by Steve Richer
“Get me out of here!” Preston screamed at the solid metal door.
The place he was in was much worse than a cell, it was a dungeon. The walls were made of uneven, sweating stones. The floor was a slab of dirty concrete and it was rough against his naked skin. There was movement in the opposite corner and when he combined the motion with the faint squealing sound he realized he was sharing the space with a rat.
In spite of the overwhelming heat outside, the cell was cold and damp. The air had the distinctive stench of mold and feces and at first Preston had to control himself not to gag.
He focused on the pleasant smell of hot bread, of fresh cookies. It was a question of mind over matter; the brain could be tricked into smelling anything you imagined. The trick wasn’t working today.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to make out a few modern improvements on the faithful dungeon design. There was a light bulb, currently off, on the ceiling, resting inside a metallic cage.
Next to it, Preston could see an air vent which was too small for him to escape through and, besides, it was too high to even reach. Then he understood; they were pouring air-conditioning into the room to make it colder.
Since he was soaking wet, the effect was achieved in spades. He was on the brink of hypothermia. He tried controlling his breathing and used his hands to rub his limbs, getting his circulation going. It wasn’t working today either. He was only marginally happy that his body didn’t sport any new scars yet.
“’The fuck is going on?”
It had been 10 years since he’d gone through interrogation training at Fort Bragg and he knew the rules. If you ever get kidnapped, don’t be antagonistic, speak the local language if you know it, appeal to your jailer’s common sense, and don’t get caught in a lie.
Try to escape.
Yet, there was a difference between knowing the rules and applying them. He wasn’t in the military anymore. He was on his own.
After what seemed like hours – with no wristwatch or window it was impossible to tell – the sound of footsteps approached his cell. Keys jingled and the door swiftly creaked open. Two soldiers in the typical Katoga Army sloppy uniform entered and looked down at him.
Preston braced himself for the worst but otherwise didn’t fight them. He couldn’t take the chance even if he managed to knock them both out. He didn’t know what was waiting outside the dungeon, how the building was laid out. He had to have more information before trying to break out.
The guards lifted him up, shackled his hands and feet, and then blindfolded him again.
They marched him out. Preston counted 22 paces before they stopped. He heard a gate being opened and he was led through it. Another 17 paces and then he entered a room to the right. They sat him down in a metal chair with no armrests and he felt one of the guards tie the chain on the shackles to a hook in the floor.
He felt movement around his face and instinctively struggled though he stopped when he noticed the guard was only trying to remove the blindfold. Once that was performed, the guards left. He was all alone.
The room he was sitting in was about eight feet by ten and the walls were also made of wet stones. In fact, it was identical to his dungeon except that there was a chair, a table, and the light was on.
Looking down, he noticed he had been right about being clipped to the floor. Four bolts held a sturdy steel ring into the concrete floor and there was no way he could escape its hold.
The cheap folding table was just out of his reach. It was the type even his mother owned and took out when additional eating space was required for parties. But it wasn’t the table that interested him. No, it was what was on it.
On a small canvas mat was a selection of dentistry instruments and other sharp, frightening paraphernalia he didn’t recognize. He did know what they represented however.
They were tools of torture.
Chapter 22
After what he estimated was 15 minutes, the door opened and a tall man in an immaculate khaki dress uniform entered. The British-style two-pips-one-crown shoulder boards identified him as a colonel.
His midsection was slightly expanding but he was otherwise in good shape and muscular. His age was somewhere between 40 and 50 although it was difficult to pinpoint due to his smooth skin and mostly black hair. His name tag read Chikaba.
His one defining – startling – feature was his right eye which was completely white. Preston couldn’t keep himself from gawking at it.
“It is not polite to stare.”
“Ever heard of an eye patch?”
Preston instantly hated himself for speaking up. Way to make friends with the man with a pointed Langenbeck retractor, asshole.
“A faulty American grenade did this to my eye. I should take out my frustration on an American perhaps?”
“What do you want from me?” Preston asked, unable to hide the alarm in his voice.
“You already know what we want,” the colonel answered in a calm tone. His English had the characteristically pleasant African twang but was otherwise perfect. “We have asked you to provide a work permit and you have been incapable of doing so which has led to your detention for the last five hours.”
When he’d been brought to this facility, Preston had heard people shouting at him in Ubangi but he hadn’t been able to understand anything. Finally, someone had said in shaky English something about a work permit and Preston had fibbed that he was still waiting for it.
“The work permit is in the pipeline,” the American lied again.
“Then you should have a visa, no?”
“It’s in my passport.”
“And where is your passport?”
“Look...”
The officer chuckled and sat on the edge of the table.
“My name is Colonel Chikaba. I am the commandant of Katoga Political Security, what you would call the secret police. My employees do not usually call me to see a prisoner unless they are having a difficult time with the interrogation.”
