by R. J. Dillon
‘Word travels fast,’ said Jane without any warmth.
‘Bad news faster than the rest,’ he announced, letting go of Jane as he dispensed a coffee from a Flavia drinks station. ‘More work for me and my boys and gals, that’s the reason I’ve been summoned,’ he said, blowing the heat from his coffee, his eyes pointing down the floor to C’s lair. ‘Do tell me more,’ he urged. ‘I hear the missing hand is none other than Nicholas Torr, our gallant swashbuckler. You know I am discretion personified.’
‘You’re a born gossip, Tony.’
Despite his olive skin, Crost still managed a blush.
‘Good Lord, that is a bit harsh my dear girl. I thought we had ironed out our differences after your glorious return from Washington last year, remember?’
How could she forget? Two months of sub-zero handshakes with senators more interested in her body than her mind or her work as she headed a joint cyber counter-terrorism working group, followed by a month of clearing legal hurdles with a leering Crost.
‘I can’t confirm or deny,’ Jane said, sighting-up a clear exit from the meeting bay. ‘I’ll tell Nick that you were asking after him.’ Crost smiled but Jane could tell she’d hit a nerve.
‘Now, now, old girl, there’s no point trying to hoodwink me. My sources are extremely reliable.’
‘Goodness, Tony, have you taken up cooking?’
She made a dash for freedom and heard Crost’s ‘Impossible woman,’ echo after her as Jane clenched her fists and rapped on Rossan’s door.
‘I’m in.’
Silenced by Rossan’s raised hand, Jane was directed to a soft chair in front of his desk while he dealt with a call, handing out a severe berating to an unfortunate soul for some oversight.
‘Of course I expect you to inform me immediately, you cretin,’ snarled Rossan, slamming down the phone.
Sitting back, he studied her with a long gaze, one that gave him an unusual intense sobriety. Up out of his chair he was off, a man with something essential to do. ‘How they holding up over there? What’s the latest? Fancy a tea? No, of course not, you’re a coffee person.’ Rossan batted out the questions in a quick covering arc of fire as he crossed the room.
‘No one’s any wiser, nothing has been confirmed or denied by Moscow.’
‘No, I’ve been liaising with the Cousins, and as far as Langley can gather, we’ve taken a major hit,’ Rossan grumbled, not bothering to look up from his position; slouched by the long tablet window overlooking the Thames, pouring mineral water into a disposable cup, studying the contents. He brought a litre bottle with him each morning, rationing it frugally at hourly intervals.
‘Downing Street and the FCO are already prattling about deals, exchanges, discreet handovers if anyone has survived.’
Above a mahogany bookcase a line of framed photos depicting Rossan’s career meandered around the room. From a group of laughing students scrummed around Mercury fountain in Christ Church’s Tom Quad, to grey faced men taking Rossan’s hand on retiring, somehow they all bore the foretaste of bitter memories; this is what I’ve done, my moment. Remember me this way.
‘And are we going to comply?’ Jane asked.
‘Bloody better do.’ Screwing on the bottle top he glanced at the raw morning light swelling over the city, pushing down from the north. ‘But that’s not my decision.’
Behind Jane, Rossan’s secretary sneaked open the door.
‘Mr. Hawick and the Chief are running late, but should be ready in fifteen minutes Miss Stratton.’
‘Am I not summoned to attend, Maureen?’ Rossan asked, quizzically arching an eyebrow. Shaking her head, Maureen closed the door with a neat click.
Leaving the cup on the windowsill Rossan strode over to his desk, the metal tips on his heels a precise manoeuvre in sound. When he sat down the scuffed leather chair squealed. Glancing down at a single sheet squared in the middle of his blotter, Rossan looked up before even reaching the last line; his sharp blue eyes snapped on Jane like a gun dog sighting its first downed grouse.
‘My schedule is clogged solid as it is,’ he said loftily. Heading off Jane’s apology with a raised hand, Rossan sat back. ‘Teddy and the Chief don’t regard Roly and me as their natural supporters.’
‘I just want to get Nick or Alistair home,’ Jane sighed, the hairs on the back of her neck tingling. Through the smoked grey window the pallid morning grew stronger, forcing tines of light through a dark band of cloud.
