Burning Angels
Page 9
Eventually he felt himself propelled into motion again. He was barely able to walk now, so they half carried him, out of the door, along the switchback corridor and into what he figured was the same room as before.
He was slammed into the chair, the bag was ripped off and the light flooded in.
Seated before him was the grey man. From where Jaeger was sitting, he could smell the stale sweat on the guy’s clothes. He kept his eyes glued to the floor as the grey man did the bored staring act.
‘This time, sadly, we do not have any tea.’ The grey man shrugged. ‘Things will only get better for you if you can be helpful. I think you understand that now. So can you? Can you be helpful to us?’
Jaeger tried to muster his muddled thoughts. He felt confused. He didn’t know what to say. Helpful like how exactly?
‘I wonder, Mr Jaeger,’ the grey man raised one eyebrow questioningly, ‘are you willing to be helpful? If not, we have no further use for you.’
Jaeger didn’t say a word. Confused and exhausted though he might be, still he sensed a trap.
‘So tell me, what is the time? Tell me the time. Surely that is not too much to ask. Are you willing to help me by simply telling me the time?’
For an instant Jaeger went to check his watch, but it had been ripped off him just moments after his capture. He had no idea what day it was, let alone the hour.
‘What is the time?’ the grey man repeated. ‘You can easily help me. I just want to know the time.’
Jaeger didn’t have a clue how he was supposed to respond.
All of a sudden a voice was screaming in his ear: ‘ANSWER THE BASTARD QUESTION!’
A fist made contact with the side of his head, punching him out of the chair. He landed awkwardly. He’d not even known there was anyone else in the room. The shock of it set his pulse hammering like a machine gun.
He caught a glimpse of three muscular, crew-cut guys in dark tracksuits reaching down to grab him. They slammed him back into his seat before melting back into the silence.
The grey man remained utterly inscrutable. He gestured to one of the muscle-bound thugs and they exchanged a few words in a guttural-sounding language, one that Jaeger didn’t understand. Then the chief enforcer pulled out a radio and spoke into it briefly.
The grey man turned back to Jaeger. He sounded almost apologetic. ‘There is really no need for any of this . . . unpleasantness. You will realise shortly that we are not to be resisted, because we hold every card – every single one – in our hand. Helping us will only mean helping yourself, and also your family.’
Jaeger felt his heart miss a beat.
What in God’s name did he mean – his family?
19
Jaeger felt a surge of vomit rising from within his guts. By sheer strength of will he forced it back down again. If these were the people who were holding Ruth and Luke, they were going to have to kill him. Otherwise he would get free and rip every last one of their throats out.
There was a click from behind him as the door opened. Jaeger heard someone enter the room and walk past. His eyes bulged disbelievingly. He’d feared as much, but still, surely to God this had to be a dream. He felt like smashing his head against the cold grey wall in an effort to wake himself from the nightmare.
Irina Narov came to a halt with her back to him. She handed something across the desk to the grey man. Wordlessly she turned. She went to hurry past, but as she did so, Jaeger managed to catch a glimpse of the consternation – and the guilt – burning in her eyes.
‘Thank you, Irina,’ the grey man said quietly. He turned his empty, bored eyes on Jaeger. ‘The lovely Irina Narov. You know her, of course.’
Jaeger didn’t respond. There was no point. He sensed there was worse – much worse – to come.
Narov had left a bundle lying on the table. Something about it struck Jaeger as familiar. The grey man pushed it across to him.
‘Take a look. You need to see this. You need to see this to understand why you have no choice but to help us.’
Jaeger reached out, but even as he did so, he sensed with chilling certainty what lay before him. It was Luke’s SAVE THE RHINO T-shirt, the one he had got during their family safari to East Africa a few years back. The three of them had trekked across the moonlit savannah amongst herds of giraffe, wildebeest and, best of all, rhinos – their favourite animal. It had been utterly magical. The perfect family holiday. The T-shirts some of their most precious mementoes.
And now this.
