton, P.C.—
Physical Cryptologist—vowed that he wouldn't rest until he had broken into that mysterious bottom drawer.
6
"You have lied to me."
The man spoke English precisely. Carefully. He had obviously been educated in one of the finer universities in England. But the clipped words—seemingly sheared off at their consonants by the razor-thin lips—were imperfect. Captain Josef Menk preferred it that way.
The young man swinging from the bare beam in his small office on the island of Usedom was Menk's latest pupil, scheduled to learn the true horrors awaiting the young boys unlucky enough to land on the wrong side of this war.
An army corporal, not much younger than the dangling man, had just brought in a piece of paper that Josef Menk had taken officiously. Of course it was for show. To the Geheime Staatspolizei, much these days was show.
"You are not French," Menk commented absently at the exhausted, sweating man who dangled from the frayed ropes before him. He perused the paper in his hand a moment longer. When he was satisfied that sufficient time had elapsed to let the information sink in, he placed the square white sheet on the surface of his immaculate desk. He paused to stub out his cigarette in the spotless green glass ashtray.
He walked slowly over to the dangling man, who didn't cower at his approach. Menk bent at the waist, placing his gloved hands on the black woolen knees of his Gestapo uniform. He leaned in close. When he whispered, his mouth was no more than an inch away from the young man's ear.
"A man who lies under torture, hmm? You are very brave. What do you suppose I should do with you?" he asked softly, so that the man would have to strain to hear the words.
"Frangais," the man croaked.
Menk slapped the man sharply across the cheek.
He had ordered his personal tailor to stitch a network of tiny ball bearings into the finger seams on the back of the glove. It increased the pain while simultane-ously increasing Menk's pleasure. He smiled at the fresh trickles of blood that ran from three new gashes just above the man's jaw.
"American," Menk corrected. He leaned back against his desk and made a show of reading the information that he had already memorized before he had even entered the office. "Smith, Harold. Office of Strategic Services. You are a long way from Washington, Herr Smith."
The young man didn't react. He stared straight ahead, at the concrete wall of the converted stone house.
There was a hint of black stubble across his normally clean-shaved jaw. His eyes were a watery, almost steel gray. His nondescript hair was cut short, too short to be totally disheveled by the five days he had so far spent suspended in Captain Josef Menk's torture chamber. His skin was pale, his clothing plain. But in his demeanor there was a certain
Similar Books
