Sam Fisher- Fear of the Ocean

  WHEN Zahm awoke twenty minutes later he found himself hanging over the side of the rowboat, his flex-cuffed wrists secured to the cleat. "What the hell is this!"

  "You're in the water."

  "I can see that. . . ." Zahm struggled, trying to chin himself up, but gave up after ten seconds. "What the . . . What's around my legs?"

  "The anchor."

  Now Fisher saw the first signs of fear in Zahm. The man's eyes flashed white in the darkness as he turned his head this way and that. "What the hell is this?" he shouted again.

  "Psychologists call it a stress trigger," Fisher replied. "I've got a theory about you, Zahm: First you volunteered for one of the toughest units in the British military. Probably saw your fair share of action, I'm assuming?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Then you leave the SAS and dive headfirst into writing novels; then you buy a seven-million-dollar yacht and spend most of your time at sea."

  "What's your point?"

  "My theory is this: When something scares you, you attack it. The more it scares you, the more of it you do."

  "Go to hell."

  "You're afraid of the water, Chucky."

  "No chance, mate."

  "Drowning, sharks . . . Whatever it is, you hate the ocean."

  Zahm shook his head a little too quickly.

  "Let's put it to the test," Fisher said, then scooted forward, drew his knife, and flicked the tip over Zahm's forearm, opening a one-inch cut. Blood trickled down his skin and began plopping into the water.

  Now Zahm's eyes bulged. He thrashed in the water.

  "Wouldn't do that," Fisher said. "Sharks love that. What kind do you have in these waters? Tiger? Bull? Great white?"

  "Come on, mate. Get me out of here."

  "As soon as you tell me what I want to know."

  Zahm didn't reply immediately. He craned his neck around, checking the water around him. "What . . . what did you say?"

  "As soon as you tell me what I want to know I'll bring you back aboard.

  "Talk! Come on!

  "You and your Little Red Robbers--

  "Hey, that's . . ."

  Fisher stopped talking. He simply stared at Zahm until the man barked, "Okay, okay . . ."

  Fisher continued. "You and your Little Red Robbers did some work for a man named Yannick Ernsdorff." This was half a hunch, but with men like Zahm, bravado was curre
ncy. "I want you to tell me what you did for him. The what, the when, the where--everything."

  "And if I do?"

  "Are you bargaining with me, Zahm?"

  Zahm jerked around in the water. "Something bumped me! Something bumped my feet!"

  "Didn't take long, did it?" Fisher observed. "That bump is a test. It's trying to figure out if you're a threat. Next it'll give you a test bite."

  "Oh, God . . ."

  "You done bargaining?" Fisher asked.

  "Yeah, sorry, sorry . . ."

  "Here's the upside for you: One, you stop being live bait. Two, we part company and never see each other again. And three, I'll keep your sideline job a secret-- providing you and your boys retire permanently. I assume you can afford to do that."

  "Yeah, we're set."

  "Do we have a deal?"

  Zahm nodded. "Now, for the love of bloody Christ, get me out of here!"

  Fisher hauled him over the gunwale, leaving his feet jutting over the side and the anchor line trailing in the water. Fisher rolled Zahm onto his back and waited until he'd caught his breath. "Yannick Ernsdorff," Fisher prompted.

- Conviction, Chapter 22