by Sean Black
Mareta stopped pacing the cell and approached Lock. She held the point of the knife about a foot from his right eye – not close enough for him to take it from her. ‘And say I don’t believe you.’
Lock did his best not to blink. He knew that arguing would make him seem even more suspicious. ‘Not much I can do about that.’
She kept the tip of the blade where it was. ‘They tried this once before. In Moscow. They put me in a cell with another woman. I made sure she would never have children. And that time, I had no knife.’
‘You were captured?’
‘Twice. Twice I escaped.’
Lock glanced at the knife, then shifted his gaze back to Mareta. ‘So if you think I’m a spy, why haven’t you killed me already?’
‘Getting information from someone can go two ways. I have learned more from my interrogators over the years than they ever learned from me.’
‘No shit.’
‘Please don’t use such words.’
Lock made a mental note.Likes: public decapitation. Dislikes: Inappropriate language.
‘Maybe I make sure you won’t be able to make any children either.’
She moved the knife slowly down from his face, letting it come to rest level with his crotch.
Fifty-four
Lock sat on the floor with his back against the cell wall. All he was missing to complete the Steve McQueen look was a baseball.
‘So, what do you think we should call the kids?’
Mareta, who was on the bed, pointed the knife in the direction of his face again. ‘You talk too much.’
‘Just trying to pass the time.’
‘You should be thinking of how we get out of here.’
‘I thought you’d have that covered.’
She looked straight at him. ‘And why would that be?’
Damn. Nothing Lock had said since he’d entered the cell had in any way suggested that he knew her by reputation, and that was too close. ‘You said you’d escaped twice after being captured, didn’t you?’ he countered, thinking quickly.
She sneered, swung her legs over the edge of the bed frame. Jabbed the point of the knife gently against his arm, like a housewife checking the chicken to see if the juices are running clear. ‘You’re not a journalist,’ she said.
‘And why do you say that?’
‘I’ve met many of them.’
Lock flashed back to another story that Mareta had reputedly featured heavily in. Six pro-Kremlin reporters dispatched from Moscow to show how well the war effort was going in Chechnya. The first head arrived back in their Moscow office in a large brown box a week later. A day later, a second head. Within the week all the heads had been returned. Then the hands started to arrive. That took two weeks. In all, it was a three-month process. A constant drip of gruesome detail. Only their hearts didn’t make it back. Presumably they left them in Chechnya.
‘Most journalists are fat,’ Mareta continued. ‘From sitting on their backsides and sticking their noses in the government trough.’
‘Not here they ain’t, lady,’ Lock said. ‘We have freedom of the press.’
‘So does Russia. They’re free to say or write whatever they like. But somehow what they write is what the people who pay them want to hear. Big coincidence.’ She kept staring at him. ‘So, who are you?’
She didn’t look like she was about to give up this line of questioning any time soon.
‘I told you already.’
‘You mean you lied already.’
‘Listen, if we’re going to get out of here in one piece, we’re going to have to trust each other.’
‘Trust requires honesty.’
Lock conceded that point. He was about to break the primary rule of capture: pick a cover story and stick to it. But this wasn’t a regular situation. For one thing, Brand wouldn’t hesitate to break his cover, especially if he thought it would get him killed.
He examined Mareta. In a straight fight it would be no contest, despite her reputation. But she had the knife. Guys who watched the Ultimate Fighting Championship might talk about knife ‘fighting’, but in reality there was no such thing. There was only getting stabbed. Quickly followed by bleeding to death.
‘OK, you’re right,’ he said.
She listened calmly as he told her about working for Meditech and filled in the details leading up to his being taken prisoner at the facility. She said nothing, remained resolutely expressionless, only occasionally stopping him to seek clarification of a word or phrase she didn’t understand. The only time she reacted to Lock’s story was when he mentioned the animal rights activists and their cause. The very idea seemed absurd to her. Lock understood her scepticism. For someone who’d witnessed and enacted the slaughter of human beings, it must have seemed a foreign concept. He considered repeating the Gandhi quote that Janice had fired at him from her hospital bed, but thought better of it.
He finished, and waited for Mareta to say something. Silence filled the space between them. Normally he would have been content with that, but what was needed now was rapport. Storytelling was about as good a way to establish that as he knew.
‘So, what about you? Why are you here?’
‘You already know who I am,’ Mareta replied.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘But you don’t seem scared.’
‘Should I be?’
‘Everyone’s afraid of ghosts.’
Lock mulled it over. ‘Maybe I’m different.’
Mareta studied the walls of the cell, equally reflective. ‘That’s true,’ she replied. ‘You’re still alive. And if you want to stay that way you might want to think about how we can get out of here.’
Fifty-five
Lock was the first to hear the door being opened at the far end of the corridor. He waved Mareta to her feet. They flattened themselves either side of the cell door as two sets of footsteps made their approach, accompanied by the rattle of a metal trolley. There was more clanking of metal, followed by a man shouting something in a language that Lock didn’t understand.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘He’s asking who else is here.’
