Undersea Prison

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘You’ve got to give me something soon,’ the interrogator said. ‘Even if it’s something small. Otherwise this is going to be a long and very painful day for you.’

  Durrani stared at the floor ahead, trying to control the shaking that suddenly gripped his body. The heavy clunk came again and he jerked in fearful anticipation as the sound triggered the air pump and the drop in pressure.The pain was immediate and even more intense than it had been previously. Durrani let out a howl as the veins in his neck seemed to swell beyond their physically possible limits. He could feel his eyes bulging in their sockets and heard cracking sounds in his head as if the bone plates that made up his skull were pulling apart. Seconds later another clunk signalled another reverse of pressure and Durrani exhaled massively before breaking into a coughing fit. His nose began to run, but it was blood, not mucus dribbling into his mouth. Durrani could taste it and as the more intense pains subsided he let out a long moan.

  ‘You came from Kabul,’ the voice continued as Durrani’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  Durrani could not see the floor clearly any more - his eyes were out of focus, and he feared for the damage the torture was doing to his body.

  ‘Talk to me, Durrani!’

  Durrani looked up at the window, no longer able to see any figure behind it, and nodded as he muttered something inaudible.

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘I . . . I will talk,’ Durrani said louder.

  ‘Good . . . you know it makes sense . . . Let’s go back a little further, just for a moment. Not too far back. A day or so before you left Kabul for the last time there was an attack on a military helicopter, a British helicopter. It was brought down by a rocket. Everyone on board was killed. You know anything about that helicopter? You know anything about the rocket?’

  Durrani’s breathing increased in anticipation of the next assault on his body, the very thought of which filled him with horror. He wanted very much to say something, to answer the question, but somehow found the strength not to. When the clunk came he tensed so fiercely that he cut the skin against the clamps holding his arms to the chair. Then suddenly another clunk announced the mechanism moving quickly into reverse.

  ‘You don’t ever have to hear that sound again if you don’t want to . . . You’re going to tell me what I want to know in the end. Everyone who sits where you are right now always does. Why go through all that pain, all that damage to your body? Some people have never walked again after leaving this room . . . I’m told it has something to do with bubbles expanding in their lower spine. If that damage goes higher you may lose the use of your arms as well. Is it worth it? Really? Ask yourself if it’s really worth it . . . Do you know about the helicopter that was shot down?’

  Durrani lowered his head and nodded slightly.

  ‘I didn’t quite get that. Was that a yes?’

  Durrani nodded again, this time more emphatically.

  ‘Was it you who shot that helicopter down?’

  Durrani nodded.

  ‘And then you went to the wreckage, didn’t you?’

  Durrani did not move.

  ‘What did you take from the wreckage?’

  Durrani clenched his jaw. The interrogator knew something but not everything. If he did he would have already cut his abdomen open and found the little packet. Durrani had arrived at the point he could not go beyond without shaming himself, without failing.

  ‘I know you took something from the wreckage. What was it, Durrani? What did you find that you were taking to Peshawar?’

  Durrani breathed deeply and tried to prepare himself for the pain that was about to come. He hoped that it would bring death, for that was his only escape now.

  The clunk came, followed by the whirling and sucking of air.The pressure dropped, one of his eardrums burst and his eyes pushed out against his eyelids that were squeezed tightly shut. He let out a high-pitched scream as if the life was being squeezed out of every inch of his body. Then something inside him snapped and what light there was went out.

  Hank Palmerston sat behind the interrogator, both men squinting through the thick glass at Durrani slumped in his chair.

  ‘You went too far, you assholes,’ Hank muttered.

  The technician who had stuck the sensors to Durrani was seated in a corner in front of several life-monitoring devices. ‘He’s not dead,’ he said. ‘He’s just unconscious. ’

  ‘That machine tell you when he’s gonna come out of it and in what condition?’

  ‘He has normal brain and sensory nerve activity at all extremities,’ the technician confirmed. ‘We just took him beyond his pain threshold.’

