Three voices: “Yes.”
The second man was approximately the same age as the first; otherwise, he could not have been less like Rossner. Six feet two. Husky. Fair complexion. Reddish-blond hair cropped close to his head. A broad face. Heavy jowls. His stem expression had been held for so many years that it seemed graven in his flesh. He looked like the sort of father who made arbitrary rules, used corporal punishment with a child at least twice a week, talked tough, acted bullheaded, and turned sons like Glenn Rossner into street-corner punks.
Salsbury said, “This is Peter Holbrook. He’s British. He’s been a mercenary for twenty years, ever since he was twenty-two.”
The last man was no older than thirty, and he was the only one of the three who could be called handsome. Six feet. Lean and muscular. Thick brown hair. A broad brow. Peculiar green-gray eyes with long lashes that any woman would have been proud to have for her own. Very rectangular features and an especially strong jaw line and chin. He somewhat resembled the young Rex Harrison.
“Michel Picard,” Salsbury said. “French. Speaks fluent English. He’s been a mercenary for four years.”
“Which will it be?” Klinger asked.
“Picard, I think.”
“Let’s get on with it, then.”
Saisbury turned to Rossner and said, “Glenn, there’s a folded canvas drop cloth on my desk. Bring it here.”
Rossner went to the desk, came back with the cloth.
“Peter, you help him unfold it on the floor.”
A minute later the nine-foot-square canvas sheet was spread out in the middle of the room.
“Michel, stand in the middle of the cloth.” The Frenchman obeyed.
“Michel, what am I?”
“You are the key.”
“And what are you?”
“I am the lock.”
“You will do what I tell you to do.” “Yes. Of course,” Picard said.
“Relax, Michel. You are very relaxed.” “Yes. I feel fine.”
“You are very happy.”
Picard smiled.
“You will remain happy, regardless of what happens to you in the next few minutes. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“You will not attempt to stop Peter and Glenn from carrying out the orders I give them, regardless of what those orders are. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
Taking a three-foot length of heavy nylon cord from a pocket of his white laboratory smock, Salsbury said, “Peter, take this.
Slip it about Michel’s neck as if you were going to strangle him-but proceed no further than that.”
Holbrook stepped behind the Frenchman and looped the cord around his throat.
“Michel, are you relaxed?”
“Oh, yes. Quite relaxed.”
“Your hands are at your sides now. You will keep them at your sides until I tell you to move them.”
Still smiling, Picard said, “All right.”
“You will smile as long as you are able to smile.”
“Yes.”
“And even when you are no longer able to smile, you’ll know this is for the best.”
Picard smiled.
“Glenn, you will observe. You will not become involved in the little drama these two are about to act out.”
“I won’t become involved,” Rossner said.
“Peter, you will do what I tell you.” The big man nodded. “Without hesitation.” “Without hesitation.” “Strangle Michel.”
If the Frenchman’s smile slipped, it was only by the slightest fraction.
Then Holbrook jerked on both ends of the cord.
Picard’s mouth flew open. He seemed to be trying to scream, but he had no voice. He began to gag.
Although Holbrook was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, Salsbury could see the muscles bunching and straining in his thick arms.
Each desperate breath that Picard drew produced a thin, rattling wheeze. His eyes bulged. His face was flushed.
“Pull tighter,” Salsbury told Holbrook.
The Englishman obliged. A fierce grin, not of humor but of effort, seemed to transform his face into a death’s head.
Picard fell against Holbrook.
Holbrook stepped back.
Picard went to his knees.
His hands were still at his sides. He was making no effort to save himself.
“Jesus jump to hell,” Klinger said, amazed, numbed, unable to speak above a whisper.
Shuddering, convulsing, Picard lost control of his bladder and bowels.
Salsbury was pleased that he had thought to provide the canvas dropcloth.
Seconds later Holbrook stepped away from Picard, his task completed. The garrote had made deep, angry red impressions in the palms of his hands.