Page 37 of The Secret

“I never had time for it. Never saw the point. Too many rules.”

“All right. Then we drink.” Sarbotskiy opened a drawer, pulled out a cut-crystal decanter full of clear liquid and a pair of glasses. Also cut crystal. Tumbler-sized, not shot glasses. He plonked everything down on the desk, filled the glasses, and pushed one toward Reacher. “Come. Sit. The first is for good faith. Then you can ask your question.”

Reacher moved toward one of the chairs. Reluctantly. He would have preferred the same kind of approach he’d used with the army driver at Rock Island Arsenal. He wasn’t much of a drinker. But not because of some moral scruple. It was a practical thing. Alcohol degrades performance. He’d seen the effect a thousand times. So going shot to shot with a giant Russian wasn’t an ideal solution. Especially when the shots were super-sized. That was for damn sure. On the other hand he had a lot of experience with interrogations. Some subjects crumble, given the correct incentive. Others would die before they talked. His gut was telling him that despite his bluster, Sarbotskiy was from the second category.

Reacher kept going, slowly. Neilsen was faster. He darted forward, dropped into the nearer chair, picked up the glass, and downed it in five long, thirsty gulps. He smiled and said, “I believe this is my area of expertise.”

Sarbotskiy shook his head. “No.” He pointed at Reacher. “The deal’s with him.”

Neilsen said, “Forget him. You want to loosen someone’s tongue with this stuff? Maybe pick up a few secrets, quid pro quo? Then he’s not your man.” He tapped his forehead. “There’s far more interesting stuff in here. Believe me.”

Sarbotskiy thought for a moment, then he refilled Neilsen’s glass. He said, “The rate’s double for you.”

Neilsen drained the glass again. “Very generous. We could be friends. Now, we want to know about Project 192. It was a thing in the sixties.”

Sarbotskiy drained his own glass then refilled both. He said, “That was your project. Not ours.” Then he blinked and started to laugh. His whole belly shook. “You know you can’t trust your own government, so you come to the KGB when you need the truth. I like you people. OK. Project 192. I assume you know the basics. It was a program to make antidotes against our chemical and biological weapons.”

Neilsen nodded and drained his glass.

Sarbotskiy said, “Your government probably even admits that, in private at least. Yes? But you suspect there’s more. You can sense it.” He drank, then poured refills for both of them. “Well, your instincts are correct. There was more.”

Sarbotskiy gestured for Neilsen to drink.

Neilsen downed the drink in one gulp, again, and slammed the glass down on the desk.

Sarbotskiy emptied his own glass and said, “There was a parallel project. A secret within a secret. We never even learned its official designation. Moscow called itTyphon. The deadliest of the mythical monsters. And who says communists don’t have a classical education?” He laughed again, as deeply as before.

Neilsen said, “And the purpose of this second project was?” His voice was growing a little slurred.

Sarbotskiy refilled both glasses and said, “One ninety-two was defensive. Countering our weapons. The ones you knew about, anyway. Typhon was the opposite. It was one hundred percent offensive. Literally and figuratively. America was brewing up newer and nastier weapons to attack us with, and all the time pretending to be a passive victim of Soviet hostility.” He took another drink. “Western hypocrisy in overdrive.”

“Is there any proof? Or is this the potato juice talking?”

“Proof exists. I’ve seen it. I don’t personally have it.”

“Who does?”

“A guy named Spencer Flemming.” Sarbotskiy took a pen and a pad of paper from a drawer and wrote down an address. “He’s a journalist. He has everything. Even pictures.”

“Bullshit. If a journalist had pictures like that, it would have made his career. He’d have sold them for a fortune. They’d have been all over the front pages.”

Sarbotskiy leaned forward and tapped his forehead in an exaggerated imitation of Neilsen’s earlier move. He said, “There can’t be much interesting stuff in there if you’re so naïve. He has copies. Your government took the originals. They thought they’d taken everything. And they made it clear there was a jail cell with his name on it at that so-called secret facility you guys have in Cuba, in case any of those pictures ever saw the light of day.”

Reacher stepped forward and said, “And you know this, how?”

“We communicate.”

“You put this Flemming guy onto the story?”

“I may have nudged him in the right direction. The truth can be elusive, sometimes.”

Reacher picked up the piece of paper Sarbotskiy had written on. “We’re going to visit this guy. Soon. When we do, will he be expecting us?”

Sarbotskiy said, “Do I look like I have a crystal ball?”

“Remember what I said about this place burning down? If Flemming doesn’t faint with surprise when I knock on his door, that’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to be inside when it does. You’re going to be wide awake. And you’re not going to have a drop of vodka to dull the pain.”

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