‘Who doesn’t?’ he said, his sophistry surfacing.
A ball of tension spun through her and whether it came from a lack of sleep or empty stomach, Jane couldn’t decide. ‘It’s Moscow flexing its muscles,’ she said.
‘Is it?’ He gave a vulpine smile, the eyebrow arched higher. ‘Have that on good authority, do you?’
‘Come on Paul, you know Moscow have been looking for a strong hand since Litvinenko.’
‘Haven’t they just,’ said Rossan. Alexander Litvinenko, a perennial thorn in the Service’s side, an ex-Russian FSB officer who, once granted asylum against Rossan and Roly Blackmore’s wise counsel, turned on his former Moscow masters in print, and for his endeavours he was painfully terminated with a dose of radiation. ‘And we’ve given them one, that what you’re implying?’ He leant forward, elbows planted on his desk.
‘You mean by someone here?’ Jane flared.
‘Someone somewhere, has to be.’
Angry at Rossan’s flippancy a giddy twitch floated around her tummy along with an itch deep in her palms she couldn’t ease.
‘Something I don’t know about, Paul?’
Again, he refused her. Keeping his distance which might only have constituted a desk length, yet it seemed an endless expanse to Jane after his supercilious shrug. ‘Hardly, you and Teddy seem to have the answers to everything.’
‘On what?’ She demanded with feeling.
Surprised by Jane’s passion, Rossan cast around the desk and hooked up a photograph of his wife Rebecca, wiping an imaginary smear off the glass. Even at home Rossan continually ran into female intolerance, indifference or anger. Rebecca, a debutante who’d sparkled quite considerably in her youth, had never forgiven him when she lost her figure after the birth of their son and daughter.
‘You’d have to ask C or Teddy,’ he said, seeming too pale under the light.
Jane saw it clearly now, the reason for Rossan’s obfuscation; it was her rise in C’s estimation, her new standing in the order of battle. ‘No one’s been written off including Nick or Alistair,’ Jane said. She waited for her anger to subside, to find its equilibrium.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘You should be.’
‘Good, I’m relieved we’ve reached a mutual understanding.’
Except she didn’t think they’d reached anything mutual. ‘I’d better go,’ she said.
‘Of course, won’t do to keep the Chief or Teddy waiting.’
Closing Rossan’s door she pondered on his scheming, all the way along to her own office.
• • •
Nick had been checked over by a surly Russian military medic en route to Moscow. Diagnosed with cracked ribs, severe lacerations, a flesh wound and a couple of loose teeth, he’d been given an injection to ease the pain, followed by a second the medic never fully explained. Pronounced reasonably fit, Nick was officially handed over on the city outskirts and rapidly transferred to a plain van.
Wasn’t it simply marvellous how the world revolved thought Nick, moving slowly, his arms and legs reacting as though on time delay. Voices reached him from his left, heading out in a widening arc, low then high. Nick wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, unable to decide which was hot, which cold. In the distance a helicopter swept by, the engine feint and hoarse. Blinking hard he tried to focus, but something strange was going on with his eyes that seemed to insist he wasn’t in the van, but lying in a forest.
Forcing himself up he started along an ancient logger’s track, weaving through thickening s
now, dipping and bumping along the curving high banks protecting the track. This far into the forest the sun never came and the air was frosty and sharp, tempered by pine. On through the underwood he avoided prone trunks of rotting timber, here and there a full trunk held a crooked branch up in distress. Listening, he heard the helicopter lose height, bank for another pass. Keeping low, he swung slowly into a small logger’s camp of three cabins. Breaking cover he kept close to stacked logs and made for the first cabin.
Expecting to feel wood on his palm as he extended a hand to the cabin door, Nick recoiled from the cold metal skin of the van. Crouched in a corner he panted for breath, feeling really quite seasick as the van made three quick turns and slowed to a stop. Outside, a dog let off a long train of barks and a flat practised voice yelled for it to be quiet. His perception totally muddled, Nick swam between reality and hallucination. Never accept an injection from a stranger he thought, always say ‘no’.
