Black Skies (16 page)

D
an Morgan woke up facing the wall in a suite he did not recognize in a hotel that was, judging by its decor, most definitely in Monte Carlo. The red-and-gold wallpaper told him that it was not the Oiseau. Oddly, the patterns seemed to be moving. His arms and legs were bound with strong packing tape to a heavy upholstered chair, made of hardwood and thus impossible to take apart if he wanted to make a quick escape.
Bad.
He looked to his right to see the room door, and then to his left to find Weinberg sitting back on an armchair that matched the wallpaper, drinking a gin and tonic out of a tall glass.
Worse.

Morgan felt thick meaty hands grab his chair, and he thought he might lose his lunch as the man—it could only be Anse Fleischer—swiveled the chair so that Morgan was facing Weinberg.

“You seemed to have crashed my car, Mr. Morgan,” he said, taking a sip from his drink. “I’m afraid I must ask you for your insurance information. And—oh, yes, you broke into my room and stole something from me.”

Weinberg took a cigarette from a golden cigarette case and set it aflame it with a matching lighter. “I don’t smoke, did you know that? Not usually.” He took a deep, needy drag from his cigarette. “Except when I am very, very angry.”

He made a waving signal with his hand. Anse Fleischer appeared from behind Morgan and stood in front of him, the massive German’s abdomen taking up Morgan’s entire field of vision. Morgan didn’t literally see it coming, but he was expecting the backhanded slap delivered across the face. His cheek stung, especially where the stroke had caught the bone. He looked up at Fleischer’s face, towering above him. There was a nasty cut running from his left cheek to his nose from where Morgan has struck him with the poker.

“Oh, good,” said Morgan. “We’re practically matching. Maybe we can sing together later.” Weinberg gestured, and Fleischer hit him again.

“Mr. Morgan, perhaps you should sing now, alone,” said Weinberg. “Was there anyone else working with you?”

Morgan spat blood on the carpet at Weinberg’s feet.

“Of course you did not act alone,” he said. “This was not a job for just one man. The question now is, who do you work for, Mr. Morgan?”

“I’m self-employed, actually,” said Morgan. “The hours are great, but they really hose you with the tax—”
Thwack.
Fleischer’s hand fell heavily again.

Morgan heard the room door swing open behind him. “Shall I bother to say ‘I told you so,’ Gunther?” came Lena Weinberg’s cold, haughty voice from behind Morgan.

“Indeed you did, little sister,” said Weinberg. “I should listen to you more often.”

“That’s what I keep saying, but do you listen?” she said humorlessly.

Weinberg sipped his drink with affected nonchalance, but Morgan saw that his grip on the glass was leaving him white-knuckled, and he had sucked down his cigarette with urgent rage. Weinberg was angry, angry enough to be very dangerous in the short term. Morgan looked around the room. The tycoon was sitting in front of wide bay windows. Morgan could see nothing but sky from his vantage point. But that meant that they were probably still facing the sea, still on the bluff, and thus not far from the Oiseau Hotel.

“I had a feeling,” said Lena, walking around Morgan’s chair to crouch in front of him, “that you were up to something. I just wasn’t sure what. At first, I thought you were simply a con man, here to cheat Gunther out of money. God knows, there have been plenty of
those
vultures circling my family fortune ever since we were children. But I did not know about
you,
not for sure. So I asked to the croupier, with a very generous tip, for him to reveal your cards. And what did you think we found?”

“That card dealers at the Palatine are incorruptible?”

Weinberg leaned forward met Morgan’s eyes straight on. “What sort of a man folds a winning hand of two million dollars?” he growled. “That is my question, Mr. Morgan. I might, perhaps, on a whim. But you are
not
me, Mr. Morgan. Two million is not a fun night out for you, it is the difference between retiring tomorrow and having to work into your eighties so that you can have a roof over your head. So when does a man like you fold on two million dollars?”

“When he wants something other than money,” said Morgan.

“When he’s not paying the bills,” said Weinberg. “Which leads me to ask you again, Mr. Morgan, who do you work for?”