Jaeger’s aching, bloodied fingers grasped at the thin cotton. He lifted it up and held it close to his face, his pulse pounding in his ears. He felt as if his heart was going to burst. Tears pricked his eyes.
They had his family – the murderous, merciless, sick bastards.
‘You must understand – there is no need for any of this.’ The grey man’s words cut through Jaeger’s tortured thoughts. ‘All we need is some answers. You give me the answers we seek, and we reunite you with your loved ones. That is all I ask. What could be easier?’
Jaeger felt his teeth grinding against each other. His jaw locked solid. His muscles were taut with tension as he fought against the blind urge to lash out; to strike back. He knew where it would get him. His hands had been bound with duct tape again, and he could feel the thugs’ eyes upon him, willing him to make the first move.
He had to await his chance. Sooner or later they would make a mistake and then he would strike.
The grey man spread his hands invitingly. ‘So, Mr Jaeger, in an effort to help your family, please tell me: when will your friends be arriving? Who exactly are we to expect? And how are we to recognise them?’
Jaeger felt a war explode within his head. He was being torn in opposite directions. Was he to sell out his closest friends? Betray his fellow warriors? Or lose the only chance he had of seeing Ruth and Luke again?
Screw it, he told himself. Narov had betrayed him. She was supposedly on the side of the angels, but it had all been an act. She had sold him out as no one ever had before.
Who was there left that he could trust?
Jaeger’s mouth opened. At the last moment, he choked back the words. If he let them break him, he was betraying his loved ones.
He would never betray his wife and child.
He had to hold firm.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The grey man raised both eyebrows. It was the nearest that Jaeger had seen him come to any kind of spontaneous reaction. Clearly he was surprised.
‘I am a reasonable, patient man,’ he breathed. ‘I will give you another chance. I will offer your family another chance.’ A pause. ‘Tell me, when will your friends be arriving? Who exactly are we to expect? And how are we to recognise them?’
‘I cannot answer—’
‘Look, if you will not cooperate, things will become very difficult for you. For your family. So it is very simple. Give me the answers. When will your friends arrive? Who exactly are they? How will we know them?’
‘I cannot—’
The grey man cut Jaeger off with a snap of the fingers. He glanced in the direction of his thugs. ‘Enough. It is over. Take him away.’
The black bag was whipped over Jaeger’s head; he felt his chin slammed on to his chest and his arms jammed together.
An instant later he was on his feet, being dragged from the room like a broken rag doll.
20
Behind the glass partition, Narov shuddered. She watched in horrified fascination as Jaeger’s hooded form was dragged from the room. The two-way mirror offered her a perfect view of proceedings.
‘You are not enjoying this, I think?’ a voice ventured.
It was Peter Miles, the elderly man whom Jaeger had presumed had been shot dead in the woods.
‘I am not,’ Narov muttered. ‘I thought it was necessary, but . . . Does it have to go on? To the bitter end?’
The old man spread his hands. ‘You are the one who told us he needed to
be tested. This blockage he has over his wife and child . . . this utter desperation; this guilt. It can drive a man to contemplate what he would never normally do. Love is a powerful emotion; love of a child perhaps the most powerful of all.’
Narov slumped lower in her seat.
‘It is not for too much longer,’ Peter Miles offered. ‘The biggest test – he is surely through it. If he had failed that, he would not be joining us.’
Narov nodded morosely, her mind lost in a swirl of dark thoughts.
There was a knock at the door. A much older, wizened figure entered. He planted his walking stick firmly inside the doorway, concern etched in his gaze. He looked to be in his nineties, but under his thick, bushy brows his eyes remained beady and alert.
‘You are done here, I think?’
Peter Miles massaged his forehead exhaustedly. ‘Almost. Thank God. Just a short while and we will know for certain.’
‘But was this all really necessary?’ the old man queried. ‘I mean, remember who his grandfather was.’
Miles glanced at Narov. ‘Irina seemed to believe it was. Remember, she has served with him in high-stress situations – in the heat of combat – and has witnessed how his nerve can sometimes appear to falter.’
