by Mark Dawson
He opened his eyes, wincing at the stabbing pain from the light, forcing the lids apart so that he could start to understand the mess he was in.
He was in a room, lying against a cold, undressed concrete floor. To his right was a coffin. Wooden, a little longer than him. Cheap. There were other coffins in the room, a whole line of them stacked up against the opposite wall.
The voices spoke again. They were behind him. Milton tried to turn his head so that he could see who was speaking. He twisted around and saw a pair of booted feet stride through his field of vision. He looked up and saw a big man with a shaven head and tattoos on his neck.
He remembered him. The man in the tent. The twin of the man Milton had killed.
The Albanian?
The man gestured down at him, spat out an instruction, and left the room through a plain wooden door.
Milton felt hands beneath his shoulders and he was dragged away in the opposite direction. He looked up at the ceiling, then at the top of a door frame, and then he was in a more dimly lit corridor with a single bulb that fizzed and hissed, the light flickering on and off.
The man who was dragging him dropped him to the floor. Milton heard the sound of a key turning inside a lock, a door opening, and then he was hauled through a second door into a darker room that was only barely illuminated from the glow that leaked in from the bulb in the corridor.
“You stay here,” came a voice, in heavily accented English. “No noise. No trouble. Understand?”
“My arms,” Milton said. “Please. I can’t feel my hands.”
There was no response. The door slammed.
Chapter Fifty-Two
MILTON HEARD the key turn in the lock and then the sound of footsteps fading away as the man made his way back along the corridor.
He looked around the room. It wasn’t quite as dark as he had first thought—there was a little dim light filtering through a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor—but it was too dark to make out much of anything. The floor was bare concrete. Milton could smell urine and excrement.
“Who’s there?”
Milton jumped. “Hicks?”
“Milton? Is that you?”
Milton turned and located the voice: it was coming from the corner of the room.
He sat up and used his legs to shuffle across.
“Milton?”
“I’m here.”
Milton could see the shape of a man and, as his eyes adjusted, he could make out a little detail.
It was Hicks. He had been badly beaten. His face was covered in bruises, and both eyes were partially closed thanks to contusions that had swollen the flesh around his brows. His nose was stoppered with plugs of dried blood, and it looked as if he had lost a tooth. He was dressed in what Milton thought was a dressing gown, his legs and feet naked.
“What do I look like?” Hicks asked.
“Can’t see much.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Are you okay?”
“Been better.”
“Anything broken?”
“Lost a tooth. Nothing else. They were working up to that.”
“Are you cuffed?”
Hicks held up his right hand. A metal bracelet had been fitted to his wrist, and a chain led from the cuff to a ring that had been fitted to the wall. He jangled the chain and then let his head hang down.
“Do you know where we are?” Milton asked him.
“I think it’s an undertaker’s.”
“Yes,” Milton said. “It is.”
“What happened?”
“I was in France. Calais. They jumped me. I think they brought me over in a coffin. It’s clever—bringing people into the country in boxes. Who’s going to open a coffin to check?”
Hicks tried to shift his position and groaned in pain.
“What about you?” Milton asked him.
“They knocked me out. Injected me with something.”
“How did they find you?”
“Sarah.”
“What do you mean?”
“She fucked us over,” Hicks said.
“What are you talking about?”
Hicks sighed. “She ran off and told them where to find me.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She came onto me—”
“Oh, Hicks…”
“Piss off, John, please. I turned her down. But I’ve been thinking about it—why she’d do it. She was scared. She was looking for someone to guarantee she’d be safe. The way she was thinking, maybe if she got together with me—or you—then we’d make sure she’d be okay. But I told her no; I said I loved my wife. She panicked, she didn’t know what else to do, so she went back to what she knew. That’s the only way they could have found us. She told them what happened and where I was, and then they came after me.”
“When was this?”
“I’m not sure. It’s difficult to keep track of time. A couple of days ago. They worked me over. It’s not just a beating. They did that for shits and giggles. They’ve got a torture table. They strap you onto it and then run electricity through you. I held out for as long as I could, but he knows what he’s doing.”
“Who?”
“The main man. His name is Pasko.”
“What did you tell him?”
He delivered the word in a blank voice. “Everything.”
“About me?”
“Everything.”
“Nadia?”
“Everything, John. About her, her brother, you topping the bloke in the brothel, you going to Libya… everything.”
Milton had been blaming himself for being taken, but they had been ready for him. There was nothing to suggest that might even have been a possibility. Milton had been beating himself up for allowing it to happen, and the knowledge that it was a trap should have made him feel better. It didn’t. He just felt angry.
“I’m sorry, John,” Hicks said.
“Forget it.”
“The Regiment trained me how to withstand torture. Name, rank, regiment. That’s what you give them—that, and nothing else. I tried. I reckon I lasted a day before I buckled.”
