Long Lost - By Harlan Coben Page 0,64

killed Matar-yes, in self-defense, but maybe, just maybe, you were sent to kill him. Do you see? It was reasonable to conclude that you knew something that could save lives."

"So"-I stopped-"they tortured me?"

He pushed the glasses back up his nose, said nothing.

"Wouldn't someone remember, if this was really going on?" I asked. "Wouldn't someone tell?"

"Tell what? You may start remembering. What are you going to do about it? You don't know where you were. You don't know who held you. And you're terrified because you know in your heart of hearts they can grab you again."

"Your mom and dad..."

"So you'll stay quiet because you have no choice. And maybe, just maybe, what they are doing is saving lives. Don't you ever wonder how we break up so many terrorist plots before they hatch?"

"By torturing people and making them forget?"

Berleand gave me an elaborate shoulder shrug.

"If this is so effective," I said, "why didn't they use it on, say, Khalid Sheik Mohammad or some of the other al Qaeda terrorists?"

"Who says they haven't? To date, despite all the talk, the US government has only admitted water boarding three times and none since 2003. Do you really believe that to be the case? And in the case of Khalid, the world was watching. That was the mistake your government learned from Gitmo. You don't do it where everyone can see."

I took another sip of the Diet Coke. I looked around. The place wasn't packed, but it wasn't empty either. I saw business suits and guys in T-shirts and jeans. I saw white men, black men, Latino men. No blind men. Anthony the bouncer was right.

"So what now?" I said.

"The cell is broken up-and so too, most figure, is whatever plot they had planned."

"You don't think so."

"I don't."

"Why?"

"Because Rick Collins seemed to think he was on to something huge. Something long-term and far-reaching. The coalition I work with was upset I showed you the picture of Matar. Fair enough, that's why I'm on the outs."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. They are searching for the next cell and plot. I'm not. I want to keep investigating this one. I have friends who want to help."

"What friends?"

"You met them."

I thought about it. "The Mossad."

He nodded. "Collins had enlisted their help too."

"That's why they were following me?"

"At first they thought maybe you murdered him. I assured them that you had not. Collins clearly knew something, but he wouldn't say exactly what. He played all sides against the middle-it's hard to say by the end where his loyalties lay. According to Mossad, he stopped contacting them and vanished a week before he died."

"Any idea why?"

"None."

Berleand's eyes dropped to his glass. He stirred his drink with his finger.

"So why are you here now?" I asked.

"I flew over when they found you."

"Why?"

He took another deep swallow. "Enough questions for today."

"What are you talking about?"

He rose.

"Where are you going?"

"I explained to you the situation."

"Right, got it. We have work to do."

"We? You have no role in this anymore."

"You're kidding, right? I need to find Terese, for one."

He smiled down at me. "May I be blunt?"

"No, I'd rather you keep beating around the bush."

"I say that because I'm not good with delivering bad news."

"You seem pretty good at it so far."

"But not like this." Berleand kept his eyes off me and on the stage, but I don't think he was looking at the dancer anymore. "You Americans call it a reality check. So here it comes: Terese is either dead, in which case you can't help her. Or like you, she is being held at a black site, in which case you're helpless."

"I'm not helpless," I said in a voice that couldn't have sounded more feeble.

"Yes, my friend, you are. Even before I contacted him, Win knew to keep everyone quiet about your disappearance. Why? Because he knew that if anyone-your parents, whoever-made a stink you'd maybe never come home. They'd stage a car accident and you'd be dead. Or a suicide. With Terese Collins, it is even easier. They could kill her and bury her and say she is back hiding in Angola. Or they can stage a suicide and say her daughter's death became too much for her. There is nothing you can do for her."

I sat back.

"You need to take care of yourself," he said.

"You want me to stay out of this?"

"Yes. And while I meant it when I said you're not to blame, I warned you once before. You chose not to listen."

He had a point.

"One last question,"