by Danny King
Rip Dunbar.
“Thought you’d got away from me, didn’t you, Cyclops?” Rip growled, his lips so taut they barely quivered. “Well you don’t get off that lightly!”
The Doctor was as good as his word. Over the next ten days he and his staff nursed me away from the red readings and back to some semblance of health. Then when the tubes were finally pulled from my arms, I was strapped up all over again and shipped off to mainland USA. I couldn’t tell you where exactly Fort McCarthy was, as I was required to wear a blindfold for the entire journey (presumably to prevent me from memorizing the air route) but I think it was up north somewhere. The cold winter’s air that greeted me when we landed told me as much.
The place was quiet too. Almost unnervingly so. Over the sounds of Humvees tearing about the place and aircraft taxiing or winding down, there was almost nothing beyond the perimeter wire. No sounds of town. No distant freeways. Not even any birds twittering overhead, which meant no trees: just a lot of military hustle and bustle and a shrill wind to chill my soul.
I listened to a clipboard being signed, then a few cigarettes exchanged, before I was loaded onto an armoured car and driven out across the plains. The road we travelled along was flat, straight and featureless. As far as I could tell we passed nothing and no one the whole time we were on the road. A brick on the accelerator and a broomstick to stop the steering wheel from spinning could have driven me out here, but bricks and broomsticks cost money so they had a Marine Corporal do it instead.
Then, after an hour of counting potholes and more cigarettes being smoked in the front, the armoured car slowed and we finally arrived at our destination.
We stopped and started three times in the space of half a mile or so, which told me we were passing through three lines of security, then we drove down a long sloping causeway until I heard the engine roaring back against itself to suggest we’d gone underground.
A few more twists and turns and we parked up to the sounds of an escort being formed up outside. The rear door was yanked open and a craggy gunnery Sergeant climbed on-board to push me out. A small squad of Delta Force soldiers was there to pick me up and finally my blindfold was removed, although my cuffs stayed where they were. I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or sorry for the American tax payer but I had time for neither because some three-star General with more ribbons than a maypole maker’s daughter stepped forward to give me the welcome speech.
“I am Lieutenant-General Major of the Fourteenth Tactical Infantry Division and you are in the United States military penitentiary known as Fort McCarthy…”
“Never heard of it,” I told him.
“Good. You are indicted to stand trial for crimes in direct violation of international law as well as those of the United States of America,” which were obviously the ones he and his buddies were most upset about. “These charges are as follows,” he said, looking down at his clipboard and rattling through them without pausing to see how they were being received. “Three counts international terrorism. Three counts international sabotage. Two counts crimes against humanity. One count international piracy. Thirty-eight counts of murder in the first-degree. Twenty-four counts of murder in the second-degree. Two counts conspiracy to commit acts of genocide. One count conspiracy to extort monies with terror…”
“Isn’t that the same as terrorism?” I asked, but the General ignored me and carried on ploughing through my CV.
“… One count conspiracy to depose a democratically elected government. Two counts conspiracy to cause destruction of government property. Two counts international espionage against the United States of America. Four counts conspiracy to commit explosions. Three counts belonging to organisations banned under international law. And finally one count working to undermine to interests of the Congress of the United States of America and her allies, both at home and aboard. ”
“Is that it?” I asked.
“As I say, you will be called to answer for all these charges and face a military tribunal in due course. A lawyer will be appointed to act on your behalf and you will have the right of due process, though you are not permitted to make contact with anyone beyond these official channels. If you attempt to do so by any means, all rights and privileges will be revoked and you will face instant military justice under section twenty-seven of the special detainees act. Do you understand everything that has been explained to you?”
“Am I allowed to choose my own lawyer?” I asked.
“Negative. A military lawyer will be appointed to work on your case, but I repeat, you will not have access to anyone beyond these walls,” the General reiterated.
“What about witnesses?”
