Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  That was Lewin’s descent into hell. It was a rapid fall, and climbing out of that pit of despair was a long, painful, weary climb.

  From that moment, there were more pictures of the men he had already questioned. The interrogations of men who had been deprived of sleep, who had been forced to stand in stress positions, who had been beaten, and who had been threatened with death, now began to be reviewed by Lewin, and he did not like the conclusions he was reaching. Where in the past he had routinely assumed that his comrades were naturally telling the truth, now he questioned that. In almost all cases, they did believe that they were doing the best job they could in order to stop the terrorism, but now Lewin felt certain that the men they were bringing in were the wrong ones. As he analysed the data on his own victims, he began to see patterns. All those who were brought in tended to have been named by others who had already been interrogated, usually harshly. The expansion of intimidation in interrogations had brought about the natural result: those who were scared for their lives gave whatever information they thought would help save them, no matter whether it was true or not.

  The whole system was based on a military view of administration. There were men there who had committed crimes: troops found someone nearby, therefore he was involved. Mere proximity implied guilt. The ‘criminal’ was questioned to learn what he knew, whom he knew, and those named were also captured and questioned. If a man denied having anything to do with the incident, it could only mean that the questioning was not harsh enough. In a results-driven organisation, that meant increasing the pressure on the victims fast. The data itself was not validated – it was the quantity that mattered.

  It was a nervous breakdown, of course. That was what Jack had seen when he met Lewin all those weeks later, not that it helped: Lewin was desperate and needed both mental therapy and physical support. But then, although he was given some counselling, the Service set him loose.

  He flicked through the pages and saw that Lewin’s mind was starting to grow ever more irrational. He suffered from mood-swings, and the pages were alternating from pencil to biro, to fountain pen many times in each day. Pictures of the men he had questioned – except he now explicitly used the word ‘torture’ – appeared more and more often. On one page, he had drawn eight faces in squares, each more gaunt than the next, and the last was more like Munch’s The Scream than a real human. Jack almost turned the page before he realised that this was Lewin himself, the torturer displaying his anguish at what he had done.

  The journal told of his journey into self-loathing. He lost his position, and he wrote about moving to Manchester where he hoped to lose himself in the thousands who thronged the city streets. But there he was confronted by others who, he thought, looked at him as though they knew what he had done. Paranoia became an ever stronger element of his make up and, as Jack read on, he winced to learn of Lewin’s increasing terror. The man should have been sectioned and helped, not arrested for trying to buy a gun to protect himself.

  He read on, and saw a reference to Alaska. It made him pause, and he reread it carefully. There was a mention of a place with space, away from other people, somewhere he could feel safe. Someone had told him of this place, a man Lewin referred to as Brain, whom he knew from his time in the army, and he had come here, to Whittier. Jack wondered who this friend could be. It was an odd name for a soldier, but then soldiers would often give each other nicknames. They were rarely challenging: the short called ‘Lofty’, the chubby ‘Slim’. Brain was probably a soldier known for foolishness. Although it was possible he was just good at crosswords.

  But why here, to Whittier? There was little explanation of that, but Jack reckoned he could understand his motives. Leaving England would have felt like leaving prison in his state. Coming to Alaska would mean arriving in a wild, free land, different from all that he was used to, and perhaps, Jack thought, closing the book, because it was cold. It could not be more different from the country in which Lewin had been questioning prisoners.

  There was mention of his talks with Jack himself, and Jack skipped that. There was a mention of a meeting with Karen Skoyles, too, discussing interrogations, but as Jack turned the pages he found a piece that really made him pause.

  It was a new section: ‘I think I can take part again. Brain says now it’ll be with genuine suspects. No more hurting the innocent in the hope that I catch the right one: this time, the murderers will be brought to me for full interrogation. As long as it takes, he says.’

