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re time was not critical. You softened up the detainee by stripping them of all sense of time and place, while at the same time building up a dossier on their history. Then you carefully crafted your plan of attack in the same way a prosecutor prepares to question a defendant at trial. Except in this situation there is no defense attorney to object and no judge to sustain the objection.
You start by asking only questions that you already know the answer to. That way if the detainee lies, you have grounds to make him uncomfortable until he tells you the truth. When he finally does, you move on to the next question. If he is honest, you move on again. If he lies, the pain/pleasure principle is put in to play. This continues until a pattern of honesty is developed and then you begin with the important stuff.
Usually twenty-four hours was the minimum time needed to properly disorient a subject. Gazich had been in the container going on thirteen hours. Not ideal, but then again the man had four gunshot wounds to very sensitive areas of the body. His last morphine shot had been delivered on the tarmac in Germany. Right about now, the drug would be wearing off and the pain would be hitting him in waves—increasing in frequency and strength.
Rapp approached the aluminum box and grabbed the handle. The front wall was basically two interlocking doors. Rapp was not worried that Gazich would be able to make any attempt at escape. He twisted the handle, spun it ninety degrees, and then swung the right door open. The inside of the door, as well as the rest of the container, was lined with gray acoustic foam. The box was five feet deep by eight feet wide. Rapp grabbed the other door and opened it as well.
Light spilled into the dark chamber throwing Rapp’s shadow onto Gazich’s body. The Bosnian was lying on a nylon field stretcher that sat only a few inches off the ground. His pants had been cut away so Stroble could clean and dress the gunshot wounds to his knees. Rapp looked at the bandages. They were clean and white. No sign of blood. Four wide straps secured Gazich to the stretcher as well as two wrist cuffs. Even if he were healthy he would have a hard time breaking free. With the wounds to his knees and hands it was hopeless.
Gazich squinted and turned his head just enough to look at the shadowy figure before him. “Is it time for my in-flight meal?”
Rapp laughed. “Yeah…filet mignon accompanied with a first-class Cabernet.”
“I prefer Bordeaux.”
“Great. So in addition to being a terrorist you’re also a wine snob.”
“No. I just hate America.” Gazich smiled showing off a slight gap between his top two teeth.
The fact that Gazich might harbor ill will toward the United States was something he had not considered. “So you have a beef with America?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“No. Actually we get along pretty well with most people.” As Rapp’s eyes adjusted to the change in light he could see that Gazich was sweating. “Would you like another shot of morphine?”
Gazich hesitated. He was not stupid. He had a fairly good idea how this game was played. “Not very sporting of you, the way you sneaked up behind me.”
“Back in Cyprus?”
“You hid behind that doorframe like a woman. The same way your pilots like to drop bombs from the sky.”
Rapp laughed. “Yeah, you Bosnians are famous for fighting fair. Is that what you were doing when you rounded up all those innocent Muslim women and children and slaughtered them?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“So you’re not a Bosnian?” Rapp asked in a sarcastic voice.
“I am Greek.”
Rapp shook his head. “You’re a liar. And a bad one at that, but I’ll play along with you for a while. What were those Russians doing in your office last night?”
“I don’t know. I have never seen them before.”
“So the guy on the street. The one sitting in the front seat of the parked car…you just shot him for no reason.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
For the first time Rapp was starting to think that Gazich might not be very smart. “I watched you walk down the street, stroll up to the open window, and shoot the man twice in the heart. And then you stood there and talked to him for a while before you took off and did your little dance across the roof tops.”
Gazich squirmed under the straps. After a long moment he said, “It was a disagreement.”
“So you do know them?”
“No.”
“Who was the disagreement between then?”
“A friend of mine and those Russian gangsters.”
