Page 190 of Storm over the Caribbean
“Mr Linton?”
“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?” I responded, instantly slipping into the familiar role of dutiful secretary and torture assistant.
“I have always been one to efficiently utilize available resources, have I not?”
“You have, Sir.”
There was a long moment of silence. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see sweat starting to trickle down the Frenchman’s neck.
“You know…” he finally continued, “some years back, when I was in China, I learned about an interesting interrogation method.”
“Indeed, Sir?”
“Oh yes.” Mr Ambrose’s fingers started tapping a simple rhythm on the wood of the railing.Tap, tap, tap.“All you would have to do is tie a man down, place a bucket full of water with a hole in the bottom over his head, and let the water droplets fall.”Tap, tap, tap.“It won’t kill him. It won’t even injure him in any way. But the constant repetition, the sleep deprivation, the mental fatigue will breakanyone. All you need is plenty of water. And look…” Turning to face me and his victim, his eyes the darkest shade I had ever seen, my dear husband gestured at the ocean. “Look what we have here.”
I couldn’t help but smile again. I had a sudden feeling that, soon, we would havea lotof information on our current enemy number one.
Interrogation a la Ambrose
“Mr Ambrose, Sir?”
“Yes, Mr Linton?”
“I am not quite sure you understand the meaning of the word ‘interrogation’, Sir.”
“Indeed?”
“Because, you know, it usually involves interrogating them, as in speaking to them, not just silently staring at them while letting water drop on their head and waiting for them to break.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
I opened my mouth—then glanced down at the thick stack of notes in my hand that constituted the entire confession of a certain Frenchman and closed it again. He had a point. It is amazing how hard it is to resist when Mr Rikkard Ambrose is staring holes into your very soul.
I should know. I had tried more times than I could remember.
As for Lachance…
My eyes swivelled over to the Frenchman.
“Ha…ha…ha…” Panting, the man hung in his bindings, droplets of water running down his face. Only some of them were due to sweat.
“Mr Linton?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Recapitulate. What do we have so far?”
“Hm…” I started flicking through my notes. “Let’s see…locations of all the goods robbed from your ships, secret stashes of supplies and a secondary camp. Then we have a long list of names of people involved in organizing the attacks on your ships, the numbers of various bank accounts where the proceedsfrom the sale of the plunder have been stashed and, ehem…” I cleared my throat. “…a long, long list of bank numbers of bank accounts full of money that have nothing whatsoever to do with the current situation.”
I gave my dear husband a meaningful look, which he promptly ignored.
“I see. Can you think of anything else?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then, only one final question remains…” Turning towards the captive once more, Mr Rikkard Ambrose pinned him to the mast with an icy stare. “Who. Is. Your. Employer?”
The Frenchman wheezed, then smiled ever so slightly. “There…there’s no point in torturing me. I don’t know! I never knew! Do you really think I’m in charge of this thing? I’m so low on the totem pole it’s not even funny,mon ami! I only took this job because it came with a cushy life in a mansion and little in the way of work. Should have known it was too good to be true.”