“These are questions for your lawyer,” he said with a snap of impatience, handing his clipboard to the Aid standing in attendance just behind him before completing his spiel.
“Welcome to Fort McCarthy.”
27.
YOU ONLY GET LIFE TWICE
Crimes against humanity? Conspiracy to commit genocide? Sixty-two counts of murder? They were having a laugh, weren’t they? I’d spent most of the last dozen years guarding vending machines. Well all right, so I’d been involved with a few unsavoury sorts and I had, admittedly, killed a few men in my time, but never anyone who hadn’t tried to kill me first. How was that murder? Let alone genocide?
My military lawyer explained the finer points of the charges against me when he came to see me in McCarthy’s infirmary a few days later. I still wasn’t well enough to be moved to a proper cell yet so Captain Blakeney perched on the end of my bed, rested his file on my anti-biotics machine and went through the indictments one by one.
All of them related to my time in the employ of either Victor Soliman or Griffin Marvel, as Rip Dunbar’s testimony put me at both scenes, so I was tarred with the conspiracy brush. ie. Victor Soliman had brought down a couple of satellites with his Star Ray, so that was international sabotage and destruction of government property. Griffin Marvel had threatened to blow up a big chunk of Finland with his CSMK guided missiles, so that was international terrorism and genocide. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been me who’d pushed, or threatened to push, either button; all they had to do was slap the word “conspiracy” into the indictments and they could lay the same charges against me that they could lay against Soliman, Marvel or either of the blokes who used to fry the chips in the staff canteens (Anton in Mozambique, Eric in Greenland. Anton was useless – his chips really were a crime against humanity).
And the murders?
Thirty-eight military personnel and twenty-four civilians were recorded as having lost their lives as a direct result of action taken by either Soliman or Marvel (and one by Anton). American, British, Russian, French, Danish, Finnish, Canadian and Mozambiquean. I’d been part of each organisation at the time so I’d be called to answer for each death. Ironically, the authorities didn’t realise I’d been part of the team that had skyjacked the USAF C-17 but I got charged with those murders all the same just by association.
In actual fact, there was only one murder charge on my entire rap sheet that was directly linked to me – that of Jabulani Mthunzi, that annoying little Nguni guide who’d so won Rip Dunbar’s heart. That charge was laid out in meticulous, if slightly weighted, detail claiming I’d gunned him down while he’d been unarmed. Which I guess was technically correct but that told only half the story. I wondered if I’d get the chance to tell the other half.
“What am I looking at?”
Captain Blakeney followed my eye-line down to my manacles and blinked.
“No (literal cunt) I mean what sort of sentence can I expect to receive if I’m found guilty?” I spelt out, optimistically using the word “if” instead of “when”.
Captain Blakeney sucked his teeth.
“Death,” he shrugged.
“Death?”
“Yeah, for these charges, there isn’t any other sentence.”
“And what’s the likelihood of me being found guilty?” I
asked.
“Oh it’s certainty,” he replied without so much as a second’s hesitation.
“Oh lovely,” I scowled. “And so you’re here for what? Just to keep me chuckling until it comes time to plug me into the mains?”
“I’m here to ensure due process and see that you get a fair trial,” he said in all seriousness.
“Something tells me you don’t get paid on results,” I pointed out.
“Mr Jones, I don’t see what else I can do. I mean you were there at the times stated. You were in the employment of both Victor Soliman and Griffin Marvel and took an active part in perpetrating these offences.”
“How do you know I took an active part?” I demanded.
“You were employed in a combat role, namely installation security, therefore by definition you played a vital logistical role supporting the perpetration of these crimes. It’s an open and shut case,” he said, making no friends around here whatsoever.
“Then once again, what’s the fucking point of you? Are you on the family pay roll or something?” I fumed, rattling on my manacles as I sought to add a sixty-third count to my charge sheet.
