Read Online Spy Trade by Matthew Dunn - Free Book Online

direction they damn well liked.
    The president was sitting next to him; Tusk could sense his unease.
    When all were seated and had exhausted their greetings to one another and fake pleasantries, Tusk banged his fist three times on the rectangular table as if he were a judge with a gavel. “Let’s get this over with.”
    The room was silent; all faced the television monitor on the wall. Donny Tusk turned on the TV and prepared to press Play on the video that had been sent to him an hour ago by NSA technicians who’d been looking out for it on the Web. Probably, some in the room had already seen the video, hopping onto YouTube or similar with their insecure smartphones or other gadgets that Tusk had no care to understand. Nevertheless, all were expectant. It was a rare moment in the situation room when you could hear a pin drop.
    Tusk pressed Play.
    The image of the dead room was blurred at first, but then someone behind the camera brought the lens into focus. Bob Oakland was on his knees; his face was a swollen pulp, his shirt was ripped and smeared in blood, and his hair was lank and plastered to his scalp. Behind him were two men, one tall, the other shorter yet with a broad physique. They were two of the men who’d appeared in the first video Tusk had seen of Oakland. The taller was holding Oakland on a chain leash that was wrapped around the CIA officer’s throat. In the corner of the room, the Jordanian translator Ramzi was chained to the wall. Ropes around his legs, torso, and arms, would have made it impossible for him to move though they looked unnecessary right now because Ramzi’s head was slumped onto his chest. He was either unconscious or dead. And behind Ramzi were the red Arabic letters.
    Dead Room.
    One of the female senators in the room held her hand to her mouth and exclaimed, “Dear God. What have they done to them?”
    “Quiet,” said Tusk. He shared the politician’s concern, but now all in the room had to stay focused.
    The shorter jihadist thrust a single sheet of paper into Oakland’s hands, said in accented English, “Read,” and held a knife to the American’s throat.
    Oakland raised his head and looked into the camera. The man operating the camera zoomed in so that Oakland’s head took up most of the screen. It was impossible to tell whether he looked in agony or resigned to a terrible death. Punches and kicks to the face, and hands gripping his matted hair and pummeling his skull against the concrete floor, had earlier distorted all normal expressions beyond recognition. It pained Tusk when the involuntary thought entered his head that Oakland now looked like a seal pup that had been clubbed to death.
    The CIA officer tried to speak, but his voice croaked. He darted a look at his captors. Hoarsely, he managed to utter, “Water, please. Water.”
    There was laughter, the sound of footsteps walking quickly out of the room, and upon their return Oakland’s face was still taking up most of the screen when from one side of him a bucket of water was emptied over his face.
    More laughter from the jihadists.
    Oakland moaned and lowered his head.
    The chain around his throat was yanked back, allowing all watching the video to see the man’s bashed and sodden visage. It took all of Tusk’s restraint not to punch the table. Oakland coughed, blinked fast and looked at the sheet. “I must read this?”
    “You must,” said the tall jihadist.
    Oakland read what was on the paper. “In four days I will be dead. In less than four days, the man who shares my room will be dead. Nothing has changed. We are experiments, my . . . friends assure me. Experiments to ascertain the true strength and resilience of the human body. If you don’t cooperate, it is inevitable that we will become cadavers. What is less certain is how long it will take.” Bob looked straight into the camera. “Don’t give in to these bastards.”
    “Only say what’s on the paper!” barked one of the jihadists.
    “Fuck