Mareta pressed her face to the cell door and shouted something back. Lock picked out that it was her name. In her own language it sounded more guttural, and laden with threat.
‘Proper little reunion you got going on,’ Lock noted.
Mareta shouted something else, this time maybe in Chechen. He could hear the man laugh at whatever it was she’d said.
‘What did you just say?’
‘I told him that we would wash in the blood of our captors.’
‘No wonder we don’t get any Chechen stand-ups playing the clubs here. Why don’t you try asking him how many of you there are?’
She shouted something else, and the man roared a reply.
‘Ten. Maybe more.’
‘What’s happening now?’
Mareta pressed her face to the access panel at the bottom of the door. Lock grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back. She glared at him.
‘Get too close and they might open that thing and give you a good dose of mace,’ he warned.
Another shouted exchange.
‘It’s feeding time,’ Mareta told Lock.
Sure enough, a few moments later the flap opened and a tray was shoved inside – metal, so it would be difficult to break to form a weapon. Filling the tray’s ridged compartments was what Lock imagined to be standard-issue prison food. Two slices of bread. Orange juice. Some kind of a stew with rice. A square of low-grade cooking chocolate, and a banana. Not bad. Better than economy in most airlines he’d flown.
He took a slice of bread, handed the other one to Mareta.
She pushed it away, wrinkling her nose. ‘You eat first.’
He was guessing this wasn’t a sign of hospitality on her part. ‘You’re not hungry?’
‘I don’t know what’s in it.’
‘So if it’s rat poison you’d like me to find out fi
rst?’
‘Exactly,’ she said.
Lock put the bread back down on the tray.
‘You don’t think about these things,’ Mareta observed with a sneer.
She was right. Lock hadn’t.
She picked the bread back off the tray, tore off a hunk and handed it to Lock. ‘They didn’t bring me here to poison me. But there could be something in it to make us sleep.’
‘So why do you still want me to taste it?’
‘You’ll see.’
Lock took the bread and popped it in his mouth. As he chewed tentatively, it turned sweet in his mouth. He swallowed. Took a tiny sip of orange juice to wash it down. It tasted funky. He poured the rest of the juice into the tray compartment. A gritty residue floated at the bottom. He swirled it round with one finger.
‘They could at least have sprung for some Rohypnol. Least that dissolves.’
He sat on the floor, his head resting against the cold concrete.
‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ Lock asked her, the question designed to kickstart some more conversation and stave off the frustration that he could feel creeping into his bones.
‘You’re not interested.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. I mean, I’m presuming you weren’t born an evil bitch who thinks it’s acceptable to brutally slaughter civilians.’
‘You want to know why I cut the head off Anya Versokovich?’
Lock shrugged.
‘I did it because . . . she was there.’
Lock was feeling tired, more likely as a result of the hectic week he’d had and the after-effects of repeated adrenalin dumps than anything surging through his bloodstream from the tiny sip of juice. ‘That’s it? That’s your big reason for beheading the Bolshoi’s prima ballerina?’
‘It’s the same reason the Russians gave me.’
‘Gave you for what?’
‘What they did to me. You want me to tell you?’
Lock laid his head back against the wall of the cell and closed his eyes. ‘Sure.’
‘You know of my dead husband?’
‘I know of his reputation.’
‘I was bathing my two children when they came. My son was four. My daughter was three. When the commander of the Russians couldn’t find my husband, he left two of his soldiers in the room with us. He didn’t want anyone to say later that he was there.’
With a grim predictability, Mareta went on. Lock kept his eyes shut. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be looking at her as she finished her story.
‘While one of the soldiers raped me, the other put a knife to my children’s throat. Forced them to watch. When the first man was finished, the other took his turn. Then they tied my hands behind my back and made me watch. They drowned my son first. And then his sister. Afterwards, I was taken downstairs to speak to the commander. My husband had killed Russians, but what had I done? So I asked him, “Why did you do this?” And he told me, “Because you were here.”’
Lock opened his eyes. Mareta’s face was set. Expressionless. Only her eyes betrayed any feeling. His voice broke a little as he spoke. ‘What happened after that?’
‘They left me, but I followed.’
‘You killed them?’
‘Every last one.’
‘So where does it end, Mareta?’
‘It doesn’t.’
‘You know there’s no way out this time.’
‘There’s always a way out,’ she said, staring off into the middle distance.
‘Always?’
‘Death is a way out.’
‘True, but what I don’t understand is how come you were always the only one to make it out before?’
‘It’s simple. The harder someone looks, the less they see.’
More riddles. ‘And what does that mean?’
‘When they look high, I stay low. They look low, I stay high.’
‘You want to try it in English?’
The same wafer of a smile. ‘You’ll work it out.’
Fifty-six
‘Why don’t we just roll a grenade in there, frag the whole lot and let God do the sorting?’ Brand asked.