“Mr Jones, there are more options available to us than just pleading guilty or not guilty,” Captain Blakeney advised.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, we could enter a plea. The indictments as they stand will get us fried, but if we can argue them down to a raft of lesser offences, we might be able to avoid the death penalty and receive a sentence of life imprisonment.”
“Might we?” I said, fucking loving his use of the plural. “And why would they agree to that? If this is an open and shut case, as you say?”
Captain Blakeney cocked his head, as if to suggest I already knew the answer to my own question.
“Mr Jones, you are a small fish. But you’ve swum in a lot of ponds that will be of interest to the United States government. Now these charges only take into account activities relating to your terms with Victor Soliman and Griffin Marvel,” he said, patting my file, “but don’t for a moment imagine that we don’t know you’ve worked for other organisations. So, give the SEO the facts; names, dates and places, outfits you’ve worked with, crimes you’ve witnessed. They’ll have most of it anyway so you may not even have enough to save your life, but give them everything you’ve got and leave the rest to me,” he smiled, laying a hand on my shoulder as a mark of his sincerity as I almost made it through the cuffs.
Given my options I had no choice but to play ball. Or at least, some limited form of ball, because the one thing I had going in my favour was the sheer number of jobs I’d worked on in the last dozen years. Names, dates and places? I gave them more names, dates and places than they knew what to do with:
S.P.I.D.E.R (Special Political Infiltration Division for Economic Revolution), M.A.N.T.R.A (Millennium Anti-Nationalist Tactical Redeployment Association), D.E.A.T.H (Designated Elimination of Assets, Territories and Homesteads), K.I.S.S (Kingdom’s International Secret Service). Operations XY, Extreme, Blowfish, Sunburn, Chainsaw. Zillion Silverfish, Morris Merton, Doctor Thalassocrat, Polonius Crump, Kris Kingdom.
I rattled through them and much more besides as SEO interrogated me over the next three months, first from my infirmary bed, then later in the interrogation block. They took down every detail, recorded my words and cross-referenced my testimony to verify my claims. Most of it was dead information about dead men and dead ideas anyway but they were interested all the same, enough to make me comfortable, treat me right and feed me well. They even got me a new cosmetic eye just to make me feel like a person again. It had “PRISONER” stamped across the middle of it.
Amusingly, it wasn’t just the stuff about the bad guys that interested my interrogators; they loved hearing the dirt on their so-called allies too. Jack Tempest of the British SIS. Jean Cabon of the French DGSE. Kim Hu of the Wind Brotherhood. Anything I had on these guys was lapped up like Ambrosia and cross-filed under military intelligence / Facebook gossip. But for the main, I just told them about the jobs:
Hong Kong, Siberia, Nanawambai Atoll, Geneva, East Timor, north Africa, southern Africa, western Africa, Cuba, Colombia and Kansas.
I’d clocked up some air miles in my time and was actually surprised at just how much I could remember. But then I guess when you’ve got nothing else to do for days and weeks it focuses the mind and you’re able to dredge up all sorts of memories you thought you’d lost to time.
In the end, it was the sheer volume of information I gave them that allowed me to cover my more sensitive tracks. It was hard going at times, especially at the start of my questioning when they had me hooked up to a polygraph machine, because some of their questions were very searching indeed. But when you’ve got an endless supply of detailed intelligence to dazzle someone with, you can usually negotiate your way through even the stiffest of interrogations. So, like a holiday camp magician with a shiny cape and a tried and tested routine, I pulled an endless stream of colourful handkerchiefs out of my sleeves to distract my interrogators from the sleight of hand that brushed the more controversial questions aside.
Namely, questions concerning The Agency.
“And so, how did you get this job, Mr Jones? Who exactly employed you?”
“It was Polonius Crump’s commander-in-chief, a guy called, Klive Andrevski, a former Colonel in the Stasi. He defected just before the wall came down with files on every agent known to the GDR and sold this information on, resulting in the assassination of some fourteen Western agents, including two of your own if I remember rightly. I think I can even remember their names if you want to double-check this?”