Morgan turned to Fleischer. “I’ll give you one million dollars cash to turn on them and help me escape,” he said. “You know I’m good for it.” Fleischer walked to him, towering above him. In a flash, Morgan felt the sting of the man’s hand against his cheek. Weinberg laughed.

“Anse has been with our family since he was born,” he said, “as his father was before him. This is not a loyalty that can be bought, Mr. Morgan.”

“No, just cultivated,” said Morgan. “Instilled in the family dog.”

Fleischer moved to strike Morgan, but Weinberg stayed him by raising his hand. “He is merely trying to anger you, now that he has found that he cannot turn you. Keep your calm. And remember that you will have the opportunity to kill him
after
we are done questioning him.”

“Well,
that
puts you in a weak bargaining position, doesn’t it?” said Morgan. “Letting on that you’re going to kill me.”

“He speaks of death without fear,” said Lena. “I can tell.” She leaned in close to him so that he could almost smell her breath. There was nothing seductive about her proximity, only menace. “You have been acquainted with death, haven’t you, Mr. Morgan?”

“I will not suffer those who cross me to live,” said Weinberg, lighting a second cigarette. “But believe me, Mr. Morgan, there are things worse than death. I have not told Anse
how
to kill you. If you cooperate, perhaps I will give him specific instructions to make it quick and painless. If not . . .” He drew deeply on the cigarette. “Anse does like to get creative in his killing, don’t you, Anse? It is a trait we like to encourage.”

“No way I can bargain for my life then?” asked Morgan. “After all, I might have something you want.”

Weinberg raised his left eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

“I can tell you everything about who sent me. The people who are after you. It won’t stop with me, you know.”

“Who is it?” Weinberg demanded.

“Not unless you let me go,” said Morgan.

“Your life is not necessary to get me what I want,” said Weinberg. “There is nothing Anse can’t torture out of you.”

This wouldn’t have been the first time Morgan had been on the rack, and he knew he could hold up, at least for a couple of days. But he’d known of stronger men than him that had broken under continual, sustained torture. The important thing was not to get spooked. If he could keep thinking and talking, he could delay his death long enough to plan his escape.

“That might work,” said Morgan. “Of course, as soon as my people figure out that I’ve been captured, they’re going to start covering their tracks. Soon, any trail I can lay out for you is going to have gone cold.” Morgan leaned forward as far as his restraints permitted him. “And even if you can get everything out of me eventually, I can guarantee you that you won’t be able to get it all out of me quickly.” He sat back, in a relaxed position. “I can tell you what you want to know, but only if you let me go.”

Weinberg looked at his sister, then back at Morgan. “And I suppose just my promising to release you is not going to be enough?”

“No, not really,” said Morgan.

“Okay,” said Weinberg. “Tell me what you have—give me some idea of the information you can offer me—and I will tell you whether it is worth your life.”

“Just kill him and be done with it!” insisted Lena.

“Let him speak,” said Weinberg.

“I guess I can do that, if Eva Braun here gives me a chance,” said Morgan, shooting a glance at Lena. She was smart. Smarter than Gunther, even. He wondered if she was the true brains behind the company. “I happen to work for a competitor—no, I will not tell you which. I’m a contractor, ex-US intelligence. My specialty is industrial espionage. I will not tell you any more than that until I have some manner of guarantee that I will be let go.”

“Telling me who your boss is will not be sufficient for that,” said Weinberg. “I know I have enemies who would like to steal my secrets, to discredit me, and even to have me killed. The information you are attempting to entice me with is nothing to me. Do better.”

“Okay,” said Morgan.
Just keep talking until something sticks.
“I can give you data—information that I have gathered already, and what others like me have gathered.”

“Are you suggesting that you’re going to tell me about
myself,
and that will save you?” Weinberg smiled. “I thought that you were better than that.”

“It’s not only that,” he said. “You’ll know what they know. And there’s other data, about other companies—things that I can guarantee will be valuable to you. You would be able to strike back and deal a crippling blow to my employers. It would, at the very least, set our industrial espionage program back months.”

“You turn rather quickly on the hand that feeds you,” said Lena.