  Hank shook his head as he got to his feet. ‘Two fuckin’ years you’ve been doing this and you still can’t get it right . . . Now you listen to me,’ he said, leaning heavily over the back of the young Ivy League CIA interrogator who remained sitting in his chair and facing the glass. ‘We know that helicopter was a British intelligence operation carrying a VIP passenger to Bagram. We know this guy shot it down. We know he found something in the wreckage. We know he took it to his boss in Kabul who then sent him into Pakistan with it . . . What we don’t know is what he found in the wreckage, if it was the same thing he was carrying, who he was taking it to or why, or where the hell it is now! But maybe he could help us with a few of those questions, that man sat unconscious in the chair, the one who can’t talk to us ANY FUCKING MORE!!! . . . And now it would seem that we’re not the only people in this place interested in talking to him. When I heard the feds were sending an agent down here I assumed it was to spy on us and the pricks who run this place. If that’s true, which I have every reason to believe it is, then who’s this guy Charon and what’s his interest in Durrani? Is he a fed? If not, who’s he working for? Now you’re probably asking yourself, why should we care anyway? Well, I’ll tell you. This place, and places like it, produce the information that allows our citizens to sleep safely in their beds at night, to go about their normal daily lives, to fill up their gas tanks without worrying if they’ll be able to fill them up next time they get low. But the only threat to places like this, information-providing institutions of national importance, comes not from our enemies but from ourselves. We’re falling apart from the inside, like the Roman Empire. We’re eating our own flesh, coming up with laws and rules we can’t possibly live up to. They might be great and righteous rules, but they’re a thousand years too early. And so it’s up to us to keep this country safe any way we can. And if it means taking on our own people, then so be it. How we do it is to find ways of convincing the doubters to see things our way. Now I’m an intelligence officer. The only weapon I’ve ever used is information. But it’s more powerful than any gun or any bomb. Whatever Durrani knows is worth something, a lot maybe. I want to know what it is - but I can’t get information from UNCONSCIOUS PEOPLE!!! . . . Have I made myself clear?!’

  The interrogator remained motionless as Hank’s voice echoed in the small stone and concrete room. He was intimidated by Hank, his overbearing boss, but arrogant enough to show no reaction to Hank bawling him out.

  Hank left the room.When the door closed the technician looked over at the interrogator like a sixth-former after a scolding from a teacher. ‘He’ll be OK. His signs are rising.’

  ‘Get him to the hospital,’ the interrogator said.‘Then, soon as he’s ready, get him back in here.’

  The interrogator’s voice crackled from a speaker as Mandrick sat listening in his chair behind his desk. He stared thoughtfully up at his vaulted stone ceiling with its damp rusty scars leading from the ends of massive central bolts down to the tops of the walls where they disappeared behind ornate façades erected to hide the unsightly concrete. The CIA were unaware that a listening device had been secreted in their interrogation room. Hank would have been very upset to discover that the tiny transmitter was linked to a receiver in the warden’s office. Mandrick was surprised how easy the bug had been to fit: he’d ordered it online from a commercia
l spyware supplier in Los Angeles and had then taken an installation lesson from a private detective agency in Houston. It had been just as easy to keep it from being discovered since, as warden, he was informed whenever the Agency’s electronic eavesdropping detection unit was due to arrive.

  Mandrick’s reason for planting the device was to help him collect personal insurance against any CIA backlash when the time came for him to pull out of Styx. His eventual departure was always going to be interesting, he realised. He knew far too much about the irregularities of their operation and being a civilian made controlling him complicated. On the other hand, it was the CIA who had originally installed him in the position and that meant they’d also have an exit strategy for him.

