by Chris Ryan
Jed climbed off the corpse in disgust. Standing up, he was still dizzy and dripping with blood. That was close, he told himself. Bloody close.
‘You looked like you were fucked to me,’ said Nick, a grim smile on his lips.
‘I’d have been fine,’ said Jed tersely.
‘Well, just thought I’d save time, mate –’
‘Drop it,’ snapped Jed.
He picked up a set of keys, which had fallen from the grip of one of the guards. There were a dozen of them, enough to throw open the dungeons. They were smeared with blood, and felt slimy to the touch. He thrust the largest key into the door set within the steel bars, and started to turn. The doors creaked. Somewhere inside, he could hear a man groaning quietly to himself: the low, agonised sound of a creature that has long since given up hope.
‘You go first, mate,’ said Nick standing at his side.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jed walked steadily into the corridor. It was much wider than any of the other passages they had passed through, and there was only a light bulb every ten yards, making the light murky and dim. Immediately in front of him there was an array of equipment arranged neatly on the shelves of a steel-framed unit: tubes and wires, fuse boxes and tongs. On one shelf there was a set of surgical instruments, most of them stained with blood. On another, there were the thick straps of leather used to tie electrical circuits on to a man’s skin. On a third was a series of thumbscrews and presses designed to break the bones on a hand or a foot one by one to draw out the maximum levels of pain.
Jesus, thought Jed. That’s the kit they use to torture the poor bastards who get thrown in here. This is where Nick was taken. No wonder he’s such a miserable old bastard.
‘You OK?’ he said, looking round.
‘Just fine,’ Nick muttered.
‘Coming back in here, I mean –’
‘We’re here to find Sarah, and we haven’t much time before they discover we just cut up a couple of their boys.’
Jed looked back along the corridor. The smell was terrible. He’d grown used to trench-in-the-ground latrines for a thousand men or more when he’d been serving in the Balkans, and as a boy he’d visited an abattoir a couple of times. But this was a hundred times worse: a vile mixture of excrement and blood, mixed in with fear, sweat and rotten food. As he took a breath of the air, Jed could feel himself gagging. Such food as was left in his stomach was swirling around inside him, and for a minute he thought he might throw up. Not that it would make any difference to the cleanliness of this place, he thought grimly. It might even improve it.
He started walking. The light was just good enough to see by. The corridor stretched for about a hundred yards, driven deep into the ground. Every ten yards, it broke off, with a small passageway leading to a group of six cells. ‘You take the left, I’ll take the right,’ hissed Jed.
Moving into the block of cells, he adjusted his eyes to the pale light. Checking his watch, he could see that it was well past midnight now. The prisoners might be awake, they might be asleep. It wouldn’t make much difference anyway, he thought. The poor bastards probably don’t even know what planet they are on after a couple of weeks in this place.
The first two cells were empty. Glancing inside, Jed could see some straw littered across the back of the cell, and a bucket that was used as a latrine. The walls were made from rough stone, and you could see scratches in the mortar where one of the inmates had been trying to claw his way out. No point, mate, thought Jed. There isn’t anywhere to go.
He moved quickly on. The third cell in the block had a man in it. He was lying on the straw at the back of his cell, but it was impossible to tell anything more about him. There was a terrible smell of pus and vomit rolling out of the tiny space, and he looked to have one leg missing. In the next, two men, sleeping on either sides of the cell, with just a yard or two of space between them. Both had long, matted black hair, and beards that grew for several inches from the face. Neither looked at him. It was hard to tell if they were even still alive.
‘See anything?’ Jed hissed as he hooked up with Nick again in the main corridor.
Nick shook his head. ‘Just a few Iraqi buggers.’
‘Keep looking,’ said Jed.
He checked the next block of cells. Two of them were empty, but the other four had men in them: in one, six guys were cramped together in a space so tiny they hardly even had room to lie down. One man was sitting up, his battered frame wedged up close to the iron bars. He looked up briefly at Jed, with scared and lonely eyes, like a stray dog foraging for some food. ‘Min fadlik,’ he was muttering. ‘Min fadlik.’
Please, Jed realised. That’s what he’s saying.
Sorry, mate … nothing can help you now.
As he walked on, a few more men tried to speak to him. Some begged, some swore at him, and a couple just rattled on the iron bars that kept them caged in. Jed couldn’t think that he had ever seen men in a worse state. They looked ridden with disease, and many had missing limbs. Some were wasting away, reduced to little more than skeletons. You could see the ribs, some of them broken, sticking out of the chests. They were dressed in nothing more than rags: what had once been trousers and T-shirts that might not have been changed for years, all of them caked in dried blood and sweat. A couple of men were completely naked, their bodies covered in scabs, boils and scars.
‘How can anyone live in this hellhole?’ said Jed, back in the corridor again.
‘I survived here for three months,’ said Nick, his voice touched with sorrow. ‘A man can bear anything, so long as he has the will to cling on to life.’