“You should be very proud.”
“Not really, no. I used to be a great soldier but they took away my regiment for not being brutal enough in a military campaign some years ago. Now I let steam off during interrogations.”
Preston glanced at the torture tools on the table once again.
“With this?” he asked.
“Do not worry, the policy is to never use these instruments until the sixth hour of interrogation. You still have 24 minutes to tell me the truth.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Now Hewitt was really worried. It was supper time and they had convened to meet at a small restaurant near their apartments. The Briton was on his second vodka and Preston still hadn’t shown up. He had called his phone every 15 minutes for the last three hours.
No answer.
As the young colorfully-clad waitress came to take his order, Hewitt decided that he’d had enough of incertitude. If something had happened to Preston, their mission was in jeopardy and he needed to get away as quickly as possible. He paid for the drinks and left.
In these circumstances, the worst that could happen to a foreigner was getting caught by the authorities. The lad was former Special Forces and he knew these guys were tough, able to resist interrogation for a long time. But everybody broke eventually.
He remembered a colleague at MI6 back in the 80s. He had been caught by the Chilean authorities and treated as a spy, which he was. The man didn’t have any diplomatic cover and the counterespionage crew worked him over good.
When he was released a year later it was in a body bag. His body had been so defiled that it warranted a closed-casket funeral.
And compared to Katoga, Chile had been a civilized country.
This was the fate that waited for them if anyone ever discovered they were in this country to overthrow the current regime. For some reason, dictators didn’t enjoy being challenged as supreme leaders. They were playing with very hot fire.
Hewitt had a key to Preston’s a
partment – Preston had a key to Hewitt’s – and he used it to gain entry. The sparsely furnished space showed no signs of disturbance. If someone had Preston, they hadn’t searched through his place yet.
Hurriedly, he went to the small bathroom and found a can of shaving cream. He unscrewed the bottom and sighed in relief at the sight of rolled up documents. Preston’s passport was there along with their phony corporate credentials.
Now if he wanted to help the young man and be in position to receive the other half of his million dollars someday, he needed to find him.
Chapter 23
The 24 minutes were up and a guy in a white smock arrived.
He was much older and the scars on his neck made it obvious he wasn’t a physician in spite of his attire. He checked the instruments on the table, evaluating their suitability.
“I told you, I’m a businessman.”
“What I do not understand is why your camera had pictures of our TV station. Why you had notes detailing the comings and goings of its staff.”
The American exhaled noisily, totally exasperated. Chikaba was making a whole lot of sense and it didn’t bode well for Preston.
“I’m an efficiency consultant,” Preston declared for the seventh time. “I study companies and find out how they could become more profitable, more efficient.”
“You could not find work in America?”
“Africa is an untapped market. I wanted to get a head start.”
For the first time, Chikaba’s good eye squinted and his teeth clenched. “I do not like liars, sir. It makes me a fool and I do not appreciate the sentiment.”
“Please allow me to get in touch with my business partner. He’ll have all the necessary documents, I’m sure.”
The fake doctor selected a sharpened periosteal elevator and smiled at the prospect of using it.
~ ~ ~ ~
Hewitt easily found police headquarters. It was one of the nicer buildings in the capital with its imposing colonnades and high portico. He could see the government’s priorities; magnificent police force and appalling education system.
He had been at the reception desk for the past five minutes arguing with a young police officer.
“There is no Preston McSweeney here, sir. I assure you. We are not detaining any Americans or any other foreigners for that matter.”
“Okay,” Hewitt conceded. “How about your secret police? Do they have their own detaining records?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.”
He had paused just long enough before answering to convince Hewitt he wasn’t being entirely truthful.
“Katoga is a peaceful country,” he continued. “We have no such secret police.”
“It’s just very important that I find my friend, you see. His wife misses him very much. She’s going bonkers without him. I’d like to show you a picture of his better half so you can understand why she needs to see her husband.”
Discreetly, Hewitt pulled a folded copy of Playboy magazine. He opened it at the centerfold and showed the police officer a picture of Miss April, a nude blonde with pigtails. Next to her was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
The young man had trouble concealing his smile.
“Can you check again, please? For Mrs. McSweeney’s sake?”
~ ~ ~ ~
Just as the razor-sharp blade was touching Preston’s forearm, beginning to draw blood, the guards from before returned. They went to speak urgently with the Colonel in Ubangi. Seconds later, Hewitt appeared behind them. He had documents in his hands.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here earlier, Colonel,” Hewitt said in a genuinely apologetic tone. “Here are copies of our work permits, passports, and visas. You’ll also find documents pertaining to our company, charter and such.”
He presented the documents to a dubious Chikaba. Buried among the papers was a stack of American hundred-dollar bills. Chikaba noticed the money and exchanged looks with Hewitt and Preston.
“Very well, I am sorry for the misunderstanding.”
