But when you are really captured, in the hands of the enemy – even if it is the Americans – there’s that feeling of uncertainty that just won’t go away.
We finally arrived there – wherever there was. As soon as they opened the door I knew I was back in the northern hemisphere. It was bloody cold, and me still in my tropicals. At the bottom of the stairs the source of the cold became apparent: there was snow on the ground, no mistaking the crunch of it under my feet. For a moment I thought that it was all a wind-up, that they were messing with me, that I was back in Prague. I imagined that at any moment they would pull all the paraphernalia off and I’d be standing on the apron at Ruzyně, there would be a suitcase full of money in front of me. Martina would be there of course. And Bob would clap me on the back and tell me to have a nice life. It’s amazing how optimistic I can be when the deck is stacked against me. The optimism didn’t last long.
Something smashed into my solar plexus, blasted the air from my lungs. I doubled over, collapsed, retched. Before I had time to register what happened, a boot slammed into the back of my head, cannoned it forward, sent the headphones and goggles skittering across the concrete apron. I was free from the jelly, didn’t have time to enjoy the view. The violence began.
I curled my head and legs, went foetal, thrust my bound hands between my legs to protect my balls. Bones heal faster than gonads. They tired of the sport before I lost consciousness. They lifted me, dragged me away. I stayed limp, dead, used the time to assess the damage. Seared nerve endings sent splinters of pain through every muscle; but the bones seemed intact. Callous hands lifted me, tossed me onto the back of a truck; my head bonged against the frigid metal like a clapper. I half expected Jahangir and Doctor Awan to join me, they didn’t. My tormenters boarded, used the opportunity to put a boot in. I looked up. There were six of them, three either side, big guys in camouflage fatigues. No unit badges, ranks, medals. Grey men: probably CIA. Delta Force, Seals. They didn’t seem to mind that I saw their faces. Not a good sign.
The truck’s diesel motor roared, belched black smoke, propelled us on to fuck knows where. I couldn’t see over the sides of the truck, had no idea where we were, where we were going. A pale blue sky alluded freedom. I held on to the sky, tried to ignore the impassive faces of the men who would do me harm. The truck shook and clattered over unpaved roads, squealed to a halt. The men disembarked, dragged me off the back, dropped me onto the frozen ground, lifted me, dragged my limp frame towards an industrial looking building. We were in a valley, surrounded by high, snow-covered peaks: bleak, cheerless.
Then I was inside again, away from the pallid sky, any promise of freedom snuffed. A long dark corridor lined with steel doors led to my new abode. They tossed me in to a small cell, clanged the door shut behind me. The room was small, two metres by two, painted pus yellow. In one corner was a stainless steel basin cum bog, a one-piece eyesore that was all function and no style. There was a thin, stained mattress against the opposite wall, on it a meagre blanket. Someone had forgotten to turn the heating on. I wrapped myself in the blanket as best I could, huddled in a corner, took stock.
Every time I breathed in, a sharp pain stabbed under my arm; possibly a cracked rib. There was nothing I could do about that, so I tried to ignore it. My body ached all over, but, as far as I could tell, harboured no more broken bones. My eye was starting to swell again, the same one that had just about healed; and gongman was doing his best to break out from inside my skull, the result of the failed penalty kick.
I shivered, purged the self-pity, concentrated on my pickle. What I could not understand was why I had been locked up in the first place, what I’d done to deserve the kicking. I’d done exactly as Bob had asked. They had their scientist, had prevented the shipment getting to Iran. Why lock me up? I soon worked it out. It was the raid on Piet’s compound; they probably thought that I’d told Piet that they might be coming, that they were after Awan, that I’d prepared the welcome.
It didn’t matter that they were wrong, that I’d done exactly as they asked. They didn’t know that; and they weren’t going to believe my side of the story: something else I had no control over. My thoughts went to Martina. I wondered where she was, if she had recovered, if I would ever see her again. It worried me that my captors had allowed me to see their faces. Either they were confident that I wouldn’t rat on them once I was released, or...