A flash of anger blazed through the old man’s eyes. ‘He has been through so much! He may falter, but he’ll never break. Never! He is my nephew, and a Jaeger.’
‘I know,’ Miles conceded. ‘But I think you understand my meaning.’
The old man shook his head. ‘No man should have to suffer what he has been put through these past few years.’
‘And we’re unsure what effect that has had upon him long-term. Hence Narov’s concerns. Hence the present . . . procedures.’
The old man glanced at Narov. Surprisingly, there was a kindly look in his eyes. ‘My dear – cheer yourself. What will be will be.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle Joe,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps my fears are misplaced. Unfounded.’
The old man’s face softened. ‘He comes from good stock, my dear.’
Narov glanced at the silvery-haired man. ‘He has not placed a foot wrong, Uncle. He has not let anyone down, all through the testing. I fear I was mistaken.’
‘What will be will be,’ the old man echoed. ‘And perhaps Peter is right. It is perhaps best we are absolutely certain.’
He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. ‘But if he does fall at the final hurdle, promise me one thing. Do not tell him. Let him leave this place without ever knowing that it was we who tested him, and that he . . . failed us.’
The old man stepped out of the observation room, leaving a final comment hanging in the air.
‘After all he has been through, that knowledge – it would break him.’
21
Jaeger expected to be dragged back into the stress room. Instead he was steered left for several seconds, before being brought to a sudden halt. There was a different smell in the air now: disinfectant, and the unmistakable reek of stale urine.
‘Toilet,’ his captor barked. ‘Use the toilet.’
Ever since his ordeal had started, Jaeger had been forced to piss wherever he stood or squatted. Now he unbuttoned his overalls with his bound hands, leant against the wall and relieved himself in the direction of the urinal. The black bag had still not been removed, so he had to pee blind.
There was a sudden conspiratorial whisper. ‘You look like I feel, mate. Bastards in here, aren’t they?’
It sounded close, as if the speaker was standing right beside him. It sounded friendly; trustworthy almost.
‘The name’s Dave. Dave Horricks. You lost all track of time? Yeah, me too. Feels like forever, eh, mate?’
Jaeger didn’t answer. He sensed a trap. Another mind game. He finished his business and went to button up his overalls.
‘Mate, I hear they got your family. Holding them nearby. You got a message – I can pass it across to them.’
By a massive force of will, Jaeger managed to remain silent. But what if there really was a chance here to get a message to Ruth and Luke?
‘Quick, mate, before the guard returns. Let me know what you want me to tell ’em – your wife and kid. And if you’ve got a message for your friends, I can get one to them ’n’ all. How many are there? Quick now.’
Jaeger leant towards the man, as if he wanted to whisper something in his ear. He could sense the guy moving closer.
‘Here’s the message, Dave,’ he croaked. ‘Go screw yourself.’
Moments later his head was rammed down and he was whipped around and marched out of the urinal. A few twists and turns and he heard a door open. He was shoved into another room and steered into a chair. The hood was pulled off; light flooded in.
Before him sat two figures.
His mind could barely take it in.
It was Takavesi Raffara, plus the youthful figure of Mike Dale, though right now the latter’s long hair was straggly and unkempt, his eyes deep-set and dark – no doubt the result of the recent loss he’d suffered.
Raff tried a smile. ‘Mate, you got a face that looks like it’s been hit by a bloody truck. I’ve seen you looking worse, after an all-nighter in the Crusting Pipe watching the All Blacks hammer your guys. But still . . .’
Jaeger said nothing.
‘Listen, mate,’ Raff tried again, realising that humour wasn’t going to cut it. ‘Listen to me. You’ve not been taken captive by anyone. You’re still in the Falkenhagen Bunker. Those guys who threw you in that truck – they drove around in circles.’
Jaeger remained silent. If he could only get his hands free, he’d murder the both of them.
