“You are thinking of deception?” His tone was derisive. “That cannot help you. You will not gain freedom when you speak. We intend to hold you until we have completed our work.”
“And then—”
Holtmann blurted the words in a last effort toward salvation.
“I promise nothing,” replied Froman.
Holtmann’s lips tightened. His attitude changed. His pleading expression ended. He seemed determined to fight to the finish. Froman saw that he contemplated resistance. He offered one more opportunity.
“Speak now—”
The order came in a cold, even voice. Holtmann closed his lips and adopted a grim attitude.
Froman turned on his heel and went to the door. He turned the knob and opened the barrier. His three henchmen trooped into the chamber of doom. Froman uttered terse words in Russian. The men approached the straitjacketed form of Marcus Holtmann.
NO time was lost in preparations. Before Froman’s arrival, Holtmann had felt the binding pressure of the torture jacket. Now, while one man held him propped, another drew the thongs tighter until the huddled body winced in agony.
Holtmann was game. He fought against the torture, writhing futilely as his teeth chewed at his lips.