“Like I said, I’m a contractor,” said Morgan. “Not a company man. What, you think I’d die for someone just because they cut me a check?”

“You yourself said that some things cannot be bought,” said Weinberg, finishing off a second cigarette. “Not with money, anyway.” He mashed the stub into a brass ashtray. “Let’s suppose that this deal is advantageous to me. How do we make a trade? I will not let you go until you show it to me, and once you have, that is the whole game, no?”

“I guess that is a problem, isn’t it?” said Morgan. “But there might be a solution to our little conundrum. The information I am offering you is accessible on an encrypted server. I can give you access to this with a password. We go out to a public place, where I can be sure you will not shoot me, and—”

“And you can run away to safety,” said Lena. “Kill him. He is a liar, and is probably lying again.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Weinberg, stroking his beard. “It does pose a problem. Still, we need not take his word for it. What he said is easily verifiable. Anse, will you get my computer for me, please?”

“No,” said Morgan. “Not here.”

“Here, Mr. Morgan. That is my best offer.”

“I’m not giving it to you here. I don’t have any guarantee you won’t kill me if I give it to you here.”

“Anse,” said Weinberg. “Give Mr. Morgan a little incentive.”

Fleischer bent down and grabbed Morgan’s left hand. He took Morgan’s pinky finger in his thick paw.

Fleischer bent Morgan’s finger back until it cracked. Morgan screamed through gritted teeth, squirming wildly in his chair, straining against the restraints.

“You will give me the information now,” said Fleischer. “Or you will give me the information after you have no fingers left. The decision is yours.”

“Someone will hear,” he said, panting with pain.

“The room is soundproofed,” said Weinberg. “One of the benefits of paying an ungodly daily rate. Mr. Morgan, tell me how to access the server.”

“Not until—”

“Anse,” said Weinberg. “Again.”

Fleischer grabbed Morgan’s ring finger and pulled it back. Morgan roared with pain.

“Are you ready to talk?” said Weinberg.

“Eat shit,” said Morgan, through heavy breaths and a fog of pain. The bastard just sat back and sipped his drink like he was watching the opera. Morgan looked at his two mangled fingers bending backward at sickeningly wrong angles, and wondered if they had been broken or just dislocated.

“That is not very polite,” said Weinberg. Morgan spat at him, the bloody gob landing on Weinberg’s suede loafers. Weinberg looked down with disgust, then motioned to his valet. “Anse.”

Fleischer grabbed Morgan’s middle finger. Morgan winced. “Okay, okay!” Morgan exclaimed. Fleischer held his finger but didn’t bend it back. Weinberg held up his hand. “I’ll tell you. Open the browser and input exactly what I tell you.”

Lena picked up the computer. She had been standing and pacing, but now she sat next to Weinberg and waited for the laptop to start up. “Shoo,” said Morgan at Anse, who scowled in response.

“Okay,” said Lena. “I am ready. Let’s see what Mr. Morgan has for us.”

Morgan dictated the address of one of Zeta’s shared servers, staring at the thick patterned carpet as he did, with a look of shame and defeat. In the meantime, he prayed that Shepard had an alert for strange activity on the server.

“Okay,” said Lena Weinberg. “It is asking me for a password.”

“Listen carefully,” said Morgan. “The password is . . .” Morgan spoke a long string of numbers, letters and symbols, and Weinberg typed them in, one by one.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“That’s it,” he said.

She hit Enter on the keyboard.

“The password is incorrect,” said Lena. “Kill him.”

“I think I agree with you this time,” said Weinberg.

“No! No!” said Morgan. “You must have written it wrong. The password is right. I swear!”

“Okay, Mr. Morgan,” said Weinberg. “You have one more try. One more chance to prove to me that you are not lying.”

“Okay, listen carefully this time.” Morgan repeated the string, and Weinberg typed it in once more.

“Failed again,” said Lena.

“They’ve changed it! They must have found out I was taken and changed the password!”

“He is playing with us,” said Lena.

“No, I swear!” Morgan said. “Look, I’ll tell you everything if you let me go! Whatever you want to know!”