Which was true but it didn’t actually answer the question. Not really. Not completely.
Of course I couldn’t dodge their questions indefinitely but The Agency had a time-served strategy in place for dealing with polygraph interrogations. For two days and nights they torture all new recruits mercilessly whilst we’re plugged into polygraph machines. It’s all part of basic training. It doesn’t help us learn how to lie properly but it plants the memory of pain in our psyches so that any and all future polygraph interrogations sends our readings through the roof (bless ’em).
“He’s lying.”
“Cut the crap and tell us who hired you!”
And this is when you give them the other stuff.
See, besides ruining your happy memories of boot camp, The Agency also puts into place half a dozen cover stories so that if you’re ever taken alive you have things to give your interrogators. Advertisements are placed in Soldier of Fortune magazine. Ghost offices are set up and closed down with phone records showing calls and correspondence sent to pay phones and Post Office boxes near your home. Paper trails are laid. The Agency does this for every job, layering shadows on smoke until the truth’s a half-lie, shrouded in uncertainty and buried beneath a mountain of more plausible alternatives. And then, when that’s all in place they leave you with one final incentive – protect us, protect The Agency, and we will pick you up from any extraction point anywhere in the world within twelve hours of you making it over the wall.
Now I ask you, how can you rat out friends like that?
“Who else were you with? Who made it off the island too?”
“Eighteen of us; Mr Smith, Mr Petrov, Mr Kim, Mr Andreev, Captain Campbell, Mr…”
“Enough of this Mister crap! This isn’t Pride and fucking Prejudice!” my interrogator barked, slamming the table between us. “We want names, asshole, otherwise we’ll fry you on every fucking charge!”
“And I’m giving you names. At least, the only names I ever knew. We don’t use our full names, not to each other, it’s policy; we’re just Mister or Missus. Or Captain or Sergeant or Lieutenant. We don’t ask and we don’t offer our full names for this very reason, in case we’re ever questioned,” I told him.
“Oh you don’t do you, well how very formal of you,” he scoffed. “You know more than you’re letting on, dick wad, so don’t try to play games wi
th us or we’ll bring Major Dunbar back in here and let him question you personally.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference, I’m telling you all I know. I’m a mercenary, for fuck’s sake, not a soldier of ideology. I’m not trying to protect anyone but myself. Which is why they put these safeguards in place, to stop soldiers in my position from selling everyone else down the river to save their own worthless hides.”
The interrogator glared, flaring his nostrils as he snorted at me, then all at once he sat back down and started asking me about my eye again.
That’s the way it is with interrogations. They pump you with questions and hammer formica surfaces as if their very lives depend on getting the answers, then hit you with different line of inquiry while you’re still up a tree over your first lot of denials. Linda used to do a similar thing; she would ask me about my day, then not give me a chance to reply as she scattergunned me with questions as I tried to get out my lies. Linda? It was funny how my thoughts kept returning to Linda. We’d only been married for two years but she’d cast such a shadow over the rest of my life that I sometimes wondered if she’d meant more to me than a simple marriage of convenience.
But that was a question for another day. For the moment I had other questions to worry about.
“Who patched you up? Where d’you get the GPS from, bozo?”
My time on the interrogation block blurs into a single overwhelming memory because there was no structure to it. They came for me day or night, sometimes for twelve hours at a time, sometimes for barely a few minutes. I got the occasional slap but on the whole was surprised by how little they physically abused me. Perhaps that was because I never tried holding back on them. Or at least, they never thought I was holding back on them. I’m sure if I’d mimed locking my lips and tossing an imaginary key over my shoulder I would’ve soon found my head in a bucket of piss but I didn’t. I co-operated as best I could so that after three months of names, dates and places, picking mug shots out of family albums and drawing noughts and crosses on satellite photographs, my interrogators were gone and replaced by a ram-rod panel of military judges, called to McCarthy to decide how best to reward me for my co-operation.