Milton had received the same training, and then another course—degrees of magnitude more intense—when he joined the Group. Theory was one thing. Practical experience during training was another, but it could only approximate what it was like to be in the control of a trained interrogator with no ethical limits on the means available to him. Milton had been with soldiers who boasted that they would never buckle under torture. That was bullshit. All you could do was delay the inevitable. It wasn’t a question of will. It was a question of biology. The torturer would always get what he wanted: it was just a question of when.
“I told you,” Milton said. “Forget it. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.”
“Wish I could say that made me feel better.”
“Enough self-pity. It’s not going to get us anywhere. We need to work out how to get away from here. What do you know about them?”
He paused.
“Hicks?”
“They’re bad guys. Albanian mafia. Ex-Kosovo Liberation. I served in Kosovo, and those boys were fucking maniacs. And this guy…” Hicks paused. “Pasko? He’s beyond that. He’s a fucking psychopath.”
“How many others?”
“I’ve seen three. One of them is called Llazar. There’s another, a big one—shaved head, tattoos.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of his acquaintance,” Milton said. “That’s the brother of the man I killed. His twin. He brought me over, I think. Anyone else?”
“I’m not sure. But I haven’t been conscious the whole time.”
“All right,” Milton said. He shuffled around so that he could lean his back against the wall next to Hicks. “What about Sarah?”
“I haven’t seen her. But I doubt this was the best move she ever made.”
Milton didn’t answer, and they both let the silence go unchecked.
&n
bsp; “We’re in a hole,” Hicks finally said after a long moment.
“Look on the bright side,” Milton said. “I found them. The bad guys. That’s what I wanted. I’m where I want to be.”
“Are you having a laugh?”
“It’s not exactly how I would have liked it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make trouble.”
#
IT WAS DIFFICULT to judge the passage of time, but Milton guessed that no more than a couple of hours had passed when the key was turned in the lock and the door opened.
Light from the single bulb bled inside, framing the man in the doorway in silhouette. It was enough for Milton to see that he was holding a knife in his hand.
The man took a step into the room. It was the big man, the twin of the man Milton had killed.
“Get up.”
Milton stayed where he was. “What are you doing?”
“You come with me.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
A second man came inside. The first man stepped closer and held the knife against Milton’s throat. He pressed the point against his larynx and then down to his chest. Milton was defenceless; he remained stock-still, his attention focussed on the scratch of the blade as it traced across his skin all the way down to his sternum.
“You will get up,” the man said.
The second man stepped forward and grabbed Milton’s shoulders. He allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.
“So you’re the brother?” Milton said.
“The brother?”
“Of the man I killed.”
It was dark, but Milton thought he saw a flash of white teeth. “Yes,” the man said. “I am Florin. My brother was Drago.”
Florin stabbed a finger at Hicks and said something else that Milton didn’t understand. The second man stooped down, grabbed Hicks by the lapels of the gown he was wearing, and tugged him to his feet. He took a key from his pocket and released the chain from the hook on the wall. The man put Hicks’s arms behind his back and hooked the newly free cuff around his spare wrist. He locked it and led Hicks out of the room.
Florin stepped around Milton until he was behind him and then shoved him in the back. Milton stumbled, bounced off the wall, but managed to maintain his balance.
“Out,” Florin said. “Or I cut your throat.”
Milton did as he was told.
Chapter Fifty-Three
THE FIRST THING that Milton saw as he was pushed into the room was the bed frame with no mattress. He knew what it was: a parilla. He had seen them before, in South America and Africa. He had seen how effective they were, too, how men who had been strong and insolent had been reduced to pathetic facsimiles of themselves after just a few minutes at the hands of a skilled torturer. He had stood over a bed in Baghdad and watched as an al-Qaeda functionary had buckled and then broke, revealing a few more breadcrumbs along the trail that eventually led to Osama. But he had never experienced one for himself. The prospect was not appealing.
Milton took everything in. The room was large. There was a metal table, a row of shelves and coffins stacked up against the wall. There was a single wooden chair next to the parilla and a wooden table next to it. Metal rings had been fixed along one of the walls. Milton watched as Hicks was dragged across the room, the cuff around his right wrist unfastened and then locked around one of the rings. Hicks slumped down, his back against the brick. There were no windows. Two doors: one through which they had entered and another in the opposite wall. The light came from halogen strips overhead.
There were three men in the room with them. Florin was behind him, his hand grasping the bunched-up fabric of Milton’s shirt. The second man was next to Hicks, a pistol in his hand. A third man, one whom Milton had not seen before, was adjusting the dials on an electricity box on a table next to the parilla.
Milton flexed his arms a little, but the shackles were still taut. He was going to have to get them off before he could do anything.
The second door opened and a fourth man came into the room. He was big and brawny, with a shaven head and a pitiless mien. He was rolling up the sleeves of a denim shirt, folding them back to reveal thick forearms that had been decorated with ink. Milton could see the family resemblance: this must be Pasko, the father of Florin and Drago.
