Jaffa, Israel
19:15
Zachary Cohen was tied to a chair with his head slumped, his chin resting on his chest. His eyes were puffy and swollen shut. It felt like he had been dragged around by his hair. Fresh blood streamed from a cut on his cheekbone, down his neck, and soaked his white shirt a crimson red.
Someone sloshed a bucket of icy water over Zachary’s head. He spluttered and coughed, lifted his head, tried to focus through swollen eyes. He was in what looked like a hotel room, an ancient and ramshackle place. He panned around the room. No bed. Faded wallpaper hung in strips from the wall. A metal table stood in the center of the place.
His kidnapper casually sat on the table. He had one leg off the ground, the bucket on his lap. “Wake up, little man.”
Whatever, Zachary thought. He wished they’d kill him already; he had no reason for living anymore. Zachary giggled. “Yes, sir, on the double, sir,” he said, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
The man strode over and punched Zachary in the stomach. “I want the name for the agent who tried to kill my partner.”
Zachary bent forward and coughed, spitting blood from his mouth. He glanced at the man with a grimace. “The reason I’m still alive is because I know the answers to your questions. Why is this important to you? Who are—“
A man sauntered into the room. He wore a black pinstripe suit and a silky blue cravat which covered his chest and throat, tucked into a crisply-pressed, light blue shirt. “My dear, dear Captain Zachary Cohen.”
Zachary swallowed. “Callahan? You—you’re alive?”
Callahan stood in front of him, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Your agent attacked me with a garrote and left me for dead.” He spoke with a wheeze and stopped to swallow after every couple of sentences. Callahan nodded towards the ponytailed man. “Perreira managed to revive me. I couldn’t swallow for a month, crushed trachea, you see?” He sauntered over and stood behind Zachary. “This has become personal.” He squeezed Zachary’s shoulders. “There was a mole, you have his name.”
“Screw you.”
Callahan sauntered to Zachary’s front, then he grabbed the armrests of the chair and leaned forward, his face close to Zachary’s, their noses touching. “Captain, we’re counterintelligence operatives. Many people could die.” The smell of stale tobacco smoke lingered on his breath. “If you have a mole, I need to know who it is. We’re on the same team here.”
Zachary snorted. “OK, go ahead, amuse me with your bullshit.”
Callahan stood up and fiddled with his cuff links. “All right, here is the truth. The British employ me to spy on the Cubans. I have other, let us say, less official duties, as well.” He stood straight and shoved his hands in his pockets, pacing the room. “They compensated me well. I had an open checkbook, and we had made a bit of money on the side by siphoning some of these funds to our personal accounts.” He turned around to face Zach. “Someone must have known about this; why else would they have ordered a hit on me?”
Zach smiled. “Would you like to revise your story?”
“What?”
Zachary sighed. “Would you like to change your bullshit story, Callahan?”
Callahan frowned but said nothing.
“You’re leaving out pertinent information,” Zachary said, licking his lips.
Perreira cast a questioning glance at Callahan. “What has he left out?”
“The contraband. The tons of shit Platinum Private were shipping to Cuba on a weekly basis. Paying for it with British defense force funds,” Zachary said with a grimace, changing his position in the chair.
Perreira sniggered. “Ah, that.”
Callahan waved a hand. “Look, we need to know if the mole is on your side. And you must know. You managed to find me.”
“How do you know he didn’t order it?” Zach asked and pointed his chin at Perreira.
Perreira slammed the palm of his hand onto the table. “We’ve had to stop our work for four months now. We cannot trust nobody. Now I’m starting to feel poor. And I don’t like to feel poor.”
Zach frowned up at Callahan. “Could you please tell me who the hell this guy is?”
Callahan shrugged. “His name is Miguel Perreira. My agent in Cuba, employed by the CIA. He is my contact with Castro, and he also helps out in Southern Africa.”
Perreira frowned and sucked his teeth. “Your agent?”
Callahan smiled coldly and patted Perreira on the shoulder. “Sorry, my business partner.”
Pereirra smiled then nodded. “Better.” He strolled towards Zach and put his foot onto the chair’s edge, between Zach’s legs. He rested his arms on his knee and leaned forward. “Your pretty wife is dead. Your daughter is next.”
Zachary closed his eyes, his head slumped on his chest. Shit, Rebecca. Bruce would be close. He made up his mind. “OK, I'll tell you. Leave Rebecca out of this. This will take a while.”
Bruce had better arrive soon.
Callahan and Perreira pulled some chairs closer and sat.
“Who was the mole?” Callahan asked for the fourth time.