Raff sighed. ‘Mate, you have to listen. I don’t want to be here. Neither does Dale. We’re not in on this shit. We only learned what they’d done when we got here. They asked us to sit in and be the first people you got to see. They asked because they figured you would trust us. Believe me. It’s over, mate. It’s finished.’
Jaeger shook his head. Why the hell should he trust these bastards; trust anyone?
‘It’s me. Raff. I am not trying to trick you. It’s over. It’s done.’
Jaeger shook his head again: Screw you.
Silence.
Mike Dale leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. It struck Jaeger that he looked like a washed-out heap of shit. Even during their worst moments in the Amazon, Jaeger had never once seen Dale looking anything close to this.
Dale glanced at Jaeger with tired, puffy eyes. ‘As you can probably tell, I’ve not been sleeping. I just lost the woman I loved. You think I’d be here, dumping this kind of crap on you, after losing Hannah? You think I’m capable of that?’
Jaeger shuddered. A bare whisper: ‘I figure anyone’s capable of just about anything right now.’ He didn’t have a clue what or who to believe any more.
From behind him, he heard a faint knock at the door. Raff and Dale eyed each other. What the hell now?
Unbidden, the door swung open and an aged, stooped figure entered, stick held firmly in his grasp. He stopped beside Jaeger, placing a wizened hand on his shoulder. He winced as he eyed the beaten and bloodied figure sitting in the chair.
‘Will, my boy. I trust you don’t resent the intrusion of an old man into these . . . proceedings?’
Jaeger stared up at him through swollen, bloodshot eyes. ‘Uncle Joe?’ he croaked disbelievingly. ‘Uncle Joe?’
‘Will, my boy, I’m here. And as I’m sure your friends have told you, it’s over. It really is over. Not that any of this should ever have been necessary.’
Jaeger reached up with his bound hands and clasped the old man’s arm tightly.
Uncle Joe squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s over, my boy. Trust me. But now the real work begins.’
22
The President sniffed the air appreciatively. Washington in springtime. Very soon the cherry trees would be in bloom, the city streets lined with pink blossoms and the air thick with their heady scent.
It w
as a favourite time of year for President Joseph Byrne; a time when the bleak winter’s chill lifted from the eastern seaboard, ushering in the long, balmy months of summer. But of course, for those who knew their history, those cherry trees also embodied a dark and inconvenient truth.
The commonest were a strain called the Yoshino cherry – descendants of some three thousand saplings shipped to the USA in the 1920s, as a gift of eternal friendship from Japan. In 1927, the city had hosted its first ever Cherry Blossom Festival, which quickly became a regular date on the Washington DC calendar.
And then, in 1942, the massed ranks of Japanese warplanes had descended on Pearl Harbor, and overnight the Cherry Blossom Festival had come to an end. Sadly the Japanese promise of friendship hadn’t turned out to be quite as eternal as had been first suggested.
For three years the USA and Japan had been locked in the bitterest of conflicts. But post-war, the two nations had rekindled their friendship. Necessity certainly made for strange bedfellows. By 1947, the Cherry Blossom Festival had been resurrected, and the rest, as the President was fond of saying, was history.
He turned to the two figures beside him, gesturing at the sweeping view, the first touch of pink lighting up the distant treetops, those closest to the waters of the city’s tidal basin.
‘A fine sight, gentlemen. Each year I worry that the blooms might fail to materialise. Each year they prove me wrong.’
Daniel Brooks, the director of the CIA, uttered a few suitably appreciative remarks. He knew that the President hadn’t summoned them here to admire the view, striking though it might be. He’d prefer to get down to the business of the day.
Beside him, the Agency’s deputy director, Hank Kammler, shielded his eyes from the sunlight. It was clear from their body language that the two CIA men couldn’t bear each other’s presence. Other than a presidential summons like this, they endeavoured to spend as little time as humanly possible in each other’s company.
The fact that Hank Kammler was slated to be the next director of the Agency – once Brooks was forced to stand down – made the older man shudder. He could think of no worse a figure to take over command of the world’s most powerful intelligence agency.