Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  His speech was broken with many gasps and groans, but Jack finally managed to understand roughly what he was saying.

  ‘André, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I was a PLO fighter, but the French offered me immunity if I would help them. I did, and I was living at peace, but then Americans came to capture me. Are you one of them? Tell them I don’t know what they ask!’

  ‘I’m not one of them. I’m English, and they are holding me like you. What do they ask you?’

  ‘About fighters with bombs. But I know of none. There are none. How can I answer something I don’t know? They ask about fighters coming to America with guns to kill people in hotels. I don’t know, I tell them, but they don’t listen! They hit me, here, here, again, again, and they will not believe me. But I cannot tell them something I don’t know!’

  ‘No, no. I understand. Who is it who asks you all this? The man who was here just now?’

  ‘Yes. Him and another. They question, question, question, and all the time their men beat me. They will kill me. I know this.’

  ‘Where did they find you?’

  ‘I was in France… ah, the pain is terrible!’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I had offered to give myself up, and the French were always understanding to the PLO. They finally agreed, if I told them all I knew and swore never to aid an attack on France. Well, of course I agreed. And they took me in.’

  ‘But these guys took you?’

  ‘The French sold me! They must have done! They had given me a new name, put me in a place far from anywhere, where I should be safe, but no! I was taken, like this.’

  ‘Why would they sell you, if they took you in?’

  André was weeping. It was some time before he could answer.

  ‘Because they decided I had lied? Because they wanted to be on better terms with the Americans? I don’t know… I don’t know…’

  ‘Did you have in-depth questions from France?’

  ‘Yes, yes. And from your English Service, too. There were Englishmen there asking me questions. Those Services always share, they always let others know…’

  Jack nodded. Yes. They always did share. Whether the UK/USA partners or the European Services, all would share when there was little choice – and all would invariably keep snippets back. All Services wanted to maintain their own secrets and keep something in reserve for later trading.

  ‘You say there were British officers there for your debriefing?’

  ‘A man and a woman. Short, pretty lady. With brown hair, curly.’

  ‘What of the man?’

  ‘He was like un vieux. You know? Like a French colonial from Algeria? The sort who has lost his colour to Malaria, who has spent too much time close to the brandy bottle.’

  Starck and Karen Skoyles, Jack told himself. They had both been there to question this man. Both knew of him.

  ‘Why would you be wanted by the Americans?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ André said, shaking his head miserably.

  ‘Is there anything you know that could interest the Americans?’

  ‘I was only a fighter. I helped build bombs – nothing more. I don’t know what I could say would help them. I don’t know people in charge, nothing,’ he wept.

  Jack heard steps.

  ‘Calm yourself, my friend. Remember who you are. Keep your hatred and pain away from you. Try to hide inside your head where they cannot hurt you.’

  ‘Cannot hurt me? You have no knowledge of these things! There is nothing they cannot do to hurt. There is nowhere you can go where the pain won’t cut into you! These men are animals! Beasts! They do not care about other people. Only themselves!’

  The door opened and Peachfield was with them again. He smiled, pulled out some steel-framed spectacles from a shirt pocket, and set them on his nose, peering down with interest at André.

  ‘I would think you’re about ready,’ he said, and nodded to the two men who had returned with him. He sat at the table and opened a file. ‘Now, André, I’d like to read you a story.’

  He leaned back, reading from a yellow sheet.

  ‘In Guantanamo, there was a man called Abu Fazul Abdullah. Now he was one of those we thought of as a “nasty”. He’d cut his own wife’s throat for the chance of getting to heaven. And he hated America. We found him in Afghanistan. So he was a bad boy. We got him to Gitmo, and there we questioned him a load. Especially about the others in his force. And it took us time, but in the end we got some names. There was a guy called Maulana Fazlullah – and you. Now, Fazlullah, you know, was one of them who helped plan special missions. He was linked to al-Qaeda – and so was Abdullah. So there we have two links – and your name. And then we had another bit of luck. While we questioned this other kid, he gave us your name too. Said you were involved in acquiring weapons and materials for a new group.’

  ‘No. Not me. I was given a place in France after I answered their questions, and they said I could leave the battle. I am nothing. I have no place. I never fought or…’

  ‘Now, we know that isn’t true, don’t we? Hey? We know you were a keen fighter with the PLO in Beirut, and you were happy to kill Americans.’

  ‘No, Israelis.’

  ‘And Americans. We know that. You tried to blow up the World Trade Centre with a car bomb. You told of that in France, didn’t you? Now all you got to do is admit it and we can go on to what you were buying and who for. Then you can go get some rest.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with this! I am not a member of al-Qaeda! I fought Israelis, that is all!’

  ‘Shame,’ Peachfield said, motioning with his head.

  One of the guards stepped forward. He had a pair of pliers in his hand, and he reached down to André’s hands.

  Peachfield watched closely, and Jack could see that there was a fresh excitement in his face. He was enjoying this. If he could, Jack guessed, he would be there himself, with the pliers.