They didn’t allow me more time for reflection. It’s part of the process: never let the subject become comfortable, establish a routine, have time to think. The door crashed open. I didn’t move, sat huddled in the corner, blanket pulled tight around my shoulders, stared malevolently at the two men framed in the doorway. They pointed a fire hose at me. One pulled a brass lever; blasted a jet of icy water into my face, slamming my head against the wall behind me.
The pressure was immense, it took both of them to keep the hose under control. They worked me over for a few minutes, used the stream to rip the blanket from my hands, pummel every inch of my bruised flesh, soak me and everything else in the cell. Then they shut off the water, slammed the door shut, left me in a few centimetres of freezing water. I sat huddled in the corner, shivering, watching the water sluice down a drain at the rear of the cell. It was going to be a long day.
I stripped off the wet clothes, squeezed out the water as best I could, draped them over the stainless steel bog. Then I began running on the spot, trying to get my circulation going, to bring some warmth back to my body. They must have been watching, didn’t like proactive prisoners, burst in again, dragged me back down the corridor: naked.
They hauled me outside, across a rectangular courtyard to small corrugated iron building. No cells there, just a single steel chair in the middle of the shed. They pushed me down onto the chair, shackled my legs to the concrete floor; secured my wrists with another set of shackles. The length of the chains prevented me from sitting up straight, kept me bent forward like a chimpanzee at a tea party.
The questions started soon after. ‘Are you Noah Stark?’
‘No.’ That shook them. There was consternation for a moment, whispering among themselves. I knew that messing with them would only make things worse; but how much worse could it get?
Slap! The blow rocked me sideways; only my chains kept me from falling off the chair.
‘Are you Noah Stark?’
‘Fuck you.’
Another slap.
I laughed. ‘My girlfriend hits me harder than that.’
It’s not a good idea to taunt someone who holds all the cards. They lost their sense of restraint, used me as a punch bag for a while. I still wouldn’t answer any of their questions. They might have had the power, but I had a nasty suspicion that I wasn’t getting out of there alive, so the longer I held out, the longer I lived. I controlled the time. They got bored, took me back to my cell. In the middle of the courtyard we crossed another group escorting a man in the opposite direction. He was dark skinned, wearing a grey shalwar kameez. I guessed that put us in Afghanistan. Despite his shackles, he was walking upright, head erect, a look of disdain on his face. I winked at him; he stared back with coal eyes.
My cell was dry, new mattress and blanket. On the blanket, a set of clothes: khaki prison fatigues. They were dry, warm. It was time for the good cop routine. Even when you know what’s coming, the good cop often works. It’s tempting to stay dry, warm, fed, comfortable; just answer all the questions and everything will be fine. But it won’t. And I didn’t have any of the answers they were looking for.
Later, I allowed myself to be led back to the shed. Same chair, but no shackles; and a sandwich with a glass of water. I swallowed the sandwich before they changed their minds, drank the water.
Same question. ‘Are you Noah Stark?’
What the hell. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. That’s good. Noah, we’re your friends here. We just need to clear up a few things and then you’ll be on your way.’
Yeah, right.
There wa
s another chair in the room. One of them pulled it up, sat opposite me. ‘We need to understand what happened at the mine.’
‘Your guys walked into an ambush.’
I could tell that he was fighting to hold himself back. He was all smiles, but beneath the façade lurked a volcano. ‘Noah, we know that’s not true. We know you told Piet we were coming.’He pronounced the namePeet.
‘May I have another sandwich please?’
‘Sure.’ Vesuvius nodded to one of the others; he went outside, I hoped to fetch me a sandwich.
‘So what did you tellPeet?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. I didn’t tell him anything. I wish a did now, but I didn’t need to.’
‘What do you mean?’
