connected to manacles that were clamped onto the prisoner’s ankles.
There was a waste bucket on the floor, and Mercer could smell it. Also on the floor were an empty plastic water bucket and a wooden bowl of ground yucca root, uneaten.
Mercer looked at his prisoner in the dim light, lying on the palm fronds. He was either sleeping or feigning sleep, which Mercer recollected doing when he’d had a visitor who’d come to beat him or torment him. This prisoner had been beaten only once, when he first arrived, just to show him how it felt, and to make him live in fear of another beating—or something worse.
The prisoner wore only boxer shorts, and his body was covered with sweat, insect bites, heat sores, and dirt. He hadn’t been allowed to bathe or shave and he’d grown a weeks-old beard, gray and matted, as was his long hair.
Mercer crouched beside the man. “Hello, Ted.”
The man lay motionless, eyes closed.
“Don’t make me punch you in the balls.”
The man opened his eyes, but said nothing.
Mercer looked at the man’s face in the dim light. Ted Haggerty was in his early sixties, and Mercer recalled that he’d been good-looking a few weeks ago, before he’d had his nose broken. Also, he stunk.
“You’re looking a little thin, Ted. Are you on a hunger strike?”
Haggerty did not reply.
“I can tell you from firsthand experience that it takes over a month to die from starvation. You can speed that up if you don’t drink water. But it’s hard to go thirsty. Would you like some water?”
Again, Haggerty did not reply.
“Here’s the deal, Ted. It’s me, not you, who gets to decide if you live or die. So you will eat and drink, or I will do what I’ve seen the Taliban do—cut off your face. And shove it down your throat, piece by piece.” He added, “Please believe me.”
Haggerty gave a slight nod.
“Good. Sit up.”
Haggerty strained to lift his body, and Mercer helped him by grabbing his hair, pulling him into a sitting position. “Look at me.”
Haggerty looked at Mercer crouched in front of him. They made eye contact and Mercer could see that the man’s blue eyes were cloudy, but still alert. The eyes were indeed the window to the soul, and Ted Haggerty still had enough spark in him to care whether he lived or died.
Mercer picked up the bowl of yucca root and shoved it at Haggerty. “Eat.”
Haggerty took the bowl in both hands and lowered his face into it.
Mercer sat on the log and watched him. Ted Haggerty, who Mercer was sure was an Intel guy, probably a CIA officer, had been poking around Tomás de Heres Airport, asking too many questions of too many people. Haggerty had obviously been following a lead—inquiring about his compatriot, Kyle Mercer, who was known to fly out of Tomás de Heres to someplace in the south. Haggerty had with him a photograph—Mercer’s official Army file photo—which had been altered to replace his uniform with a plain white shirt. Mercer had the photograph now, along with Haggerty’s passport, travel visa, and an interesting collection of phony business cards that identified Ted Haggerty as everything from a freelance journalist to a travel agent, with no mention of the Central Intelligence Agency. Haggerty had explained to people at Tomás de Heres that Señor Mercer was his amigo, and Mercer’s father was dying, and Señor Mercer needed to be found and informed.
Mercer could picture Ted Haggerty, full of CIA arrogance and swagger—and twenty-dollar bills—asking about Kyle Mercer. Eventually, Haggerty had hit pay dirt and chartered a flight to Kavak, where the agents of SEBIN—who had been alerted by an informant at Tomás de Heres—were waiting for him.
SEBIN would normally take a prisoner back to the Helicoide in Caracas for interrogation. But in this case, the SEBIN agents—undoubtedly on the orders of the regime or the military—had assisted Señor Haggerty in his quest, and turned him over to the Pemón in Kavak, who kindly transported the tied and blindfolded American by boat to Señor Kyle’s jungle camp.
Haggerty finished the mashed yucca root and raised his head, still holding the wooden bowl, which Mercer knew he was evaluating as a weapon. Haggerty was well-trained, but training and reality were not the same. Mercer, still sitting on the log, kicked his foot out and sent the bowl flying across the hut. “Look at me.”
Haggerty turned his head toward Mercer.
“I’ve been patient with you, Ted, because there was no particular urgency to my