by A. D. Winch
“Are you okay, fillette?” asked Claude, as Ursula re-entered the living room.
“Yes, I’m okay, but…,” she paused, wondering whether she should tell the others why she had run out of the room. Her head was filled with Eric’s thoughts, but she didn’t think it would be wise to tell them.
“But, what?” asked Madame Colbert, slowly spinning her walking stick.
“I just needed to use the toilet.”
“For thirty minutes?” asked Madame Colbert, exchanging a look with Claude, which Ursula did not fully understand.
“I need to think,” said Ursula distractedly, “I’m going up to the roof.”
Most of the snow had melted, but there were a few remaining drifts. Ursula walked through the wide puddles and looked around her. The sky was grey and unappealing; the trees were bare, and everything looked brown. The magic of the snow had melted away and left everything looking ugly and dull.
She couldn’t stay here much longer, she knew that. In the last three weeks, she had regained most of her energy and felt mentally strong - but for how much longer? Eleven months? A year? Or were Alexander and Andrea wrong, and she would live beyond her fourteen birthday? She needed to know for sure and to do that she needed to find Alexander. With Andrea gone, he was the only one who could help her.
In the last few days, she had begun to feel less safe in her grandparents’ apartment. The events with the OSS were no longer being talked about in Saint-Denis, and her neighbours were less interested in ‘protecting her’ from a threat that they felt had passed.
What was more, she could feel that Eric was in trouble and, even though she was convinced that he was far away, his thoughts were unsettling her. Lastly, her grandparents were still in Morocco, at least she hoped they were. It was time to act.
Madame Colbert wanted to report the Benjamins as being kidnapped, but Ursula was worried that this would make life worse for her. If the authorities thought there was a thirteen-year-old girl at home by herself, they would take her away. ‘Uncle Claude’ would not fool them for a second.
However, if she left before they arrived then maybe it was worth telling them and getting her story out into the world. Maybe it was worth telling everyone exactly what had happened: friends, neighbours, police, newspapers, radio stations, news channels and anyone else who would listen.
When the world thought Eric was dead, Andrea had sent a letter and a photo of him to the newspapers. It wasn’t long before journalists, and news’ crews were on their doorstep and watching their every move. They were interested and that interest, although unwelcome, had provided protection. Eric, however, was the son of famous millionaires.
Would they do the same for her grandparents? Ursula doubted it. No one would care about an old couple from les banlieues of Saint-Denis, but, then again, maybe they would. There was always a chance. Her grandparents may not be millionaires or famous, but they were good and loving people. Ursula still thought it was worth trying.
If people knew what had happened to her, to Eric and to her grandparents that would at least be something. She had told Claude; he had helped her straight away and was now looking after her the best he could. Admittedly, he was only one person but he hadn’t called her mad or walked away or laughed in her face.
The more she thought about it, the more Ursula felt that the OSS was a bully. It was not a typical bully but a bully nonetheless. Teachers at her school in Prague had told her that bullies only work in the shade; that they don’t like to bully where everyone else can see. If she could make people see the OSS then surely this would stop them. The more people that knew, the harder it would become to keep their secret agency in the shadows. Some people may not believe her, but others would. She thought of Claude again. Maybe he didn’t believe everything she had told him, but he had listened carefully and had accepted it.
She would invite all her neighbours to her grandparents’ apartment and tell them. She would also write emails and get everyone to send them to all their contacts. It felt good to be actively planning to make things better. However, she did not think that just telling people about the OSS would bring back her grandparents or find Eric. She needed to start a search too.
Without any money, this would be difficult. However, the ten thousand Euros prize money had to be in the apartment somewhere. She just had to find it. Her grandparents should have put it into their bank account, but Ursula knew that neither of them would have dared to walk to the bank with ten thousand Euros in cash. She had turned the house upside down, but it was not in her grandparents' room, living room, kitchen, bathroom or her room.
Ursula looked at the dull view in front of her and tried to think. Nothing came to her. The fresh air was not helping, and she was beginning to feel cold. A small snowdrift covered the corner of the building. Ursula brushed it away to reveal the 'X' that she had painted some years ago. Suddenly she had an idea. She had to be right and immediately cartwheeled off the roof and onto the balcony below. She knocked on the door, and Claude almost spilt his wine.
“I don’t know how you do that,” he said, opening the door, “but it really is extraordinary.”
“It’s just practise,” she replied, kicked off her shoes and ran past him to her room.
She stopped in front of her desk and looked at the newspaper that had been placed under the glass. This time the advert jumped out at her because of the 'X' over it. Previously, she had just looked at it and thought it was Granddad Benjamin’s scribble but she doubted that now.
“X marks the spot,” she whispered to herself.
The glass was kept in place by a low wooden border which Granddad Benjamin had fitted. There was a small gap between the glass and the wood that Ursula slid a ruler into before gently prising the glass upwards. When it was high enough, she took hold of the pane and placed it carefully on the floor. She returned to the desk and removed the newspaper.