I was a shit sandwich anyway, ‘Just because you’re in Africa doesn’t mean your dealing with amateurs. If you’d done a proper reconnaissance, you’d have seen that the whole mine is wired with motion sensors and cameras. Piet is a professional, his men are trained and the mine is secure. Your clumsy attempt at a diversion didn’t fool him for a moment. You had no chance of kidnapping Awan. And now, because your men are completely fucking incompetent, you choose to blame me because you can’t admit that you fucked up. It’s just pathetic.’ It wasn’t a great speech, but when I’d finished Vesuvius erupted.
When they had vented, they picked me off the floor, dragged me to what looked like a hospital gurney, strapped me to it. When they tilted it, so that I was lying head down, I knew what was coming.
One of the men pulled a flannel tight over my face. I heard the sloshing of water. I was about to get waterboarded, a similar and more sophisticated procedure to the one I had used on Boris in Johannesburg. I had never experienced it myself, but had a good idea how it was played. I started breathing deeply, trying to get as much oxygen into my lungs as possible. I was going to need it. I felt the water container brush up against me, took one last deep breath, then continued to expand and collapse my ribs as if I was still breathing. As I ‘breathed in’ they began pouring the water.
The theory is to pour the water as the subject breathes in, filling their nose and mouth with water, sending it rushing up the trachea, causing the gag reflex and a feeling of drowning. Their job was to pour the water at the right time. Mine was to hold my breath. I made a fuss as if I was drowning kicked and thrashed, but not too much; I didn’t want to use up the precious oxygen.
Just as I was beginning to need air quite badly, was close to taking that watery breath, they stopped, removed the cloth. I spat some water from my mouth, made a fuss.
‘Now are you going to tell us what you told Piet?’
I was still in good shape, but I had two big problems. The first was that they were not going to believe the truth. The second was that they could keep up the treatment for a very long time. Sooner or later I would feel compelled to confess, which took me back to the first problem. I decided that I would have to tell them what they wanted to hear. But not just yet, ‘Fuck you!’
The cloth went back over my face. I didn’t have as much time to do my breathing, fill my system with oxygen. The beginnings of panic stirred in my chest. I forced the panic back down, stopped breathing, waited for the water. It didn’t come.
The cloth went slack. Hands released me. The men walked away from me. The cloth was still over my face so I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them talking in low voices.
‘Who’s coming?’
‘The Red Cross.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘Nope.’
‘Christ! When?’
‘Now. They’re on their way from Kabul. They’ll be here in an hour.’
‘What cocksucker….? Nevermind. We have to get him out of here.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Them too.’
‘Where?’
‘Puchi Ghar.’
‘There enough space there?’
‘We’ll make space. Notify the Blackhawk crew. We need to be airborne in twenty minutes max.’
I’d never heard of Puchi Ghar, it sounded Afghan, confirmed my suspicions about where I was in the world. It was quiet for a while. Then they pulled the cloth from my face, undid the straps, hauled me from the gurney, flex cuffed my wrists, frog marched me into the courtyard. It had begun to snow, big wet flakes. I put my head back, stuck my tongue out, let them settle there. They tasted like freedom. I shivered. Four more men were brought from the cell block into the courtyard, including the man I had passed earlier. We stood in a silent group waiting.
There was the sound of a helicopter, its blades slapping the mountain air. The Blackhawk landed just outside the compound. Our captors herded us to it.
I was propelled along between two guards, lifted onto a small uncomfortable seat and strapped in. Two others were strapped in either side of me. They gave off the sort of body odour that comes from someone who has never seen soap. I nearly retched.
I shivered. The others stank of stale sweat, smoke, piss, diesel and God knows what else. But through that revolting brew, there was also the unmistakeable smell of fear. Still firmly cuffed, I was crammed against the person next to me. A bitter wind blew through my thin khakis. The door slammed shut cutting off the wind. The helicopter lurched and we were on our way to Puchi Ghar.
They hadn’t blacked out the windows. When the Blackhawk leaped into the air, it was clear we were in a major base. There was a long tar runway, beyond it row upon row of fighter aircraft, transport planes, helicopters. I guessed that we were at Bagram, not far from Kabul.
