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 agentsof 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 questions. But now there have been some new developments in Caracas which you, as a trained CIA officer—”
“I am a freelance journalist, and I wanted to do a story on you—”
“All right. That’s a good legend. And your story at Tomás de Heres Airport that you were trying to find me to tell me my father was dying is also good. People respond to that. And I might have even believed you were a journalist, except that you were carrying my Army photograph. Which you could only have gotten from the Department of Defense.”
“That photograph is available—”
“And it was altered to erase the uniform. Why?”
Haggerty did not reply.
“The real question is, how did you know I was in Venezuela?”
Haggerty took a deep breath and replied, “I told you… I was already here doing a story on the food shortages and riots in Caracas, had some contacts in the National Guard, and there were rumors going around about an American soldier—”
“So you said. But your story doesn’t explain how you knew that I flew in and out of Tomás de Heres.”
“I acted on a hunch.”
“You’re a hell of a journalist, Ted. Or the CIA has paid informants in SEBIN, or in the Venezuelan military.”
“I got a lead on your whereabouts from a private pilot at Francisco de Miranda Airport…”
“And SEBIN got a lead on you because you asked too many questions about me to the wrong person at Tomás de Heres. And SEBIN IDed you as possible CIA. Are they lying to me? Or are you lying to me?”
“They are incompetent, paranoid, and stupid. I am a journalist—”
“That’s your story and you’re trained to stick to it. Okay. Let’s try a different approach. I’m not fond of torture, but I have a dozen men here who are. One guy, Mercado, likes to cut people’s tendons with a razor until they can’t move a muscle. Emilio out there has a pair of pliers he uses to extract teeth and fingernails. But the best one I’ve ever seen is locking a guy in a bamboo cage filled with monkeys. Sounds funny, but you can’t imagine what those hungry monkeys could do to you in an hour.” Mercer looked at Ted Haggerty, who, he guessed, was trying not to imagine any of those things. Mercer said, “Do you want to talk to me? Or should I call Emilio in?”
Haggerty did not reply, but Mercer sensed he was ready.
“Okay, let’s begin. If your answers are truthful, I promise you no torture. If your answers are useful, I promise you your freedom.”
