Free Dead Heat by James Patterson Page B

upstairs room and find a man sitting in an easy chair. It’s Rahim Jaffari, Lucas Meyer’s psychologist. His cropped white hair and taut olive skin are unmistakable, even in the gloom.
    Jaffari is smiling because he knows I can’t shoot him. He is holding Felipe in front of him, drawing the small boy up by grabbing a fistful of his hair, using his tiny body as a human shield. His own gun is pressed against Felipe’s delicate temple.
    ‘You are the link between all of the athletes.’
    He nods, and his lips curl into a satisfied smile. I want to hammer it right off his smug face, but he’s holding a gun to Paz’s boy’s head. So I take a breath.
    ‘We knew you were Meyer’s psychologist when we took your call at the hospital. I bet you cursed your luck when you realised you were talking to a police officer. And I also know you worked with Steve Lewis, the cyclist.’
    Jaffari looks intrigued.
    ‘I found him on the side of a cliff. He told me that pressure is a button. You said the same thing, back at the Belmond hotel.’
    Jaffari gives me a concessionary nod, before relaxing back into his chair, pulling Felipe with him. The boy looks drugged and docile.
    ‘Well, I’ve got bad news for you. Lewis didn’t jump. I talked him down. Whatever you’ve been doing, he will testify against you. I’ll see to that.’
    I catch a glimpse of Paz in the shadows. Her face looks bruised, but her eyes are burning with anger. She’s not interested in people testifying against Rahim Jaffari. She wants him to die, today, in this room. I look back at how he’s holding Felipe by the hair, and part of me hopes that Paz gets her way.
    ‘If I was a betting man,’ I tell Jaffari, ‘I would lay money on the telephone number we found in Gilmore’s apartment and Zou’s place being yours.’
    He smiles again, glances at a handset on the table next to him and presses a finger to his lips. I pull out my own mobile and dial. We both watch the phone on the table, but nothing happens.
    ‘It’s turned off, smart guy,’ Jaffari says smugly. ‘I don’t want your friends tracing it.’
    I shove my phone back into my pocket and look at the small boy Jaffari is holding in front of him. The boy who calls me Uncle Rafa. Behind Paz, I can see the red dot of a recording camera in the darkness.
    ‘Tell me what you’ve done.’
    Jaffari shrugs.
    ‘It will go in your favour.’
    He laughs.
    ‘Nothing will go in my favour,’ he says. ‘But I’ll tell you anyway. I need to tell you, because the world needs to know. That’s why I’ve done it.’
    ‘You killed four athletes,’ I prompt.
    ‘No. They killed themselves. I just told them that they should.’
    I’m struggling to see the difference.
    ‘Ever hear of Abu Ghraib prison?’ he asks, and his tone is that of a man settling in for the long haul. ‘I grew up in Iraq, and when the war came – when the Americans came – my brother was dragged off to Abu Ghraib. Back then, I had never heard of the place, either. Now everyone in Iraq knows the name. They tortured people there. They tortured my brother. They broke his bones. They electrocuted him three times. They raped him. And then they went back to their wives and their children, like heroes.’
    Jaffari is still calm, but his voice has turned ice-cold.
    ‘I wanted to know how any person could do that. Especially to my brother, who was a good man. So I studied psychologyand psychiatry. First in Baghdad, and then in Lisbon. I began to practise. I wanted to learn about the evils people will do under pressure.’
    ‘And it’s all led to this?’
    I push him, even though I’m not sure what this is.
    ‘These are the world’s strongest athletes,’ Jaffari says. ‘They are the pinnacle of human achievement. They run faster, throw further, jump higher. They are the perfect experiment. They are the very best of humanity, waiting to be corrupted.’
    I say nothing.
    ‘Meyer was the first. His coach approached me with his problems.