The Blackhawk dipped its nose, headed for the mountains. It was still snowing. The beat of the blades settled to a steady rhythm, time slipped to nothingness and I struggled to organise my thoughts. I was staring blankly out of the window when a thin trail of smoke materialised on a hillside, flew towards us.
I watched as it neared, racing unerringly towards my window. Someone else must have seen it too. The helicopter lurched, jinked, fired a bunch of flares to confuse the missile. It streaked past, missing us by meters. Another, closer. The pilot jinked again, too late. The helicopter shuddered. It wasn’t the sort of shudder that comes from a gust of wind or power change. It wasn’t a good shudder. We were in trouble. There was a smell of burning. Smoke belched from the engine above us. We were on fire, plummeting towards the valley floor. I knew exactly what was going to happen when we got there, gravity is relentless.
The helicopter began to fill with thick, acrid, greasy fumes. On the first lungful I coughed: made it worse. It was as if someone was pushing wads of tissues soaked in tar into my mouth then ramming them down my throat with a broomstick. I flung myself sideways against the man next to me, tried to find air lower down in the cabin: cleaner air. There was less smoke down there, but the smell was overpowering. I’d shoved my face into his crotch, and it smelled like he’d shat his pants. But the fabric helped filter the smoke, so I stayed there and waited for the impact. It didn’t disappoint.
The crash blasted the air from my lungs, flung a wave of searing heat through the cabin, covering us all with burning jet fuel. I passed out.
It was probably the yelling that brought me round. Someone close by was screaming like he meant it. A voracious fire engulfed the cabin: burning men flopped and thrashed like landed fish. Two others had freed themselves and were desperately trying to get out, banging against the door, clawing at the windows. I was on fire too, my legs blazing away like Yule Logs.
I ignored the others. Grabbed the quick release on the door closest to me with both hands and pulled. The door fell off and I followed it into a precipitous snowdrift. I rolled over a few times and my fire went out. The cotton khakis saved me. If I had been wearing some polypropylene crap, I’d still be there on that mountain, my legs like spent Roman Candles.
As soon as I was sure my fire was out I went back to the burning wreck. One man inside the helicopter was still very much alive: my courtyard friend. He’d escaped the flames, but his leg was trapped under some of the o
thers and he was struggling to free himself. He saw me, stopped struggling for a moment, dark eyes glittering in the flames. There was not a speck of weakness in them, no plea for mercy, just a command: ‘Get me out of here.’
My hands were still secured with flex cuffs; there was no time to free them. I obeyed, grabbed him by the shoulders, heaved. He didn’t move. He was stuck. The flames hadn’t touched him yet, but they would reach him soon unless I freed him. Against all my instincts I jumped back into the burning helicopter, ducked my head from the flames, heaved burning bodies from his trapped leg. There was a lot of blood, jagged bone jutted from ripped flesh. The bone had been hooked up, holding him back. But there wasn’t time for anything except to scoop him up and jump from the helicopter before the flames incinerated us.
I pulled him out the door. He didn’t make a sound: tough guy. Once he was safely clear I returned to the helicopter to see what I could salvage. Fortunately for Abdul, or whatever his name was, the first aid kit was next to the door, and one of the few things that wasn’t burning. There was an axe strapped to the wall. I took that. It was already hot from the flames. Next to it was a small fire extinguisher. For a moment I contemplated using it, trying to put the fire out, but the helicopter was too far-gone. There was no point postponing the inevitable. I also needed to get away before the cavalry arrived.
I returned to Abdul, took stock. I was more than likely in Afghanistan in the middle of winter. With all the adrenaline pumping around my body, I hadn’t felt the cold yet. But I knew it was coming. One of the pilots had been thrown clear and was lying face-down in the snow in front of the burning wreck. I checked for a pulse: nothing. I stripped the winter jacket from his corpse and put it on. Underneath he was wearing a 9mm Beretta pistol in a shoulder holster. I took that too.
Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller Page 26