The Janson Directive - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,141

feel that the top pin had bounced high enough to fly beyond the shear line, that his twist had taken advantage of the split second in which the pin columns had bounced out of alignment. The gate was open.

He waved Cooper through and gestured for him to park the car about a hundred yards away, behind a rusting, abandoned train car.

Janson himself raced over to the side of a huge steel shed and, flattening himself against it, edged swiftly toward the shouts he had heard.

Finally, he could see through the dim light into the vast interior, and what he made out sickened him.

The woman from Consular Operations was roped to a cement pillar with a thick hawser, her clothes crudely torn off her.

"This shit is getting old fast," she growled, but the fear beneath the bravado was all too evident.

Before her, the giant with the glossy, puckered scar loomed. He belted her with his hand, and her head snapped back against the concrete. He pulled out a knife and sliced off her undergarments.

"Don't you touch me, you son of a bitch!" she yelled.

"What are you going to do about it?" The voice was harshly guttural. The giant laughed as he loosened his belt.

"I wouldn't get Ratko mad if I were you," said his companion, who held a long thin blade that glinted even in the gloom. "He prefers 'em alive - but he's not that particular."

The woman loosed a bloodcurdling shriek. Sheer animal terror? Janson suspected that there was more to it - that she was hoping against hope that somebody might hear.

Yet the wind and the rumble of distant barges drowned out whatever sounds might be made.

In the gloom of the warehouse, he could make out the gleaming shape of the powerful sedan the men had ridden in, the engine ticking as it cooled.

The man slapped her again, and then the slaps became rhythmic. The aim was not interrogation. It was, in fact, part of a sexual ritual, Janson realized to his horror. As the killer's trousers dropped heavily to the floor, his organ was silhouetted in the gloom: the woman's death would be preceded by indignity.

Janson froze as he heard a soft Serbian-accented voice from behind him: "Drop the gun."

Janson whirled around and found himself face-to-face with a slender man who had gold-rimmed glasses perched high on an aquiline nose. The man wore khaki trousers and a white shirt, both neatly pressed. He stood very close to him and, with a casual movement, pressed a revolver against his forehead.

It was a setup.

"Drop the gun," the man repeated.

Janson let his pistol fall to the concrete. The steady pressure of the man's gun against his forehead admitted no negotiation. Another piercing scream rent the air, this time with a quaver that signified profound terror or rage.

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses smiled grimly. "The American bitch sings. Ratko likes to fuck them before he kills them. The screams turn him on. What is in store for you, I'm afraid, will be far less enjoyable. As you will learn for yourself. He'll be finished shortly. And so will she. And so, if you are fortunate, will you."

"Why? For Christ's sakes, why?" Janson demanded in a low, urgent voice.

"Such an American question, that," the man replied. His voice was more cultivated than the giant's, but equally devoid of emotion. He was probably the operation's leader. "But we will be the ones asking questions. And if you do not answer them to our satisfaction, you will suffer an excruciatingly painful death before your body disappears in the waters of the Oosterdok."

"And if I do what you ask?"

"Your death will be merciful and swift. Oh, I'm sorry. Were you hoping for more choices?" The man's thin lips twitched with contempt. "You Americans always want things that aren't on the menu, don't you? You can never have enough choices. Only, I am not an American, Mr. Janson. I offer you one choice. Death with agony - or death without." His quiet words had the effect of an icy wind.

As the woman released another ear-piercing scream, Janson contorted his face into a look of terror. "Please," he said, in a half whimper. "I'll do anything ... " Janson reached into a place deep within and began to tremble visibly.

A gratified, sadistic smile came to the man with the gold-rimmed glasses.

Suddenly, Janson's shaking knees buckled, and he dropped down two feet, remaining perfectly erect as he bent his knees. At the same time, his right hand shot