feared cardiac arrest might be imminent for the man. He stayed on his feet only because of the blows and kicks that had followed when his legs buckled. The crotch of his corduroy trousers was soaked.
Randi wanted to speak to him, to say some word of encouragement or comfort, but she dared not. For Trowbridge's sake, she had to maintain a posture of complete indifference to him. If she exhibited even a hint of compassion toward the academic, their captors might view his systematic torment as a lever to get at her.
"Come, now, Stefan," the big man said jovially. "No one is nothing. Everyone is something." He turned to Trowbridge. "Come, now, my friend, you are something, aren't you?"
"Yes! Yes, I'm...I am Dr. Rosen Trowbridge, the administrative director of the Wednesday Island Science Program. I'm a Canadian citizen. I'm...a...a noncombatant! A civilian! I have nothing to do with...with these other people!"
"See, Stefan?" The big man stepped across the laboratory to where Trowbridge cowered against the wall near the stove. He gave the doctor a light slap on the shoulder. "He is a doctor. A man of learning. An intelligent man."
He glanced back at Randi. "And you, my pretty pretty? Are you intelligent, too?"
Randi didn't reply. She stared past him out of the laboratory hut windows, her unfocused gaze automatically taking in the movements of the other men brought in aboard the giant helicopter, noting the supplies they were unloading, trying to spot where they might be establishing their sentry goes and guard posts around the camp perimeter.
"Hmmm, maybe the lady is not so intelligent as you are, Doctor. Who is she? What agency does she work for?"
Trowbridge's tongue dabbed at his lips as he tried not to look at Randi, as he tried to not look at anything. "Like Stefan said, she is some kind of American government agent. I don't know any more about her than that."
"My friend"-the redheaded giant's voice grew ominously soft-"don't stop being an intelligent man."
A big, hairy-backed hand shot out and engulfed the front of Trowbridge's sweater. Swinging the handcuffed man around, the terrorist leader bent him backward over the lab hut's coal stove until the bare flesh of Trowbridge's hands and wrists sizzled on the hot stovetop.
Randi's jaws clenched so tightly, her back teeth almost shattered.
After Trowbridge had stopped screaming, he started talking, the words gushing from him in a whimpering babble. There was no need for the redheaded giant to conduct an interrogation. He merely guided the flow of words with an occasional quiet, nudging question, occasionally cross-checking a given answer with Kropodkin.
Trowbridge gave it all up: Jon, Valentina, Smyslov, the Haley, the mission. The doctor was no trained agent. Randi could expect the hapless, terrified man to do nothing more or less.
As Trowbridge talked, Randi thought. Her mind raced, using every precious second gained to develop some kind of con or angle that might save the doctor and herself. She had been in similar situations before where she had bought herself survival time with a skillfully crafted lie or cover story. But, damn it, this scenario gave her no maneuvering room!
Between Trowbridge and Kropodkin and overt, common knowledge, these people simply knew too much. She had nothing to sell, bargain, or bluff with. In the hands and eyes of the enemy, she and Trowbridge were irrelevant and disposable.
Across the room, Trowbridge's flow of words was going dry. Randi frantically tried to telepath him a message. Keep talking! For God's sake, make something up! Anything! Just keep talking!
He didn't hear her unspoken entreaty. His words trailed off with a final, near-whispered, "That's all I know...I'm cooperating...I'm a Canadian citizen."
The big man turned toward her, those ghost-pale blue eyes speculative. "Well, pretty-pretty? Do you have anything to add?"
Randi read those eyes and knew that he had her pegged. He understood her, and he understood that anything she might say would be merely a stratagem, offered to stave off the inevitable. She stared back as impassively as the statue of Venus, her pride and instinctive discipline blocking her despair and rage.
"You're absolutely correct, my pretty-pretty. No sense in wasting everyone's time."
The big red-haired man turned back to Trowbridge, drawing a big Czech-made CZ-75 automatic out of the side pocket of his parka. "Thank you, friend Doctor. You have been most helpful." He lifted the pistol. With a flick of his head, he indicated to the guard covering Trowbridge that he should stand clear.
Trowbridge caught the meaning of the act, and a dawning, ultimate horror filled