  There was no doubt in Mandrick’s mind that the Agency had a plan in place for whenever he might leave. His fear, reality-based or otherwise, was that any such scheme would not be agreeable to him. He wanted to leave on his own terms, which could prove dangerous. He knew as well as the Agency did that if he happened to vanish one day it would go largely unnoticed. For those few who might wonder about where Mandrick might have gone his disappearance could be simply explained. Rumours of the corruption that went on in Styx could be leaked, specifically stories of tax evasion. Since Mandrick was at the helm of Felix Corp’s undersea interests, any mysterious vanishing by him would not be a huge surprise to anyone.

  But his most valuable insurance so far against such an event being engineered by the CIA was the evidence he had accumulated showing the Agency’s use of decompression as a torture. It was a serious violation of the Geneva Convention, for one thing. Still, the Agency could probably get away with the explanation that it was some localised misconduct by Hank Palmerston done without Langley’s knowledge. They would suffer but not long-term. There was a war on and it was not the time to start ripping into the nation’s most important anti-terrorist information gatherers. Therefore it was not the quality of insurance Mandrick was looking for. He needed something big enough to barter for a long-lived amnesty, something he could either offer as exchange for his safe departure when the time came, or use as a deterrent that he could threaten to release if anything suspicious should befall him. It was a dangerous game - but then, that was the business he was in.

  Mandrick unclipped his minicomputer from his belt and plugged it into the mainframe lead. He inserted a new storage card into the minicomputer’s socket and downloaded the recent interrogation conversation onto it. After unplugging the minicomputer and clipping it back onto his belt he saved the original conversation to a file.

  A gentle beep sounded and he looked at the control panel to see a small red light blinking. It was the secure landline and, knowing who it was, he picked up the receiver. ‘My office is empty,’ Mandrick said.

  ‘So’s mine,’ a voice replied. It was Forbes. ‘I don’t think our problem has gone away.’ Forbes sounded edgy. ‘Frankly, I’m concerned . . . Can you hear me OK?’

  Mandrick was tired of what he considered to be Forbes’s ever-increasing spinelessness. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘We may have taken this train as far as it’s going to go. I’m getting hints of building pressure within the House. Several Representatives have sent me enquiries. Felix executives have reported probes into their assets, which has to be the work of the FBI. It doesn’t look good.This thing could explode any time.You may have to start making preparations.’

  Mandrick sighed to himself. Wasn’t the FBI undercover agent clue enough? ‘I understand,’ he said, allowing Forbes to maintain the illusion that he was in control of everything.

  Mandrick found it bizarre how the man did not understand that when jumping from a sinking ship it was a case of every man for himself. Forbes always sounded as if the dissolution of Styx was going to be an orderly evacuation with some kind of convivial reunion afterwards where all the players met for drinks and canapés. He wanted to suggest to the congressman that he should not only be concentrating on his own escape but also how he was going to stay escaped. But if the man was unable to see the obvious dangers then no amount of advice Mandrick might offer would be of help. Not that Mandrick gave a damn about his boss anyway.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ Forbes asked after Mandrick’s long spell of silence. ‘You don’t sound concerned.’

  ‘We knew it was going to end one day.’

  ‘But not like this. Not now. Of course we considered it. I have my contingency plans. But we never really believed it would happen so soon - at least, I didn’t. I don’t think you did either, did you?’

  ‘It’s always wise to be prepared.’

  ‘Then you’re saying you’re ready to go ahead?’

  ‘Not entirely. I will be when the time comes.’

  ‘I’m asking you if you’re prepared to carry out the doomsday phase, God damn it - as we discussed?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mandrick wanted to add that it was a most essential phase of his own plan of escape but he refrained. It was evident the senator could not be trusted and was more than capable of offering Mandrick up to save himself. Come to think of it, that would make good sense on his part.

  Mandrick suddenly felt uneasy as the notion took root. It was immediately followed by a tinge of panic as he feared he was falling behind and that Forbes was actually setting him up. He suddenly wondered if he should be making his move sooner than he’d thought.

  ‘Minimum risk to crew and inmates. I think that’s essential. It’s the ramifications of our actions that will be our undoing.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mandrick said. Inwardly he was in complete disagreement, wondering if Forbes was just being smart.

