The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 by Mark Dawson Read Free Book Online Page B

today. Two of his more brutal privates had tied the man to a chair and beaten him black and blue for fifteen minutes, and when that had not been successful, they had pulled out his fingernails with pliers. Yet, even relying on techniques that Kim found distasteful, they had learned precious little. Kun had revealed that he had been working with his sister, Su-Yung Jong-nam, and that they had collected a Westerner from Moranbong Park. He said that they had pretended to abduct the man, and that, an hour or two later, he had murdered another Westerner—he did not know his name, either—and placed his body in the trunk of the car that they had been using. The car was then torched. Kun said he knew no more than that: he did not know the identity of either Westerner, he did not know the purpose of the shipment of luxury cars, and more specifically, he did not know what was planned.
    Kim could not say if that was the extent of the man’s knowledge, but he was in no mood to believe that Yun had tried as hard as he could, pushed as hard as he might, without killing the man. If Kun possessed the information that he sought, he would get it out of him. It did not matter if the man died in the process.
    He led the way back to the basement. Kun Jong-nam’s arms were secured with straps that had been fastened to the chair. The man’s face was livid with the reds and purples of incipient bruises, a lurid reminder of what they had already done to him in the short time he had been in custody. Worse was to come, but Kim felt no flickering of conscience, no regret. The man had brought it upon himself. This was the price of disloyalty, and it was to be paid in full.
    When beatings with rubber hoses and bamboo poles did not succeed, or when time was pressing, as now, they fell back on narcotic shortcuts. The doctor approached with his syringe, selected a plump vein on the man’s wrist, pushed the needle into it and then depressed the plunger. The Pentothal disappeared into his arm; the effects were evident within seconds. The doctor pushed back the man’s eyelid and shone a torch into his eye. “He’s ready now.”
    Kim knelt down beside the chair. “Kun, can you hear me?”
    “Yes.” His voice was slurred, as if he had enjoyed one too many glasses of munbaeju .
    “My name is Major Kim Shin-Jo. I work with the Ministry of State Security. Do you understand what that means?”
    A slurred response: “Yes.”
    “My colleague tells me that you have been involved with bringing a foreigner into our country. An Englishman. Is that correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “I need your help, Kun. It is very important that I find this Englishman quickly. Do you know where I can find him?”
    The man’s face crumpled with the effort of denying the drug. “No,” he forced out.
    “Kun—think very carefully. It will be better for you and your family if you tell me the truth. You understand that this is very serious indeed? You have a sister, I believe? If something happens, she will be shot. You know this?”
    “Yes.”
    “So where can I find the Englishman?”
    “I—don’t—know.”
    “Is your sister with him?”
    “No.” He stammered it, working too hard against the drug, and Kim knew he was lying.
    He stepped back and nodded to the doctor.
    “I have given him a heavy dose,” the man said. “Any more would be dangerous.”
    “This is not the time for qualms,” he snapped. “Do I need to find a replacement?”
    “No, Comrade Major.”
    “Then do it.”
    Another syringe was emptied into the man’s vein. His eyes rolled into his head, and he grinned stupidly before his features slackened and fell loose. His head hung limply between his shoulders.
    Kim crouched close so that his mouth was next to the man’s ear. “Kun. You must speak honestly. The Englishman you helped into the country—what is he intending to do?”
    There was another moment of struggle that played out vividly across the man’s helpless face.
    “Kun. You must tell me.