Authors: Chris Ryan
‘OK, Dmitri,’ Danny hissed. ‘
I
know you speak English, and
you
know I’m not going to fuck around. Where’s the chopper headed? Where are they taking the prisoners?’
He didn’t expect an immediate answer. If this guy had had SF training, he’d be practised in resistance to interrogation. It was up to Danny to make sure that resistance crumpled quickly. He pulled his knife from his chest rig and got to work.
In Libya he’d got a militant talking simply by piercing his hand. But this soldier was a tougher nut to crack. He held the guy’s left wrist and with a single swipe made a swift incision down the webbed skin between his third and fourth fingers. The blade took him as far as the knuckle and it must have severed an artery, because the blood flow was sudden, explosive and pumped in time with the Russian’s accelerated heartbeat. Danny stashed the bloodied knife in his chest rig, then grabbed the fingers on either side of the cut and wrenched them apart. The commando screamed as his flesh tore halfway up his hand, exposing tendons and thin bones. Blood poured over Danny’s hands, but he ignored it. All he wanted was an answer.
‘You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where they’re going before I do the other hand. After that, it’ll be your dick.’
That was all it needed. The soldier started gibbering, a confused welter of words cloaked in a Russian accent, but Danny could discern a single place name: Damascus.
He pulled out the knife again and laid the tip against the soft underside of the man’s right eye. ‘Where in Damascus?’
His victim’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. The hand was pissing blood. At this rate, the guy didn’t have much consciousness left in him.
‘
Where in Damascus?
’ Danny gently pressed the knife, indenting the flesh. A tiny spot of blood appeared.
‘
Mukhabarat
,’ the soldier whispered, and Danny recognised the Arabic word. Syria’s secret police.
‘
Shit!’
Their headquarters would be just about the most heavily defended place in the whole stinking country. Danny knew how to choose his battles, and this was one he couldn’t win by himself.
He needed help.
He stood up, re-sheathed his knife and replaced his Sig. But there was no way he could leave this man alive, not with the knowledge that Danny had a lead on Buckingham and Clara. Yet the guy was a soldier, just like him. He deserved a quick exit. Danny took out the Sig, extended his right arm and discharged a single round into the Russian’s head. His whole body juddered and fell still, by which time Danny was already on the move. Grim-faced and purposeful, he strode back up the corridor to the front entrance and out into the square.
Dawn was coming. The trees were still burning. On the periphery of his vision, Danny could make out some of the kids he’d just released from the safe house, hiding on the corners of side streets or in doorways. Some ran off when they saw Danny appear. One little boy was hiding behind the fallen tree. He didn’t move. His wide eyes were fixed on Danny, who approached him without hesitation. He pulled out some of the notes Taff had given him and handed them to the kid, who grabbed them greedily, his eyes riveted on Danny’s bloody hands. Danny mimed driving a car, then offered the child another note but snatched it away before he could take it.
‘Can you find me a car?’ Danny said, miming the act of steering.
The little boy nodded. ‘Car,’ he repeated.
‘Find me a car, I’ll give you this,’ Danny said, waving the note in front of the boy’s face again.
It was all that was needed. The boy signed to Danny to follow him, then turned and scurried across the square, thin and ragged amid the smoke and the grey light of dawn.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘This isn’t nearly as bad as it seems,’ Buckingham said. ‘I have influence. I know people.’ Clara hoped her look fully conveyed her contempt for him, and for the plain stupidity of what he’d just said.
They were crouched on the floor of a dirty, stinking helicopter. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Three black-clad commandos had them at gunpoint. One of their number had just butchered Basheba and her son. And Asu.
For several minutes now, Buckingham had been steeling himself for this moment. He jutted his chin out at one of the soldiers. ‘I’m a representative of Her Majesty’s government,’ he said, speaking loudly and slowly. ‘I demand that you explain who you are and where you are taking us.’
The craggy faces of the commandos didn’t change.
‘This is intolerable,’ Buckingham went on. ‘In the absence of a British consulate in Syria, I demand that you deliver us to an alternative embassy of a European Union state for consular protection. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
He tried to stand up. Bad move. The commando he’d been addressing delivered a brutal blow to the side of Buckingham’s head with the barrel of his assault rifle. It knocked all the bluster out of him, and he collapsed to the floor with his head in his hands and started to shake.
Clara felt strangely numb, as though she was so jaded by the horrors she had witnessed that there was little else anyone could do to shock her. But then the glimpse she had seen of Basheba and her little boy being shot replayed itself in her head. She leaned over to one side and vomited copiously.
Their captors just looked on.
It was growing light outside. Wiping flecks of vomit from the side of her mouth, Clara shivered, suddenly cold. She’d lost track of time, she realised, and so she had no way of judging how long they’d been in this foul helicopter before it started to lose height. All she knew was that the prospect of landing made the fear run through her veins again. Where were these men taking them? What was going to happen next?
The Mi8 had barely touched down when two soldiers hauled Clara and Buckingham to their feet and forced them out of the side door. The downdraught from the rotors threw grit into Clara’s face. She closed her eyes as she felt an arm drag her away from the helicopter. Only when she was a good fifteen metres away could she open them and quickly take in her surroundings: a featureless patch of desert, not unlike the location of Sorgen’s camp. A pale-brown military truck was waiting for them with its rear doors open. The commandos shoved them inside and the same three who had kept guard in the helicopter now took up positions in the back of the truck. The doors slammed shut, and the only light trickled in through letterbox-shaped peepholes on either side of the vehicle at about the height, Clara noticed, that a man would hold a gun. As the truck moved off, she reminded herself to try to keep better track of time.