Stafford rounded on him. ‘Because twelve’s the clinical minimum for Phase One.’
‘So we find one other person,’ Brand countered.
‘And where do you suggest we do that, Colonel? Craigslist?’ Stafford pointed a finger at the blank screen. ‘Take me down there. I’ll talk to them.’
Brand snorted. ‘She doesn’t speak English, and there’s no way Lock’s dumb enough to walk out of there with us waiting for him. Don’t have time to starve them out either.’
‘Then we’ll find some other way.’
Brand shrugged as Stafford marched out of the control room. ‘Can’t wait to see that.’
‘Bring your weapon with you,’ Stafford called back as he strode ahead.
‘Firearms aren’t allowed in the accommodation block,’ Brand reminded him, grabbing his Glock and following him down the corridor.
‘Make an exception.’
‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘They have a knife. You said so yourself.’
‘And what if they get hold of a gun?’
‘It won’t come to that.’
A few minutes later they arrived at the door of Mareta’s cell. Brand stood one side of the door, Stafford on the other.
‘Give me your weapon,’ Stafford said.
Brand unholstered the Glock, pulled back the slide to chamber a round, and handed it, handle first, to Stafford.
‘You’re not going in there, are you?’
‘No,’ said Stafford, taking the Glock and pointing it at his head of security. ‘You are.’
Brand kept cool. ‘You don’t have it in you.’
‘Had it in me when I killed Stokes,’ Stafford said. ‘That was different. Everything was set up for you. All you had to do was pull the trigger.’
The pad of Stafford’s index finger bulged as he applied pressure to the trigger. ‘Which makes it different how?’
Brand raised his hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK.’
‘Look at it this way,’ said Stafford. ‘You were always telling me how Lock was a grandstander and you were the real deal. Now’s your chance to prove it.’
Fifty-seven
‘You OK?’
Carrie hadn’t even noticed Gail Reindl getting into the elevator.
‘Fine. Why?’
‘Your hands are shaking.’
Carrie faked a smile. ‘Over-caffeinated.’
Gail seemed to search Carrie’s face. ‘Sure that’s all?’
‘Some jerk in a Hummer ran a stop sign when I was crossing the street. Almost took me out. Shook me up a little. I’ll be fine in a second.’
Gail made a whaddaya gonna do, this city’s crazy face. The doors opened and she stepped out, much to Carrie’s relief.
What else was she going to say? That it was a Hummer just like the one that had run down Gray Stokes’ wife, except this one had been black rather than red. That she didn’t think it was an accident. That someone was trying to kill her. That just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Ever since the movie Network got a release, complete with barking mad anchorman, the one surefire way to get canned as an anchor was to show any sign of mental instability. And Carrie hadn’t even made it there yet. No, if she was going to talk to anyone, it’d be Lock.
Carrie stopped at the water cooler. One of the producers was there filling his coffee mug.
‘You got a guest,’ he said, nodding towards her desk.
The first thing Carrie saw was the wheelchair, then Janice Stokes. Before she could censor her next thought it had already flashed into her mind.She looks like death.
Carrie sat down, shifting her chair so she was side on to Janice.
‘They’ve arrested my brother.’
‘What’s the charge?’
‘Aiding in the abduction
of a minor. Lock promised us that if we helped him he’d keep us out of this. Don wouldn’t cope with being in jail.’
‘Did he do it?’
‘No. And I need to get him out of Rikers before something bad happens to him.’
‘Wouldn’t you be better off talking to a lawyer?’
‘I already did.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘That I’d have to wait until it comes to trial.’
‘Your brother could ask to be placed in protective custody.’
‘Which would make him look even more guilty.’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to seem unkind, but what do you think I can do?’
‘I thought you might know where Ryan Lock is, for a start. I’ve tried calling him, but his cell’s switched off. Can’t get hold of his buddy Ty either.’
Carrie believed her. She’d called Lock straight after the incident with the Hummer and left a voicemail. ‘It’s not unusual for Lock to go off the radar. Believe me, I know.’
Janice paused, like she was making a decision. Then she reached down the side of her chair and pulled out a manila envelope. ‘Some friends helped me sort through my parents’ stuff. I couldn’t face it until yesterday.’ She handed the envelope to Carrie. ‘Ryan asked if my dad had something on Meditech. You know, to make them change their mind about animal testing.’
Carrie put her hand in the envelope and came out with a single sheet of paper. Printed at the top was a web link: www.uploader.tv/Meditech.
Fifty-eight
The food tray lay empty by the door, Mareta next to it, curled up in a fetal position. Knees hugged to the chest, eyes closed. Her right hand tucked under her body to conceal the knife.
Lock lay next to her, similarly stricken. His legs were stretched out so that one of them was almost touching the door. That way, even if he did doze off, he’d know when someone walked in.
It had been deathly quiet for the past hour. Then there were footsteps in the corridor directly outside. A single person, moving slowly, betrayed only by the acoustics, which seemed designed to betray the slightest sound.