He spoke in English. “Is this him? Milton?”
“Yes, Father.”
Pasko approached Milton, stopping when he was a foot or two away, and then coolly appraised him. “You are unimpressive,” he said with a derisive curl of his lip.
“I’m sorry,” Milton said.
“Sorry?”
“About everything that’s happened.”
“He is pathetic,” Pasko said. “How does a man like this kill a man like Drago?”
“It was an accident,” Milton said. “Please. I’m sorry.”
Pasko turned away from him. “Undress him.”
The man next to Hicks tapped his finger against his gun. Milton knew better than to struggle. Florin freed his arms, then pulled off his sweatshirt and the T-shirt underneath it.
“Everything,” Pasko said, nodding down to Milton’s trousers.
Florin undid his belt, pulled his trousers down and then his shorts. He removed his shoes and socks. All of Milton’s tattoos were visible now, including the Roman ‘IX’ that he had had stencilled over his heart to remind him of the lessons that he was trying to learn from the program and, more particularly, Eddie Fabian’s example. The ninth step. The making of amends. This was Milton’s way of paying back the men and women that he had killed.
Pasko regarded him. “As God intended.”
There was something about nakedness that implied vulnerability. Milton was happy to let them draw that conclusion. He covered his crotch with his cupped hands.
“I’m sorry,” Milton said again.
Pasko laughed humourlessly. “It is too late to apologise. You have to pay for what you did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You came for the girl, didn’t you? Nadia. Would you like to see her? Would you like to see the cause of all your troubles?”
Milton looked down.
Pasko grunted in disgust. He turned to the man by the control box. “Bring her in. She should see the kind of man who came to rescue her. Sarah, too. Both of them.”
The man said something in Albanian and left the room through the door that Milton and Hicks had been brought in through.
“Shall we let the girls watch, John?”
“I said I was sorry—”
Pasko nodded and Florin drilled Milton with a right hook that thudded against his liver. He didn’t have to pretend to be hurt; Florin was big and he threw a stiff punch. Milton reflexively bent down, dropped to his knees and covered up. He coughed, making it last a little longer for more effect.
“Here,” Pasko said. “Sarah. And here is Nadia, too. You are the cause of a lot of unfortunate trouble, my dear. Pick him up.”
Florin reached down and grabbed Milton underneath the shoulders. He allowed himself to be hauled up and turned around. The fourth man had brought two young women into the room. Sarah wouldn’t look at him. The other girl was dark skinned, tall and slender, with expressive eyes. She had been fixating on the parilla and, when she turned to look at Milton, her face was full of terror at the prospect of what she might see or, perhaps, what might happen to her.
“Stand straight, like a man,” Pasko ordered. “Put your hands down. Let them see you.”
Milton did as he was told.
“This is John Milton, Nadia. This is the white knight who has come to save you.”
Pasko grinned and then nodded again. Florin hit Milton again, the same right-handed swing that landed in almost the exact same place. Milton groaned out loud and dropped to his knees again.
“Up.”
Florin hauled Milton upright again.
“Tell me, John. Do you think she is worth it?”
Mil
ton feigned a hacking cough instead of answering. His liver ached, but the pain was helpful. He could focus on it, concentrate on the pulse and throb until the last wisps of the anaesthetic were blown away. He was alert. A reflexive part of himself was instinctively maintaining a mental map of the room and the places of the eight people within it.
Pasko, three steps behind Milton and one step to the left, next to the parilla.
Florin, next to Milton.
Hicks, fastened to the wall.
The gunman, leaning against the wall next to Hicks.
Nadia and Sarah, standing in front of the door.
The man who had collected the women, standing behind them with his hands on their shoulders.
Pasko gestured to Sarah. “You have done well. She brought us to your friend, John. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” Milton said. “He told me.”
“Sarah, come here.”
Milton looked up. Sarah had turned to face Pasko, and now Milton could see the fear on her face. She was terrified. Pasko gestured that she should come closer.
“I did what you asked,” Sarah said. “I took you to them.”
“You did. And you did very well. Please—closer.”
Sarah did as she was told, stepping away from Nadia and taking four steps across the room. She had to pass right by Milton to get to where Pasko was standing. She came close enough for him to see the wideness of her eyes, to hear the shallow breaths that passed in and out between cracked lips.
Pasko stepped forward to meet her, looping his left arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his embrace. Sarah’s body was tense and the embrace was awkward.
Milton saw Pasko’s right hand slide into his pocket and emerge with a small knife.
“No, Pasko—”
The words died in his mouth. Pasko drew back his right hand and stabbed her in the stomach.
He saw Sarah’s eyes widen and her mouth fall open.
Pasko held Sarah close to him, the knife pressed into her gut.
Hicks swore and yanked against his restraints.
Pasko released Sarah and stepped away from her.
Sarah gasped. She dropped to the floor, her hands pressed to the wound in her gut.