  ‘You must see that if we cover our tracks as best we can then there will be less interest in pursuing us.’

  ‘I understand,’ Mandrick said, deciding that if Forbes was not subtly trying to entrap him then the man was sounding like an idiot.

  ‘As long as you do . . . Fine, then. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear anything else. Do nothing without my say-so. Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course.’ That was it, Mandrick decided. As far as his suspicions were concerned that last instruction gave Forbes’s game plan away. Forbes was trying to control the final stage of the abandonment of Styx, the doomsday phase, which included both their escapes. Mandrick reasoned that if he was wrong and had misjudged Forbes it did not matter. He could not afford to take the risk and had to stay a step ahead of his boss.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ Forbes said and the phone went dead.

  Mandrick replaced the receiver. The feeling of independence he had once enjoyed while in Styx had turned into one of isolation. The lines of control from the shore had stretched to breaking point as his ship headed towards the void. Mandrick had to scuttle it while he still could.

  Since it was now unlikely that he would obtain any kind of insurance against the CIA he would have to fall back on his original plan - which was to devise a scenario that provided substantial evidence of his death without his body having to be found. That was not impossible. It would all depend on the execution of his plan.

  As Mandrick got to his feet the door buzzer sounded and he looked at the monitor to see Christine standing outside. She appeared relaxed and confident as usual but as he studied her, zooming the camera in on her face, examining her extraordinary natural beauty, he thought he could detect a trace of tension in her body language.

  He checked his watch. Dinner wasn’t for a couple more hours. She was early. An enigma, he mused. His gut feeling told him that she was as much a prison inspector as the pope was. She’d been the first person to talk to Charon when he came around. Charon was a damned spy for someone. The place was probably crawling with spies. But he could care less now. It was time to pull the plug on the operation - an apt way of putting it, he reckoned.

  Mandrick considered sending her away but decided that he couldn’t. If she was a spy then the blossoming romance between them was an act on her part. She was planning on leaving that evening but he
couldn’t go with her now. Their ‘affair’ would end this night. She was here for something, to give or to take. Perhaps it was to give first and take later. Having his way with her for half an hour or so would not cripple his plan. The thought amused him. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders, desperate to finalise a strategy for his own survival and yet here he was pausing to consider a piece of ass. What a maverick he was. It gave him a feeling of masterfulness, of superiority. He was a true buccaneer, a mercenary to the core, a rebel and adventurer. What could be more heroic than to take a break at such a crucial juncture for a romantic interlude?

  He hit the button beside the intercom and as the door hissed, clunked and opened he stepped from behind his desk and into the centre of the room.

  Chapter 13

  Hamlin, followed by Stratton and a guard, led the way down a narrow, sloping, dimly lit corridor. The mould and fungus common to Styx had taken a particularly firm grip of this section of the prison. Dripping lengths hung from rusting ceiling girders and intertwined between the conduit and cables that followed the contours of the walls. Hamlin slipped on a patch of slimy plankton and Stratton only just managed to grab him before he fell on his backside.

  ‘Thanks,’ Hamlin said, taking a moment to recover and catch his breath. ‘This road is long overdue for a clean-up, Jed.’

  ‘You know we don’t have enough inmates to maintain the whole place,’ the guard replied.

  ‘I don’t see why we can’t use the Buttfucks,’ Hamlin said, taking a grimy cloth from his pocket and wiping the sweat from his face and neck.

  ‘I don’t make the rules,’ the guard said, loosening his jacket. Sweat stains were clearly visible on it around his chest and armpits.

  ‘If you got rid of these damned plants you could reduce the humidity down here,’ Hamlin argued.

  ‘And then you guys’d complain about the disinfectant.’

  ‘It ain’t disinfectant, Jed, it’s industrial-strength weed-killer, ’ Hamlin sighed, as if he had complained about it a hundred times.‘Like we ain’t got enough health hazards down here we gotta soak up that shit.’