A cry echoed in the room. “Pendergast!” It was Gladstone calling out for him, amplified by the sound system. He felt himself flinch.
The general, observing him, nodded to himself with satisfaction. Alves-Vettoretto remained still and silent, as she had through the entire proceeding.
“No!” came another cry through the speaker.
The general checked the chronograph on his wrist. “One hour and twelve minutes. She’s taking longer than any from the last test group. I shall have to speak to the doctor about this. The process was supposed to be accelerated. It seems her foreknowledge has had a retarding effect. If so, we shall have to compensate.”
Now Gladstone was no longer crying out. Gasps, as if of great effort, came through the speaker at irregular intervals. Pendergast watched fixedly as she raised the parang. A retreat into his memory palace, which he could reach in mere moments through the mental exercise of stong pa nyid, beckoned. But he resisted, forcing himself to watch.
It took less time than he expected. After an initial tentative cut, the blade was brought down with tremendous determination and precision. The first sound he heard Gladstone utter was a high crooning that seemed almost exultant. Despite the blow, it wasn’t enough to take the foot off. Only in the later, hacking cuts through the bone did the resolution she had initially shown begin to flag. But she persisted, screaming ferociously, until once more the parang came down, and this time went all the way through, striking the tiled floor with a ringing sound, the limb abruptly coming free.
The general leaned forward and flicked a button. Abruptly, the cries from below were cut off. He flicked another button. “Doctor? She may be removed now.”
Pendergast looked toward his companions. Alves-Vettoretto seemed rooted in place, eyes wide, one hand over her mouth. Meanwhile, General Smith was looking directly at him, with an expression almost of encouragement. The orderlies came in and collected her, strapping her on to a gurney and hustling out the rear door, leaving the room empty.
A final orderly scooped up the foot and placed it in a medical waste bag.
“Give them a few moments to clean up the mess down there,” the general said. “And then we can proceed. We won’t have long to wait.”
65
THE ORDERLIES SWIFTLY returned with mops, squeegees, and disinfectant, cleaning up the splattered and pooled blood with alarming efficiency while the doctor watched, arms crossed. They took the parang from the floor, wiped it down, disinfected it with alcohol, and placed it back on a gurney, covering it with a white cloth. And then the doctor gestured to an orderly, who exited the lab and, a moment later, opened the door to the observation room.
“The doctor wants the next subject for the second round of experiments,” he said.
The general ignored this and looked instead at Pendergast. “Care to make an observation?”
Pendergast didn’t reply.
“I’d imagine you’re wondering if you could resist the overwhelming compulsion of that drug. She was quite resistant, until the end. Could you do better? I admit to being intrigued myself. It will make an interesting experiment.”
Silence.
“Nothing at all to say?”
Pendergast fixed his eyes on the general. “You and I know perfectly well this is a charade. You’re going to test the drug on me regardless of what I do or say.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The expression of zeal on the good doctor’s face. And, of course, the simple fact that you cannot let me out of here alive.”
“Your latter statement is, I’m afraid, true. As for the doctor, the eagerness you note is an eagerness to get back to his second round of experiments—which your arrival has interrupted. However, I’m sure he won’t protest this further delay when I explain to him that a man like you will prove the ultimate test. I’ve read your jacket, you see—and I’m aware of what you did while in the military. Administering the drug to a person who truly possesses a will of iron and, aware of what is to come, knows what he must prepare for—will you be able to resist? If not, we can be confident the drug has been perfected.” The general turned to the soldiers. “Take him into the lab.”
One soldier grasped the wheelchair while another stood behind and wheeled him out the door, down the hall, and into the lab. A moment later Pendergast was parked in the center of the room, over the drain. The doctor was holding a phone connected to a wall, no doubt an inside line to the general in the observation room. Finally, the doctor hung up, brought over a pair of scissors, and cut the sleeve away from Pendergast’s right forearm. He didn’t bother to swab, but inserted the IV needle, got blood, and taped it down.
“A vial of H12K, please,” he said to an orderly.
“Doctor,” the orderly said, “just so you know: that’s the last of the initial new batch.”
“So?”
“Well, it was earmarked for subject 714, who’s next on the list and has been waiting in the prep room.”
“This one is more important,” the doctor snapped. “Get me the vial and send 714 back to his cell.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The orderly opened a tabletop refrigerator, took out a vial, and handed it to the doctor, along with a freshly unsealed syringe.
The doctor inserted the needle through the cap of the vial, drew out a precisely measured amount, then held the needle up and depressed the plunger until a clear drop appeared, quivering at the hollow tip. He looked up at the one-way mirror with an anticipatory expression.
“Pendergast?” came the general’s voice over the intercom. “Last chance to speak.”
There was a long silence. Then the general’s voice sounded again. “Inject him.”
66
OVER AN HOUR ago they’d brought Coldmoon up from the cell, blindfolded, cuffed to one of the two guards, and wearing the filthy hospital gown belonging to Luís, stenciled over the chest with the number 714. After a circuitous journey, they took off the blindfold and he found himself in a small room—a sort of annex, it seemed—in beige cinder block, with two benches screwed to the floor, along with a locked medical cabinet. He had been seated on a bench, the guard he was cuffed to beside him. The other guard took the seat opposite, his M16 laid across his lap. Both guards were bored, clearly used to this routine. Coldmoon was careful to maintain a defeated attitude, adopting a listless shuffle that had annoyed the guards into prodding him forward more than once.
As the minutes had passed, Coldmoon had marveled at how silent the room was. There was a large, stout door in the opposite wall that, he figured, led to the laboratory where the inmates were experimented on. He had no idea what those experiments might be, although he assumed they involved the horror of self-amputation. If this was the waiting room, then soundproofing made sense—he imagined what came next would be a pretty noisy ordeal.
As the minutes passed, Coldmoon considered his next step. On the one hand, he could continue to wait until he was called. The imprisoned man had told him there were ninety minutes between appointments—for want of a better word—and as far as he could tell, his own ninety were nearly up. A better course of action would be to take charge now and force the action himself, when he knew the lay of the land and his adversaries were least prepared. The guard sitting next to him was half-asleep, and the other beginning to nod off as well.