If Harvath had to torture him, he would, but that was never the first card he played. He was starting to think, though, that it was quickly working its way up to the top of the deck.

Harvath had already played what he thought was one of his strongest cards. He had threatened to turn Jacobson over to the Argentines to face murder charges, and the man hadn’t even flinched. No matter what downside Harvath outlined for the man, Jacobson simply shrugged it off or fixed Harvath with a cold, vindictive stare.

It was as if the man believed there was no force that the Fed couldn’t overcome and rescue him from. This left Harvath with very few options.

“I have to tell you, Will,” he said, “things are about to get even worse for you. You either start cooperating, or you’ll only have yourself to blame for what happens. We’re a very long way from home and nobody is coming to save you.”

Jacobson laughed. “You have no idea what you’re tangled up in, do you?”

“I have a pretty good idea. One of Durkin’s guys, a man named Stark, had a lot to say before Sal Sabatini killed him.”

“Durkin’s guys are pros. They’d never talk.”

“Everyone talks, Will,” Harvath replied with a smile. “It’s just a matter of when. For Stark, it was when one of Durkin’s Swim Club psychos pulled up in front of his house and gave him a play-by-play over the phone of what his family was up to.”

The smile faded from Jacobson’s face.

Harvath pressed his advantage. “The killer is named Samuel. Ever heard of him?”

A barely perceptible tic registered on the security chief’s face. Most would have missed it. Harvath didn’t. “If you haven’t met Samuel, you should. I think he’d like you. Or maybe not. I suppose it all depends with an unstable personality like that. But, I assume you know that. Salvatore Sabatini is another wack job. You’d love him, too.”

“Sabatini is dead,” Jacobson said. “You shot him.”

“I shot him, but I didn’t kill him. I merely clipped his wings. Everyone thinks he’s dead, but that was so we could keep him safe. We have him in a very special cage in a very secret place.”

“Both of them are nuts.”

“I agree,” said Harvath. “Completely nuts. What’s amazing is that their stories are almost believable. You know who they sound a lot like?” he asked studying his face. “Besides Stark, of course.”

Right then, there was another micro-expression that flashed across Jacobson’s face. Harvath was definitely hitting close to home.

“The other person they sound like,” Harvath continued, “is Tara Fleming.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

The man had answered a little too quickly, a little too emphatically.

“Funny, because I have surveillance footage of you entering and leaving her apartment building two days ago. Didn’t find much, did you?”

The vindictive stare was back again.

“You can give me the tough-guy stare all day long,” said Harvath. “Or we can talk, man to man.”

Jacobson guffawed. “I told you, you have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Why don’t you break it down for me?”

The security chief was dead silent.

Harvath smiled. “Will, trust me when I tell you we’re now quickly approaching my least favorite alternatives. Like I said, I don’t want to hurt you, but it is on my list. Sooner or later, everyone talks.”

The man chuckled again.

Harvath nodded to Palmer, who produced a pair of EMT shears and cut away Jacobson’s clothing. Ashby came in with a metal pail filled with water and a stack of towels.

“Are you going to waterboard me?”

Harvath tilted his head. “Anything’s possible. It all depends on you.”

Palmer tore off two strips of duct tape from a roll and pressed one down onto Jacobson’s gray chest hair and the other on his equally hairy left side beneath his armpit. He then grabbed a corner of each and ripped them off.

The security chief cried out as much in surprise as in pain. As Ashby placed adhesive pads on the now-hairless patch of skin, Harvath shared with him something he had learned from his file.

“You’ve been on both Crestor and Lipitor. Now you’re on something I can’t even pronounce. There are some other heart-related meds in your file, which tells me—”

“How the fuck did you get hold of my medical records?”

“It’s a brave new world, my friend. You think Durkin’s people are the only ones who can hack into electronic medical records?”

Jacobson glared at him.

“So,” Harvath continued, “based just on your meds, I’m guessing you either have a bad ticker or there’s a serious history of heart disease in your family. Either way, we’re going to do a little stress test together.”

No sooner had Harvath said the words than he noticed the tic race across the man’s face again.

Wires led from the adhesive pads to a small, black Storm case whose lid was up and facing Jacobson. He couldn’t see what was inside, but his instincts told him it was some sort of defibrillator on steroids meant to deliver increasingly unhealthy shocks to his heart. When the young female removed his shoes and socks and placed his feet into the pail of water, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his instincts were right on the money.

“This part can get really uncomfortable,” Harvath said. “You may find your mind going in a bunch of different directions, so let me help you out. Here’s what I know.

“I know that Phil Durkin ran a host of black-ops programs out of the Central Intelligence Agency. One of those programs was a political destabilization team. Yes or no?”

“Fuck you,” said Jacobson.

“Wrong answer,” Harvath replied as he nodded to Palmer.

Palmer made ready behind the open lid of the Storm case as if he were about to throw some sort of switch. But as he did, Jacobson broke. “Wait.”

“Yes or no?” Harvath commanded.

“Wait . . . I . . .”

Harvath looked at Palmer and said, “He’s stalling. Shock him. Hard.”

“Yes,” Jacobson said quickly. “Durkin handled the team and Tom Cushing ran it.”

Now they were getting somewhere. It was time to see if what Stark had told Bill Wise in Boston was true. “Was Cushing’s team involved with the Arab Spring?”

The security chief nodded. “Cushing’s team was the Arab Spring. They organized all of it. Right down to that fruit vendor who kicked it all off in Tunisia.”

“How about Jordan?” Ryan interjected. “Is Jordan on the list?”

It was the first time she had spoken during the interrogation, and both Jacobson and Harvath looked at her.

“Tell me,” she ordered.

“I have no idea,” Jacobson replied. “All those countries are the same as far as I’m concerned. I couldn’t tell one from another on a map and I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Was the prior Federal Reserve chairman, Sawyer, funding Durkin’s black-ops programs before he died?” asked Harvath.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he needed that destabilization team.”

“Why?” Harvath repeated.

Jacobson fell silent once more.

Harvath looked at Palmer. “Turn it all the way up and juice him. I don’t care if his heart does explode. I’m tired of being jerked around.”

“No!” Jacobson shouted. “I’ll tell you.”

“You’ve got thirty seconds.”

“The Saudis.”

“What about them?” Harvath demanded.

“The Saudis were blackmailing Chairman Sawyer.”

“Blackmailing him how?”

“The dollar has become worthless. The Fed has created too many of them and the U.S. government has run up hundreds of trillions of dollars in debt.”

“Hold on,” Harvath admonished. “The U.S. debt is nowhere near that number.”

Jacobson shook his head and laughed. “You have no idea how bad things are. It’s a house of cards and it is all ready to come down. The Saudis figured it out. Without our protection, they’re going to be overrun. They wanted to create a buffer zone.”

“Why would Sawyer care about what Saudi Arabia wants?”