  Jack stopped. He read back a few pages, and saw that there was a subtle change in the writing on the three previous pages. They started with his arrest in Manchester for trying to acquire a gun to protect himself, and soon after, taking a flight to Anchorage, and finding his way here, to Whittier. And here, he suddenly appeared to be more enthusiastic and motivated. Something had changed.

  ‘To learn that it can all be arranged right at last. Thank God Roger suggested I should come.’

  There were several more pages filled with similar hopeful, happy comments.

  ‘The unit can improve. There can be justifiable interrogations. We can get intel, good intel, from people like this. I’d be glad to help them.’

  In the last pages, there were some more hopeful comments, but then the tone changed again. Instead a note of tension intruded, a fresh despair.

  ‘No. I told them, but they didn’t listen. Now they say that it’s all wrong again. That I’m wrong. But I remember him! It can’t have been him.’

  There were some lines Jack could hardly read, and then a scrawl in pencil.

  ‘This is worse than Abu Ghraib.’

  *

  21.32 Whittier; 06.32 London

  Those words stayed with Jack as he sat in the restaurant that evening, reading and rereading the journal.

  To say that things were worse than at Abu Ghraib was weird. The Abu Ghraib prison had been notorious for the abuse of prisoners: for water-boarding, humiliation, beatings, and mental torture. It read so oddly, to see the way that the blue pen had gradually taken over, as though Lewin had seen some new hope through the prism of his misery. Something had breathed new life into him. And then Jack found the name: Roger Sumner.

  The name was one that rang a bell loudly. Jack set the book aside and cleared his mind as he tried to isolate that name from the hundreds in his mind. Sumner. It sounded like someone he’d known. In the Service? No. But military, he was sure. An officer, too. A Captain.

  That was it! Captain Roger Sumner, from Military Intelligence, who’d been in Ireland at the back end of the Troubles. Jack had met him a few times at inter-agency briefings, usually regarding Irish terrorists trying to buy guns from Eastern European dealers. Jack had a tab on two arms suppliers, and had passed on information. Sumner had been a bright, calm, quiet man, who listened carefully and spoke little. He was keener on keeping secrets than sharing, and when he was forced to give information, it was plain how difficult he found it.

  Jack went through the journal a few more times, but could deduce nothing more. The only thing that did interest him still, and which he could make little sense of, was a list of names at the back of the book.

  There were thirty or more, and each had a cross alongside. One name rang a chord in his memory, a man called Abu Fazul Abdullah. It was there, somewhere, close to the front of his mind, but he couldn’t quite bring up the relevance. Abu Fazul Abdullah… The name was familiar.

  He looked further down the list. There were another fifteen or so, none of which meant anything to him – names like Faisal, al Malik, Abdul-Gaffar, Rasmi, Labeeb… There was no leader of the Taliban or al-Qaeda that he knew of. The letters made no sense to him. If only they were Russian, he told himself with a weary grin. Then at least he may have understood them, perhaps remembered one or two.

  He would check on the internet to see if he could make any sense of all the names when he returned to Anchorage.

  And then, he would go back home. There was nothing for him here.

  *r />
  13.12 London

  Sara al Malik snatched up the telephone as soon as it rang.

  ‘Yes?’

  It was Lomax.

  ‘Sara, I’m getting nowhere with the Met. They deny all knowledge. I’ve been all the way to the Commissioner’s office, and no one is giving me anything more than a polite brush off. They even suggested he ran. They’ve found his tag, apparently, somewhere off the M25 near the A3 junction. I’ve already asked how his tag could have got there without them noticing, but they don’t know. Said something about a fault with the signal: they say that they were still getting the message that he was at home. The main thing is, they deny absolutely any knowledge of his arrest. No one can tell me anything at all!’

  Sara’s stomach seemed to fall from her body. She was empty, a mere shell with nothing inside her. There was a chair beside the telephone, and she took it now, clutching hold of the arm as though it was an anchor to life as she asked desperately, ’Do you believe them?’