  ‘See, André, I got nothing against you personally. I don’t want to have to break all your finger bones, say. But I will. Because I really want to know what you can tell me. And there is no limit to which I won’t go to find out. Sooner you tell us all you can, sooner we all go home. OK. So, again, tell me who you were with, who you were buying for, why you wanted to kill Americans. Who else was in your team?’

  ‘There was no team!’ André shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Jack could see the panic in the man’s eyes. He knew what was about to happen, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. The torturers had only one logic, as Peachfield had told him: to keep increasing the pain until the subject gave them the answers they wanted to hear. But as Lewin had said in his journal, that had no bearing on the truth. Because in the end a torture victim had to surrender to the pain. He would always lie to try to prevent more anguish – and at that point the torturer would become convinced that his silence before had been due to intransigence or stubbornness, and would increase the torture.

  There was no protection. No defence. Only pain and death.

  The scream was loud and inhuman. It made Jack want to cover his ears. But he couldn’t.

  *

  10.39 Whittier; 19.39 London

  They had been racing all along the New Seward Highway since landing, and now, at last, Debbie saw that they were heading along the side of a mountain. She could see a railroad track and bridge a little over to the left, and then up ahead was the strange, triangular housing set into the rocks ahead.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The entrance to the tunnel. They had to have that kind of porch way. If there’s an avalanche, it breaks over the steep roofline there and doesn’t smother the tracks,’ Frank said. He was on the radio to the lead car, and now there was a burst of static and a response. ‘OK, let’s get on through, then!’

  The traffic in the tunnel had been stopped, apparently, and it was clear for them. Debbie watched as they approached the gaping entrance, and then t
hey were inside, rushing along the concrete surface, the tyres thrumming on the irregular surface, and she could see the bare rock all about them.

  ‘The army built this. Never saw the need for pretty cladding, I guess,’ Frank said, grinning slightly at her expression.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. The place was eerie. Ahead, she could make out a tiny pinprick of light. No more. ‘That the exit?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the other side,’ Frank said. ‘We’ll be there in a short time.’

  ‘What then? See the local cops and…’

  ‘I don’t think that would be sensible,’ Frank said. He drew his Glock, finger off the trigger, and pulled the slide back a quarter-inch, peering into the breech at the cartridge case inside. He reholstered the gun. ‘Amiss and the others have come here and set up shop. They could hardly do that without the people in the police department noticing. The Buckner Building is pretty big, but to get there all their supplies would have had to come through this tunnel here and the town. They could have brought stuff in from the sea, but even then it’d all be brought through the town. Everything. So unless the cops here are incredibly unimaginative, or maybe just stupid, they’d have noticed something being brought in. Which means they were at best condoning the arrival, at worst complicit. Either way, I don’t think I want to let them know we’re here to break open the building and rescue the poor souls from inside.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘But what if we need more firepower?’

  Frank gave her a long-suffering look while the passenger in front threw a look back at her.

  ‘Lady, d’you realise we’ve got more firepower in these three trucks than most African states have in their armies?’

  *

  10.52 Whittier; 19.52 London

  The screams began to fade into sobs after the second finger, and Jack was straining at his restraints at the noise. He had lost his temper at other times, usually because of some slight he had been forced to endure, but nothing as concentrated or as vitriolic as this. The sight of a man being forced to endure unimaginable pain while others stood and observed was as shocking to him as the imagined tortures inflicted by Mengele at Auschwitz. It was inconceivable that such brutality could still be inflicted.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack, your turn will come soon. It’s best, though, to understand what we’re going to do to you. It helps to fix your mind. You will endure the same regime as André here. And then we will see how long you can survive without giving us what we need to know. Of course, you will have gone through the basic training and the enhanced courses with the Special Forces at Hereford, won’t you? Still, I think you’ll find anything you learned up there with them will be as nothing compared with what I can achieve down here,’ Peachfield said with a smile.

  ‘You fucking wanker! Leave him alone!’

  ‘You are determined. You want to replace him on the German Chair?’

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you if you try!’ Jack said.

  And he meant it. The rage had been building in him for the last hour and, now he saw Peachfield smile thinly at him, it was impossible to restrain himself. He wanted to grab Peachfield and knock him down, beat him with that length of cable, attach the electrical clamps to his body and throw the switch on. He wanted to see Peachfield jerk and twitch with the surging current, see his jaws clench uncontrollably, see his face contort. He wanted to see Peachfield die under his fists as he pounded that smile from his face.

  ‘You are going to die here, Jack. That I promise you. The trouble is, once you’ve given us all we need, you have the same basic problem as all these others. We cannot allow you to wander off to your homeland telling all kinds of silly stories about us and what we do here. So once you have given us what we need, we will regretfully have to kill you. It’s nothing personal, as the Mafia would say, it’s just that we can’t afford to allow witnesses to what we do down here to get out into the open. You understand that? It’s why it is going to be a whole lot easier on you if you just accept that we will get what we want sooner or later, and save yourself a deal of pain by telling us all you know up front. It makes much more sense.’

  Peachfield turned back to the prisoner weeping around that hideous chair frame, and Jack wept with him. There was no escape, not even from this cold chair. He breathed in, tensing his muscles, trying to burst the straps that held him in place, but the leather was secure and all he achieved was to break the skin on his wrists and ankles. Rocking, he tried to damage the leather, to scrape the straps against the chair’s metal, and degrade it. He attempted to move the chair itself, but the bolts to the floor were secure. He was powerless.

