Free Die Twice by Andrew Grant Page B

demoralize him. And where experts were on hand to harvest and validate his information. The snag was, in the middle of Chicago, in daylight, without a vehicle outside, and with no one to assist, I had no way of moving him. Not without attracting unwanted attention. There was nowhere locally to take him. And no one qualified to handle the questioning. So that left me only one option. If I couldn’t move him physically, I’d have to take him somewhere else inside his head.
    It was obvious that the guy knew how to handle himself, so there was no point in trying to beat any information out of him or scare him with threats of arrest or jail. Instead, I’d have to rely on a technique I’d picked up a few years ago. Or at least a variation of one. Something I’d seen a Danish anarchist cell use. I’d been sent to Copenhagen to penetrate them after the eavesdroppers at GCHQsniffed out a plot to blackmail one of the ambassador’s assistants. As missions go, it was pretty much a damp squib. Two months of work to confirm the threat they posed was negligible. They were more interested in raising beer money than stealing state secrets. The shadow they cast just turned out to be larger than they were because they were so good at manipulating hostages. And that was down to one of their leaders. He prided himself on controlling people. Not through violence, though. Or bribery. Or empty threats. He had a much more effective technique. He turned his victims’ minds against themselves. Led them to accept they were about to die. To really, truly embrace the fact that their lives were over. And when they reached that place, they were like putty in his hands.
    I took a step back, scooped up the discarded gun and waited in silence. The guy from McIntyre’s room lay as still as the wooden floorboards beneath him. He stayed that way for just over a minute. Then, very slightly, beginning with his left foot, he started to fidget.
    “Take out your phone,” I said.
    My plan was to offer him one last call. I didn’t care who to. His wife, maybe. His girlfriend. Or a significant other of whatever kind. Because whoever he spoke to, if I could get him to say goodbye to them, to hear his own voice announcing out loud that he only had moments left to live, I knew he’d be on the verge of believing it himself.
    Things didn’t start out very promisingly. The guy glanced to his left and his eyes settled on the shattered remains of the Nokia that Fothergill had given me. One of his bullets must have caught it when he shot up the door. The corners of his mouth curled into a tiny smile, but other than that, he didn’t move. Then confusion spread across his face, followed by a tinge of hope.
    “Wait a minute,” he said, in a faded Newcastle accent. “You’re English?”
    Nothing like that ever happened to the Danish anarchist. No one had shown the slightest interest in his dialect, and I’d seen him use the same trick four times in two months.
    “Get your phone, Einstein,” I said. “It’s not for me. It’s for you.”
    “Are you from the Wrigley Building?” he said. “You know, UK Trade, et cetera?”
    An intriguing question, from a civilian.
    “Get the phone,” I said. “Do it now.”
    “Oh, I get it,” he said. “I know who you are. You’re Green Slime.”
    That was even more intriguing. Green Slime is generic British Army slang for military intelligence, but I hadn’t heard it used in years.
    “I’m right, aren’t I?” he said. “But I know you won’t admit it. So let’s stop talking about the phone, and start talking about how I can help you.”
    Maybe things would work out after all. People always ended up helping Kaspar the anarchist, but even with him they didn’t usually volunteer so readily.
    “You think you can help me?” I said. “With what?”
    “Can I sit up?” he said. “This is getting uncomfortable.”
    “No. Help me with what?”
    “Finding Tony.”
    “Who’s Tony? And why would I want to find