  Lomax had been a student agitator at university, and more recently fought cases on behalf of asylum seekers, squatters and union activists. He never trusted what the police told him. ’No. I think they either have him themselves, or they’ve helped another country take him. Rendition by other means.’

  Sara grabbed for a chair’s back. Her legs suddenly weak, she fell into it. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘What we threatened, Sara. We need publicity to get Mo back. If you feel strong enough, I propose to get all the media coverage I can. I have a friend in advertising, and he’s already promised that he will give me all the relevant contacts. We will have the BBC, independents, Sky and God knows who else jumping onto this. There is no excuse for daylight kidnap, no matter what they felt the justification.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘We tried that before. It did nothing, did it?’

  Even to her, her voice sounded small and far-away. The idea that she should have cameras, journalists, and the whole paraphernalia of a modern media storm outside her house again– men and women thrusting microphones at her, demanding answers – was deeply alarming But if this was the only way to find out what had happened to Mo, it was worth it. Surely it was worth it.

  ‘Sara? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is a big step, Sara. But Sara, I can’t leave Mo to rot in some cell. He’s a friend. Are you strong enough for this?’

  ‘I want him back. Yes, I can do it. But… it scares me.’

  ‘I’ll be there with you, Sara. I’ll be there with you,’ he promised, and then the line died.

  And just afterwards, she heard a small, faint click. At first it meant nothing, but then, she suddenly frowned and stared at her receiver with horror.

  She had been bugged.

  *

  09.24 Whittier; 18.24 London

  Next morning was crisp, but not too cold. Jack pulled on a thick leather jacket, and shoved the journal inside a larger inner pocket for safety, before setting off to find Chief Burns.

  The police station was south of the tower in Kenai Street: a low, flat-roofed building, with a glass front and two steps leading up to the main room. There were two Ford Expedition four-wheel drives outside with lights and marked ‘Police’, with scenes of mountains behind the lettering. It made it look like a ski-school’s vehicle more than a cop’s, Jack thought as he went up the steps.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ Chief Burns said, as he walked in through the door. ‘Take a seat. Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack said, and took the warm mug gratefully.

  ‘Cream? Sugar?’ Chief Burns asked, and appeared disappointed when Jack rejected them. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Whatever it was you were looking for at the pine.’

  ‘It was a good view. I can see why Mr Lewin would have wanted to go there,’ Jack said.

  ‘Oh. Sure.’

  Chief Burns led Jack from the main room into a small office. There was a plate glass window from here looking into the main room. The other side looked out towards the Begich Building. Chief Burns sat at his plain, steel framed desk with a light wood top, and motioned to Jack to take a seat in front.

  ‘We only have two guys working through the winter months,’ he said, seeing Jack’s eyes watching the large space. ‘Whittier only has about two hundred people here during winter. But in the summer, when the sports fishermen come, and the walkers and the folks wanting to see the glaciers, then I have more guys hired. We need the space then.’

  He had a small box, the size of a shoebox, on the desk, and now he leaned forward and pushed it towards Jack.

  ‘There you go. All his valuables. All I could see, anyways.’

  Jack took the box with a certain reluctance. There was a feeling of trespassing on a man’s misery in opening this. Lewin had done his best for the country, and was then ditched. When he was anxious, he began to learn how insular the Service could be. When he started to lose his faith and became a disbeliever, he was thrown aside. Much as Jack himself had been.

  ‘You want some peace?’ Chief Burns asked. ‘Look, take it with you, eh? There’s nothing you have to leave with me. You have power of attorney, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, I’ll need a receipt, then, and you can take it away.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Jack said and took the paper Chief Burns passed to him, glancing down the sheet.

  Opening the lid to confirm the contents, the first item he found was a box. Inside he found the pistol.

  ‘Is that the one?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s empty, don’t worry. I put it back there myself.’

  ‘Don’t think the police at Heathrow will let me bring that back,’ he said, picking it up.