  Another scream, more shrill this time, and André collapsed, his head hanging. Jack saw his body dangling from the German Chair like a puppet’s, a long string of bloody spittle dangling from his lips. One of the guards walked to the wall and began to fill a bucket from a tap, but Peachfield shook his head. He walked to André’s body and lifted his head by the hair, staring into the blank face.

  ‘No, don’t bother,’ he said. ‘Remove him for now, and bring Case over here instead.’

  *

  11.01 Whittier; 20.01 London

  Frank and Debbie were set on the roadside at the far side of Whittier.

  ‘I want to come in with you, guys,’ Frank said.

  ‘Sorry, sir. This is an HRT operation. We have control,’ said the man whom Debbie assumed was the team leader. He had already kitted himself out with breathing apparatus, heavy Kevlar armour, a Glock on his thigh, and H&K MP5 hanging by its strap. There were two stun grenades on his left breast, while a torch, radio, cuffs, baton, and magazines were held on his belt, along with karabiners, rope, and items she didn’t even recognise. ‘You must wait back here until you get the OK. When I give you that signal, I want you to call for assistance, Frank. Got that?’

  ‘Yeah. OK,’ Frank said.

  The others had already moved off among the trees and shrubs that lay about. One Jeep drove off along the roadway beyond the turnoff to the Buckner, hoping to find a way to the rear of the place. Behind them, the rest of the vehicles had parked along the road nearer Whittier town itself. Their driver walked off to chat in a low voice with two of the other drivers. The Team Leader had made it clear that no one who was not HRT was to join them in the mission.

  ‘What now?’ Debbie asked.

  ‘You heard the man. We wait.’

  *

  11.04 Whittier; 20.04 London

  ‘I think before we give you André’s treatment we’ll soften you up with a little wash,’ Peachfield said.

  Jack heard Stilson chuckle and he tensed himself, but there was little he could do.

  It was clear that they were professionals from the moment Jack felt their hands on him. One gripped his wrists while the other undid the straps that held his chest and biceps, and when he was finally freed, they lifted him to his feet. There was nothing he could do to resist. All he could, he tried. He squirmed, he tried to lash out with his feet, but all he earned for himself was a heavy cuff over his ear that almost felled him.

  ‘Be careful. Don’t knock him out. I want him wide awake!’ Peachfield snapped.

  The blow sent ripples of nausea bubbling through his frame, and for a while he was unaware of moving, but then he came to and found himself being lifted onto a metal table. There were more straps, and he breathed in to try to make them set the straps on him loosely, but they clearly saw his attempt, and one of them jabbed an elbow into Jack’s belly. The air left him, and while he was choking for breath, they tightened the straps. A strip of his flesh was pinched in the buckle on his left bicep, and he felt it puncture as the buckle’s tongue stabbed the fold. It was instantly painful, a constant stabbing that made his eyes water, but just now he didn’t care. He wanted only to see Peachfield suffer for what he had done, what he was about to do.

  ‘Why were you out here?’ Peachfield asked. ‘We know about the journal, of course. What were you going to do with the journal if you had got it back to London?’


  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Jack snarled.

  His arm was on fire. He kept telling himself about the pain. He daren’t look at it, because it was a part of his story to himself now, that injury. He had to convince himself that it was bleeding all over his arm, that this was a huge and debilitating injury that he may never recover from. It was a focal point for his concentration. His being was focused on that particular pain, in the hope that, for a while, it would supersede all other pain.

  He had a moment to think of that, before the hood was over his head, the towel was thrust over his mouth, and they began to pour the water over him.

  His arm injury was not enough. Not when he was drowning.

  *

  11.32 Whittier; 20.32 London

  They had been gone too long. That was already plain. Debbie folded her arms, unfolded them, walked up and down the rough roadway, and stared at the black concrete walls with the multiple piercings where the windows had once stood.

  ‘What’re they doing?’ she demanded at last, staring up at the hideous old building.

  ‘Preparing themselves. Acquainting themselves with the site, getting ready to blow their way in, listening to figure out where the enemy all are, making sure they don’t kill a hostage – the usual. It takes time, Debbie.’

  ‘You seem very calm about it all.’

  Frank shrugged.

  ‘It’s best to get ready. Six Ps, eh? Piss poor planning prevents perfect performance, remember.’

  ‘Meanwhile all the hostages in there are being pulled apart by some sadistic pricks. How much longer, in Christ’s name!’

  He shot her a look.

  ‘You know I don’t like that kind of language, Debbie. No, we wait until we hear from them. They’re keeping radio silence, that is all. They’ve been gone a half hour or so. It’s not long. Too many people die when SWAT teams go in and shoot up the whole area, and it doesn’t achieve anything. Let them do…’

  There was a squawk on the receiver in his pocket. Frank pulled it out and listened. Debbie leaned closer to hear the indistinct words.

  ‘Bravo team in place. Alpha, do you copy, over?’