Ursula smiled broadly. Her desk was now covered in a number of yellow bank notes. Each one had two hundred printed upon it. Ursula counted them. There was twenty-five, and as she took each one, another was revealed underneath. She didn’t need a calculator to work out that she had ten thousand Euros. The bare wood was now visible, as were the letters, words and sentences that had been etched into the desk.
In the centre of the desk was a piece of crumpled paper half the size of the banknotes. Ursula turned it over curiously. Written in a tall, elegant script were the words ‘In case of emergencies’ and a phone number.
“Captain Hudson,” Ursula said gleefully, holding the paper to her chest.
He had given it to her on their first flight to Prague after Eric had been horrible. Mémé must have found it amongst her things when Ursula had come home from Prague that Christmas.
Ursula couldn’t help but smile. She felt that her luck was finally changing. She lay down on her bed and tried to send her thoughts to Eric.
Back to Contents
***
Chapter 10 – The Operating Theatre
Eric’s dreams were filled with banknotes and Captain Hudson. Unlike his waking hours, his dreams were positive, and he looked forward to sleeping. While he was awake, he tried to exercise his body and mind, as Granddad Benjamin had shown him, but it was difficult. More often than not, he woke tired, and his body ached.
The lights were never turned on in his cell unless someone entered and when this happened he was blinded. For the vast majority of the time, he was left to himself in the dark. It wasn’t long before he stopped relying on his eyes, and, as a result, his other senses adapted. The lack of visual and mental stimuli meant that his head was less full. Consequently, Ursula’s thoughts played on his mind.
Minutes passed. Hours passed. Days passed - if there were such a thing as days anymore. He thought he had been in the cell for at least five days, but only because he had been fed ten times. It may well have been longer.
Every meal time, the tray was pushed through the letterbox and the smell of unappetising slop dr
ifted into the cell. It was barely food, and he ate little of it. He knew that he should eat, but the rat seemed to enjoy it far more than him.
After the tray arrived, Eric would sit beside his food, pick at it and then wait for the rat. He had developed a game with his four-legged friend. As soon as he had finished eating, he would wait until he heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet approaching. When he did, he closed his eyes and used his other senses to track the rat’s path to the food. Nine times out of ten, Eric had caught the rodent before it reached the tray. Eric hoped that his skills were improving but feared that the rat was literally playing into his hands.
Eric spent as much of his time as possible sleeping, and he was currently doing just that. It was an escape, and he was dreaming about people crammed into the Benjamins' small living room, listening to Ursula. Suddenly, the living room filled with bright light and all the people vanished. Eric held his eyes shut tight and pulled his arms over his head, so as not to be blinded.
He woke from his dream when they placed a bag over his head, tied his hands behind his back and covered him in a sheet. There were two of them; he could sense it. One was the guard who violently insisted on being called Sir. His body odour was barely noticeable to others, but it made Eric recoil. The other man was smaller, cleaner and equally as strong.
Eric was pushed roughly onto a trolley and wheeled out of the room. He tried to fight, but the moment he kicked his legs, he was punched hard in the stomach. For the rest of the journey, he concentrated on getting his breath back and followed where they were going. The trolley took a right, a left and then they were in a lift going upwards. Once out of the lift, they took a right and a left again before travelling down a long corridor. The trolley clattered over tiles and banged into doors; unbeknown to Eric, he was pushed into an operating theatre.
Four light arrays on bendable arms hung above a bed, and Eric’s trolley was pushed up against it. A computer and other monitoring equipment made an arc near his head, and he could hear them working. Next to them was a metal table on wheels. Resting upon it were various sized medical knives, clamps, saws and a drill.
Despite not knowing where he was, Eric knew he was not alone. He could sense six new people, even if he couldn’t see them. A surgeon, an anesthetist and four nurses stood around the theatre waiting and checking the equipment. They were dressed all in white, had blue surgical masks around their neck and plastic hats covering their hair.
In a small observation room overlooking the theatre sat Professor Schwarzkopf, Jean Kurtz and Agent Angel. A speaker on the wall was relaying the conversation from the medical team directly into their room, and they sat in silence, listening.
The doctor and surgeon stood beside a sink with their backs to the theatre, washing their hands.
“At the base in Morocco, we tried extracting stem cells from his bone marrow using needles in Morocco, but we couldn’t penetrate his hip bones,” said the doctor.
“That’s extremely rare. Were you using faulty equipment or are you telling me his bones are abnormally strong?” replied the surgeon.
“The needles were fine and had all been shipped from home. Are his bones strong? I wouldn’t say for sure.”
Eric lay on his side; quite motionless on the trolley. Professor Schwarzkopf worried that he was already dead.
The doctor approached the trolley and pulled the sheet off Eric. Lying in a foetal position, covered in dirt and smelling animalistic was what looked like a feral child.
“What do you think you soldiers are doing?” shouted the Doctor, taking one look at Eric. “I gave strict instructions. He is filthy! Get him out! Out!”
The soldiers wheeled the trolley back out. They moaned that no one had told them and that they were simply following orders to bring White King. A nurse ignored them and led them towards a shower room. She opened the door and hung a surgical gown behind it.