Two pairs of capable hands half carried and dragged him out of the van. Trying to stand in a presentable fashion he tumbled to the floor. Like his life, he thought, things were never what he expected. Lifted and dragged, Nick was taken down endless corridors, the fixed fluorescent lights hurting his eyes. Someone gave a brusque order and he was set down in a room and a heavy door swung closed. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before crabbing over to a corner facing the door. It seemed hours until he heard boots approach in a quickstep as though following his scent. They hadn’t forgotten about me after all he thought, deciding to do nothing but wait, his body pushed low. Any time now Nick reasoned, he would be beaten. They dragged him forwards, then back, yanked him right, then left, and Nick knew this to be his primary conditioning. This also involved having his hands cuffed painfully behind his back, while his eyes were roughly covered in a strip of course cloth. Curled into a protective ball he listened as the boots retreated, concluding the end of what seasoned interrogators class the ‘happy hour’. As the boots became a feint echo, Nick forced his mind to follow a different route, to focus on a direction.
Lost in his own collective world of introspection he missed their return down the corridor, aware too late of their arrival as a key found the lock. Swaying as they lifted him to his feet, Nick was guided and pulled up twenty-four rickety steps into a sterile office prepared in advance for his arrival. He heard voices low and heavy, one of them a woman, he felt the cold pinch through his eyes as they uncovered them. Then Nick made one defiant gesture, a futile headlong rush for the door. Tripped up, sprawled on a rough bare floor, the woman laughed quietly as they restrained him by his ankles to a metal chair bolted firmly down.
‘Would you prefer me to speak Russian or English, Nick?’ The woman asked from behind a desk, her face protected by the halo of light coming from a desk lamp she aimed directly at him.
‘My name’s Peter, not Nick. I’m a tourist and only speak English,’ Nick said, unwinding his initial cover story. ‘Why am I being treated like this, I need to contact the British Embassy.’
‘We’re here to help you, Nick,’ she offered, her English clear. ‘My name is Anastasiya and my colleague is Alexei and we’d like to get you home as quickly as possible.’
Nick nodded, wondering if everyone he’d be meeting had picked their worknames out of a hat. ‘I was hitching a ride and the car I was travelling in was involved in an accident. That’s why I need to notify my embassy.’
Ten minutes without a response, nothing from Anastasiya or Alexei except the gentle rustling of papers and the slow steady breathing from figures standing behind Nick. At least one of them also a woman he decided, catching a hint of a distinctive perfume. This one not part of the interrogation team, but one of the invited observers waiting to see what he’d deliver.
Clearing his throat Alexei broke the spell, his English containing an American ring. ‘You’re an important man Nick, you’re the Director of CO8 Nick, so why lie to us?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Nick. ‘I’m a tourist, take a look at my papers.’
‘London don’t care about you Nick,’ Anastasiya said, the friendly smile in her voice gone. ‘Your colleague Mr. Alistair Foula is dead, Nick,’ she reminded him. ‘You and he are British spies.’
‘What did your contact want to sell?’ Alexei demanded.
‘You’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I just took a ride in the wrong car, that’s all,’ protested Nick knowing his cover was shot to pieces and they were merely warming up.
‘Okay, Nick, we’ll leave it there for today,’ Anastasiya offered, her charm restored as though she were winding-up a sales seminar.
In an instant they’d bound Nick’s hands and covered his eyes, then movement all around him as Alexei, Anastasiya and the VIPs solemnly trooped out before Nick descended back to his cell at double speed. That night they started with the electronic games; noise mostly and even though his eyes were covered, Nick could see the strobe flashes. When they stopped the electronic show Nick didn’t know if it was night or day. Hunched into a corner he tried to regulate his breathing, reassert control of his senses. But they wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of gaining any self-control.
Displaying remarkable diligence they instituted a new regime. With his eyes bound tight, they pushed and tugged him on a slow shambling walk round the perimeter of a freezing high-fenced courtyard, feet from snarling guard dogs. Fifteen steps to the first turn, ten to the next, nineteen to a spot where the cold really nipped his face, and eleven back to where he started. After his ‘exercise’ they provided water to drink, followed by a cigarette that he had trouble smoking through burst lips he guessed he must have received when the Lada went belly up.