He motioned for his guards to untie Preston and quickly returned to the hidden money which he slipped into his pocket as no one was looking.
“No problem whatsoever, Colonel,” Hewitt assured him. “You have taught us the valuable lesson of always keeping our documents on ourselves. Hasn’t he, Preston?”
Preston didn’t answer. He simply stared at Chikaba, considering killing him right here.
Chapter 24
Jasmine was trying really hard not to be impressed by her surroundings and she was failing miserably. She was standing in the Pentagon, the largest office building in the world by floor area.
There were over 17 miles of corridors and she felt she had walked half that since having entered from the visitor’s entrance on the southeast side half an hour ago.
Gervasi was less discreet in his enthusiasm and he openly smiled as he took in the sights. A Navy yeoman from the visitor center, her white uniform properly pressed and her hair up in a bun not dissimilar to Jasmine’s, led them through the maze where 26,000 employees managed not to get lost every day.
“Pretty impressive,” Gervasi said. “But what’s with the floor? Is that some sort of terrazzo? I thought those old government buildings were all covered in marble.”
“Yes sir, also one of my first questions when I started working here. Well, my first question after ‘where’s the closest restroom’.”
“And?”
“The Pentagon was built during World War II and at the time Italy was the main provider of marble. They were part of the Axis, our enemy, so the builders went with a cheaper option.”
A few minutes later, they reached an office on D-ring and the yeoman passed off the visitors to a Corporal Bruhl, the administrative aide to the officer they had come to see. The man was in his mid-20s and Jasmine noticed he was limping as he came to greet them. Finally, they were led into a small office.
“Right this way, please.”
The office was barely large enough for a government-issue desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs for guests. There was a coat hook by the door and an ailing ficus on the other side of it.
A small window enhanced the lighting conditions but merely offered a view of the next ring’s gray wall. There was a faint odor of tobacco mixed with air freshener which suggested to Jasmine that the tenant smoked when he was alone and tried to cover up his crime with potpourri.
One look at Lieutenant Colonel Anderson confirmed her assumption. He was close to retirement, hailing from an era where smoking was commonplace. When he shook hands with her, she noticed his yellowed fingers.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Lieutenant Colonel Anderson.”
“You said this concerned national security?” he said as he motioned for his guests to sit down, himself doing likewise.
“Yes, we’re very interested in learning about the military career of Preston McSweeney.”
“Well, I looked over the file and there isn’t anything really interesting about this particular soldier.”
Gervasi frowned and cautioned, “If you don’t mind, we’ll be the judge of that.”
There were two short knocks and the door opened. Corporal Bruhl then walked in with a tray of coffee. Anderson opened a file while the aide distributed the beverages.
“Let’s see,” Anderson began. “Preston McSweeney enlisted in the US Army from Southern California. Following basic, MOS training, and Jump School, he joined the Third Ranger Battalion at Fort Benning.”
The corporal left the office, closing the door behind him, as Jasmine took notes.
“We’re going to need dates,” she said, fully aware that her tone was bordering on insolent toward this high-ranking officer. She didn’t care, he had no authority over her.
“It’s all in the file I’ll give you later. Anyway, he went through Ranger School, and then shortly after he requested transfer to an SFG. He was assigned to Fifth Special Forces Group. It takes two years of additional train
ing to become operative as a Green Beret.”
“I thought they didn’t like being called Green Berets,” Gervasi muttered.
“Yeah well, what they don’t hear won’t hurt them. After that, your boy saw action in Afghanistan and Iraq. He separated from the service three years ago as an E-6.”
“E-6?” Jasmine asked.
“Staff Sergeant, pay grade E-6. You’ll find a complete promotion timeline in this.”
Anderson handed her the file and she quickly scanned it. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Basically every second line was blacked out.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How are we supposed to conduct our investigation with so little information? I need to know more about his quitting the Army.”
Gervasi craned his neck to look at the file, now understanding what she was talking about.
“Look lady, this is a time of war and I don’t make the rules. Unless you have a top-secret clearance, that’s all you’re gonna get. I’m sorry.”
~ ~ ~ ~
A few minutes later, Jasmine and Gervasi were walking down the hallway, heading for the exit, wherever that might be. That was the beauty of the Pentagon; they gave you a nice escort on your way in but you were on your own when it was time to leave.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true, Jasmine knew. She could have had requested another escort but she was so frustrated from the meeting that she didn’t want anyone other then the ATF agent to see her in this condition.
“Do you think our case could be related to some black op they don’t want us to know about?” Gervasi asked.
“They’re definitely hiding something.”
The idea intrigued her. There was so much blacked out from the file that the Army had to be keeping secrets from them. What if this was the beginning of some large government conspiracy?
The Pentagon had a long history of involvement in off-the-books operations. She thought of the Contras in Nicaragua, the Bay of Pigs fiasco.