Eric was roughly shaken off the trolley and pulled into a small cubicle. One of the soldiers pushed Eric face first against the wall and pinned him against the tiles.
“You will take off your filthy clothes, wash yourself thoroughly and then put on the gown that is hanging on the door. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” mumbled Eric through the hood.
The soldier punched him hard in the kidneys, and Eric collapsed onto the floor.
“Sir!” bellowed the soldier into Eric’s ear.
The binds that secured his hands were removed, and the bag was pulled off his head.
“If you even think something you shouldn’t, you’ll get more of the same. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” Eric managed to whisper.
Eric did not move. The pain in his kidneys was gradually subsiding.
He lay on wet, white tiles underneath a shower head which dripped water onto his face. He struggled to stand up and had to lean against a tiled wall to make sure he didn’t fall.
The door to the shower room was wide open. There was no privacy and the two soldiers blocked the only doorway, watching him.
Eric removed his clothes. He knew he was physically dirty but as he undressed he felt his mind had been soiled too. He turned his back to the soldiers and stood under the shower, trying to convince himself that they weren’t there.
The water felt wonderful and warmed his chilled body. He washed slowly, enjoying the feeling and trying to make it last as long as he could before he was dragged out. After a few minutes, his joy gradually turned to fear. Questions jumped into his mind - why did he have to be clean? What was going to happen to him when he had finished? Why had he been taken out of this cell?
The shower room began to fill with steam, and he was ordered to stop. He dried thoroughly, once again making it last as long as possible and put on the surgical gown. The thin pink material flapped open at the back.
Eric was pointed towards the trolley.
“Get back on and lay face down. One move and my fist re-acquaints itself with your kidneys.”
Eric did as he was told. The surgical gown fell to his sides, leaving his whole rear exposed. He thought the soldiers would tie it up, but they just sniggered. Before this moment, Eric felt he had only previously been humiliated by Ursula when she had joined his school. On reflection, that had been nothing. He wished she was here now. The two of them would have taught these thugs a lesson.
He was wheeled back into the operating theatre, and one of the nurses immediately tied up the back of his gown. The doctor and anesthetist examined Eric while the soldiers stood close by.
Eric turned over when he was asked, offered his wrist so they could take his pulse, and outwardly he was the perfect patient. On the inside, he was petrified. No one told him what was going to happen. No one even hinted.
The doctor and anesthetist turned to the viewing window.
“We can’t perform the operation without the risk of killing him,” began the doctor.
The anesthetist continued, “The anesthetic, alone, could cause cardiac arrest.”
“He is malnourished, dehydrated and his heart beat is irregular. Until he is in better condition, my advice is that the risks are too great.”
Words echoed around the theatre from a speaker, “It’s a lab rat. If it dies, it dies. Continue.”
Eric recognised the voice. It was Buddy Angel - the man who had told him that Ursula was a drug addict, Alexander a con-artist and Andrea a deviant criminal.
In the observation room, Professor Schwarzkopf remonstrated with Agent Angel, “Don’t operate.”
“Why not?”
“If he dies and we need more samples, you’ll then have to render the girl. Keep the boy alive so you can take as much as you want, whenever you want. We will need to replenish our stock of his samples while the research is conducted. To let the boy die now, or to even put him at risk of death, is an inefficient use of a valuable resource If he dies our dream of IHBs could be put back by another forty or fifty years.”
Agent Angel mulled over Professor Schwarzkopf’s
words.
“What do you suggest?”
“Put him in the infirmary until he is strong enough to endure the procedure. Attach him to drips and make sure he gets the nutrients he needs.”
“What if it escapes, John?” asked Agent Angel menacingly. “Then what?”
“Bind the boy’s hands and feet to the bed,” Professor Schwarzkopf coughed, he was speaking too quickly and his body couldn’t keep up. “Put guards on the door to his room, keep him under constant watch. He’s in Roswell now. He’s not going anywhere.”
Agent Angel addressed the medical staff in the theatre, “Did you hear all that?”
They nodded.
“Then do what John says. We’ll try again in two days.”
Professor Schwarzkopf looked at the boy who lay on the trolley. His hair was grey in places, he had wrinkles appearing, his eyes were bloodshot and, at first glance, he looked far older than his teenage years.
What have they done to him? thought Professor Schwarzkopf, and what can I do to make it better?
The soldiers brought the bag towards Eric’s head, but the doctor stopped him.
“He is clean. Don’t be an idiot and put that filthy thing back on him. Take him to the infirmary as he is.” He pointed at two of the nurses, “And you go with him.”
Eric was wheeled into a hospital room with one bed and ordered to stand. Another doctor came in, examined him and took blood from his arm. Only when he had finished, was Eric made to lie down. His arms and legs were bound to the metal frame, and he was unable to move them. It was restrictive, but it was more comfortable than his previous bed. At least here he had a mattress.
A TV was screwed into the yellow wall beside him, but Eric doubted that they would turn it on for a prisoner. In front of him was a window, and he could see clearly into the corridor. He also noticed that there was a camera directly above the door, and it pointed right at him.