  It was a heavy gun, a Ruger GP100, weighing at least three and a half pounds in his hand. All stainless satin steel, it was not as violently shiny as a nickel-plated gun, and had a more utilitarian appearance with its short, stubby barrel. He pushed the cylinder latch with his thumb and looked at the six chambers. All empty. There was no blood on the metalwork or the soft, black rubber grips with wood inserts.

  ‘I had it cleaned soon as the case was closed. Didn’t want some member of the family coming here and finding it covered in his brains.’ The chief eyed Jack for a moment. ‘There are fifty or sixty rounds with it.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘You can take them,’ the chief said, as he opened a drawer and pulled out two boxes. They were green, with a golden cross. ‘Here you are. Full metal jackets – unlike the bullet he used on himself.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jack said, taking the boxes.

  One was heavy, full, but the other was almost empty. He opened it and pulled out a round, glancing at it. The brass casing was shiny and new, the copper bullet gleamed.

  ‘He came a long way to buy that gun,’ the chief observed. ‘Then blew himself away. You won’t do anything like that, eh?’

  ‘No. I have no desire to kill myself,’ Jack said.

  ‘Good. Wouldn’t want anything like that to happen to you,’ the police chief said, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Jack over the rim of his mug. ‘So, you have all you need?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Jack said. ‘The case is sad, but I can wind up Mr Lewin’s affairs now I can confirm his death. It’ll make the probate process more straightforward.’

  ‘Good. So long as that’s all. You sure there’s nothing more you would like to tell me?’

  Jack looked into Chief Burns’ shrewd eyes. ‘I don’t know anything you’d want to know.’

  ‘I see. Right, well there’s one last thing. Look in the bottom of the gun box.’

  Jack lifted the box. It was a simple cardboard box with the Sturm & Ruger sign on the outside. Peering in, he saw that there was a roll inside. It looked like a roll of banknotes in a plastic bag. He tipped the box and the wrap fell into his hand.

  ‘So, Mr Hansen, what do you reckon to that lot?’

  Jack unwrapped t
he plastic bag and pulled out the roll. It was a series of newspaper cuttings all held together by a rubber band. He took the band off and began to flick through the cuttings. They were all stories from different newspapers: some print outs from a paper’s website, the BBC, New York Times, CNN, and Fox News. Some were deaths of terrorists, others were stories of men and women killed in attacks against presumed terrorist bases. There were photos of the dead men, of buildings blown to pieces, and over all were notes in the ragged, angry pencil that Jack had seen in the journal. ‘The WRONG one!’, ‘He was in Abu Ghraib’, ‘He was supposed to be released’, and ‘INNOCENT’ were scrawled over them. Jack looked at them, and shrugged.

  ‘I have no idea. Perhaps he was conducting some research.’ As he spoke, he felt a sharp, electric excitement pass through his belly. The names he read were the same as those in the back of the journal. There was Rasmi, al Malik, Abdul-Gaffar, Abu Fazul Abdullah …

  ‘You think so?’ Chief Burns leaned forward. ‘Mr Hansen, I honestly don’t know too much about this and, to be honest, I don’t think I want to. But I do think something smells real bad about this. First him dying, then these cuttings and his cabin. I don’t like this sort of shit. I think I’ll be glad when you’re gone. You understand me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack said, rolling the cuttings back together. He dropped them back into the Ruger box.

  ‘Right. That’s it, then. Good to meet you, Mr Hansen.’

  He stood, and Jack rose at the same time to shake hands. And that was when the world seemed to boil about him.

  There was a flash. The floor rose and rippled in front of him; the ceiling lifted, and he felt his body being flung forwards towards the chief. His knee hit the table, even as he curled his body into a ball, covering his head with his hands, and then he was past the desk and rolling over the floor the other side with Chief Burns in front of him. There was a rattle and clatter of concrete and metal and shards of glass all about him, and then Jack knew nothing more.