The next day or maybe it was night, Nick really couldn’t tell, nor by now did he care, a different phase of interrogation began. Led again by Anastasiya but this time she’d brought along some new friends who made him kneel, facing who or what he didn’t know.
‘What did the traitor Lubov wish to sell?’ She asked, and Nick knew there was a sharper, intense edge to her question.
‘My name is Peter May,’ Nick said, ‘I’m a visitor, a tourist. I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.’
Strange how the first kick, hard to the middle of his back brought no pain. Nick smiled. Actually smiled as the foot laid into him again, fiercer, lower or higher, it made no difference. He was happy because they’d stripped him naked, taken his clothes, boots, and he knew they couldn’t have found the SIM because they weren’t sure what Lubov’s treasure entailed.
‘Nick, you’re doing yourself only harm,’ Anastasiya informed him. ‘Think of your wife, how is she going to cope if you go home a cripple?’
‘I’m not married, I live with my mum.’
Nick received another kick for his efforts; not to his back, but swung fiercely into his crotch, the pain made him vomit. No warning, no favours.
He fought back in his head, denying everything around him, even his own existence. His eyes weeping from the pressure of the rag were sticky at the corners, and he told himself it was all part of an established game, the rules accepted by both sides. They knew he had something to confess, Nick knew it too, it was just a matter of finding a compromise so they believed they had won and he’d be left to heal and sent home without a mark on him. He vomited again.
‘Clean him up,’ Anastasiya commanded.
A bucket of cold water was tossed over him, ripping Nick’s breath out of his lungs. Weak, his chest and legs wet, Nick felt two pairs of safe hands grip his arms and he was shuffled out. They took him down a passage of no considerable length to another room, this barely larger than the last, just as sparse; at its centre, a plain metal desk and chair. On one corner of the desk two typed confessions with a cheap fountain pen lying neatly alongside. From behind Nick a pair of hands ripped off the rag around his eyes, the sudden rush of light forcing him to squint and cringe. In the room, though he never saw them, he could sense a number of observers behi
nd him, one of them the woman wearing her heady brand of perfume. Painfully he opened his eyes letting them adjust; the first thing he saw was the desk with someone dressed in an army officer’s uniform staring up from his seat, calmly and quite detached assessing Nick’s condition.
‘I commend your resilience, Nick,’ said the officer, ‘But your stupidity to a lost cause is a quality I am unable to admire.’
‘You have been abandoned by London,’ Anastasiya said.
Cocking his head to one side Nick saw her for the first time, standing by the desk; mid-thirties, smartly dressed, neat blonde hair that seemed yellow in the light, large dark glasses and her arms folded across her chest, as though she could not get warm. She reminded Nick of an academic, someone who takes study seriously and he bet himself a fiver she was GRU and a trained shrink as well as a killer. Moving his head ever so slightly, Nick could just make out a large close-cropped thug in urban combats, either special forces or one of the permanent staff, a large ring on his middle finger.
‘You are a criminal, a murderer, you killed two military personnel on the highway trying to escape,’ the officer said, his opening bonhomie forgotten. ‘In Russia we treat killers differently, you should realise that.’
‘Is this a military court of law or a civilian one?’ Nick asked, wondering why they’d omitted the one in the Puffa jacket outside Lubov’s door.
A punch whipped into his mouth coming unseen from his right, popping out a loose tooth, opening up his lips once more. Further punches flowed freely and a deep burning pain ran through his calves as someone enthusiastically set about them with a baton. Unable to hold his weight, his knees buckled and he sprawled on his side. From this angle Nick decided his tormentor wielding the baton was also special forces, some of them had that look, young and keen, his bright eyes sunk under thick brows.
‘You should sign the statement, Mr. Torr,’ the officer advised Nick as he was dragged back on his feet, blood dribbling down his chin onto his naked chest. The statement in a final draft was pushed in front of his puffy swollen eyes, his crimes read out in a methodical voice. Nick wearily shaking his head suffered one last blow of frustration, delivered expertly to his damaged rib and he couldn’t help a terrible scream that somehow got passed his bloated tongue before he passed out.