It was an hour and a half, Clara estimated, before they came to a halt. They sat in silence for another minute before a sharp rap on the rear doors startled her. The doors opened and the guards pushed their hostages out. Clara landed heavily on her side, Buckingham right next to her. She cried out in pain, then silently cursed herself for displaying weakness like that. The streak of obstinacy that her father had tried so hard to quell in her was asserting itself again. She was damned if she was going to give these people the satisfaction of thinking they’d crushed her.
She pushed herself to her knees and found that she was in a yard at the rear of a nondescript three-storey building. The yard measured no more than ten metres by ten, but was surrounded by brick walls a good five metres high and topped with thick rolls of barbed wire. Just before a pair of metal gates clanged shut, Clara caught sight of a single armed guard outside. The sound of traffic reached her ears: she was in a busy town or city. Before she could take in anything else, two of the commandos pulled her and Buckingham to their feet and dragged them across a parking bay to a small door at the back of the building. It opened on to a flight of stone steps leading down into a dark basement. One of the commandos pushed Clara down the first couple of steps but she retained her balance. When they pushed Buckingham, however, she broke his fall and tumbled to the bottom. Still desperate not to show any emotion, she was then manhandled along a dark corridor by one of her brutal, silent captors. Buckingham was shouting something inane behind her, but she’d long since zoned out. The soldier flung her into a pitch-black room, and as he clanged the door to and locked it, it was almost a relief to realise she had been separated from her companion.
The relief lasted only as long as it took to inhale once. The air stank. Not an ordinary stink, but a disgusting fug that seemed to coat Clara’s throat, making her want to retch. There was a smell of excrement, but also of something else she couldn’t quite identify, and didn’t want to: a rotten, gamey stench like meat that had festered for days. She knew there was something else in this room. Something in the centre. She didn’t want to know what it was. Her body fought against the need to breathe, and she found herself squeezing her nostrils and gulping nervously at the air. Trying to keep her mind off whatever it was she was sharing this room with, she walked its perimeter to measure the space. Twelve paces by thirteen. Cold concrete walls and floor. She crouched down in a corner opposite the door, pulled her T-shirt up over her nose and put her hands over her head.
She’d been sitting still like that for about thirty seconds when she heard the rustling sound. Rats, she thought. Nearby. She shot to her feet and the sudden movement made the rustling stop, but only momentarily.
When it started again, Clara screamed. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t even know what it was that she was shouting, but it seemed to have an immediate effect. A key turned in the lock and the door opened. A silhouetted figure appeared in the doorway. By the scant light that seeped in from the corridor, Clara could see that this person, a man, was short – no taller than her – but broad. She also saw that there was indeed something in the middle of the room, but it was still indistinct. And by the time the newcomer closed the door behind him, Clara still had no idea what it was.
She didn’t move. All she could hear was her own heartbeat and the strangely heavy breathing of the man who had just entered the room. She could see nothing.
‘You are a spy, of course.’ The voice was high-pitched, weaselly, but it had a certain precision and the accent was English. Relief flooded over Clara once again.
Once again it was short-lived.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the voice continued. ‘You’re thinking that, through some diplomatic channel or another, the British government’s representatives will have you out of here very soon. Allow me to assure you that this will
not
happen.
Nobody
knows you are here. As far as everybody else is concerned, you have disappeared. Which means I can do, really, whatever I want with you.’
Silence.
‘I know what else you are thinking. That as long as you
know
something I
want
to know, I will be obliged to keep you alive. This is true, but do not allow that thought to comfort you. There will come a point at which you do not
want
to continue living. A point where the idea of continuing your pathetic existence will be quite intolerable. It’s at that point that you’ll tell me everything – who you are, what you know about the anti-government rebels, the names and locations of any other agents in our country. Then you’ll beg me to kill you, and I’ll oblige.’
‘But I’m just a doctor, and—’ Clara said.
‘I should point out,’ the voice continued, ‘that reducing you to a state where you no longer wish to live will not be a great hardship for me. Quite the opposite. I rather enjoy my work. It gives me pleasure. I was born and bred in Kent, you know. Not much call for my skills in Tunbridge Wells, so I find myself here. The gentleman in the next room will crumble easily. I can sense it in him. In you, however, there is a little more strength. I’m pleased to note it, my dear, not just for myself but for my helpers. Good torturers – I mean those truly skilled in the application of pain, rather than brutes who use it as a blunt weapon – are harder to find than you might imagine, and they get bored easily.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘We are like addicts, you see. We soon forget our last fix, and think only of the next one.’
A pause.
The voice became little more than a whisper.
‘Would you like to see your room mates?’
Clara shook her head in the darkness.
‘Rebel sympathisers. One has to make an example of them.’
A sudden light. The man was holding up a torch. Its beam was very bright and pencil-thin. It stabbed at Clara’s eyes and she clenched them shut.
‘Look, my dear. Do look.’
She didn’t want to, but somehow she couldn’t help herself. Her eyes gradually opened and were drawn to the ceiling in the middle of the room, lit up by the torch.
There were two sturdy meat hooks. Hanging from each was a piece of rope, taut, thick and about half a metre in length. And hanging from each rope by their wrists was a naked corpse, one male, one female.
Clara saw their heads hanging heavily, open jaws resting against their chests, eyes wide with horror. She saw their pronounced ribs and concave stomachs. As she stared aghast at the cuts and bruises that covered them, and at the way a broken rib jutted out from the man’s skin, her tormentor lowered the torch a little.
Clara bent double and started dry heaving. Where the genitals should have been, there was nothing. Just a gaping hole as though someone had eviscerated the area with a monstrously sharp scoop. Blood was smeared all over the corpses’ inner thighs, and had dripped all the way down to their ankles. The exposed flesh appeared to move. In the fraction of a second before she averted her eyes, Clara saw that the wounded areas were infested with hundreds of tiny white maggots.