Jed took another turning. The same dismal row of cells, each one with a fresh collection of victims. One man was moaning horribly, and clutching his stomach. Another was begging for water. Jed just walked past, his heart stiffening all the time. No time to help the poor buggers. I’ve just got to find Sarah and get out of here.
If there’s any chance of her surviving in this place …
‘Shit,’ muttered Nick.
Jed walked swiftly to where he was standing on the other side of the corridor.
‘Steve, mate, is that you?’ said Nick.
He was looking into the cage, his hands gripping hold of its bars. Jed glanced inside. There was just one man inside, a guy who could have been in his sixties. His hair was grey and matted, long down the sides, but balding on top. He had about six inches of greying, messy beard hanging off his face. He was slumped at the back of the cell, his head bowed down. At his side, there were a few scraps of stale food, and a spilt bucket of slops.
‘Steve, mate,’ hissed Nick.
Slowly the man looked up. His eyes were tired and bloodshot, devoid of any expression except for a quiet despair. And blue. Jed looked closer. It took a moment before it struck him. The man had blue eyes. He wasn’t an Arab. He was … he might even be an Englishman.
‘You know this guy?’ said Jed.
‘Steve Hatstone, that’s him, I’m sure of it,’ said Nick, speaking hurriedly.
‘Who the hell’s he?’
‘He was behind the lines in the last dust-up in this craphole. We were together in these bloody cells, but his mission was so sensitive, the British always denied his part in it. Because of that, the Iraqis wouldn’t negotiate his release in the prisoner exchange after the war.’
Jed glanced across at the pitiful creature. He’d heard of Hatstone, because he was one of the handful of Regiment men who’d vanished during the last Iraq War. He was presumed killed in action. Yet now he was looking right at him. Or what was left of the poor sod.
‘I can’t believe the bugger is still alive,’ Nick said.
The man was looking up at the two people peering into his cells, but there was nothing in his eyes: no interest, no hope, no sign of life; just a blank, resigned indifference. ‘You English, mate?’ said Jed. ‘Because if you are, maybe we can help you.’
The blue eyes stared up at him. His lips started to move, and he mumbled someth
ing in Arabic. Jed leant forward, but it was impossible to hear anything he was saying. Even if you could catch the words, the language meant nothing to him. Christ, thought Jed. The guy has been here so long, he’s forgotten who he is. He’s even forgotten how to speak English.
‘Steve,’ hissed Nick, his tone louder this time. ‘Steve, mate, it’s me, Nick.’
The man looked at him, his expression bored. Then he turned away.
Jed reached out and grabbed hold of Nick’s arm. ‘Leave it,’ he said tersely. ‘There’s nothing we can do for the poor sod.’
‘He’s my mate,’ snapped Nick.
‘Was your mate. We’re here to find Sarah, remember.’
‘Then where the hell is she?’
Nick put his pistol down on the ground. He was fumbling with the keys, trying to find one that would open the cage and let Hatstone free. We might not be able to do anything for him, he reflected grimly, but we can’t leave him caged up here like an animal. He was one of us once. I knew his wife and kids.
Suddenly, Hatstone darted forward, flicking his hand through the bars. The speed and agility of the man caught both Nick and Jed by surprise: he moved with the swiftness and stealth of a snake. Nick’s pistol was already in his hand, his finger poised on the trigger. Jed pulled out his own gun, pointing it straight at him.
Hatstone looked at him and smiled, revealing a mouth with only one stubby tooth left in it. Then he turned the gun around, putting it against his own head. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet blew through his brain, and in the next instant he fell sideways, crashing against the floor.
‘Christ,’ said Nick, burying his face in his hand.
Jed picked up the gun, and put it back in Nick’s pocket. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll see worse things before this war is over, I reckon.’
Jed looked around. They were almost at the end of the cell block and he reckoned they didn’t have much time left. It was twenty minutes since they had killed the two guards, and you had to reckon they had some system of changing the guards. At any moment, fresh soldiers were going to arrive, and then they were done for. He walked swiftly through the remaining rooms, glancing into the cells, but all he could see were men, broken and battered, most of whom looked as if they had been here for years. ‘Sarah,’ he said.
He was surprised at the echo of his own voice, the words rattling back at him as they bounced back through the cages. ‘Sarah, where the hell are you?’
‘She’s gone,’ said a voice.
Jed snapped to attention. It was coming from about twenty yards back.
‘If you’re looking for her, she’s gone already,’ the voice continued.
Jed started to run. His feet were hammering along the corridor. He reached the turning, and looked around wildly. All the cells were dark, and he could see nothing except for a few frightened eyes staring back at him.
‘Who the hell is that?’ he snapped into the darkness. ‘Who spoke?’
‘Here,’ came back the voice.
Jed looked into a cell. The man was standing close up to him, his hands gripping on to the bars.
Wilmington.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ said Nick.
Jed turned round. Nick was standing right behind him, staring into the cell. His face was sweaty and tense, like a man who was nearing the end of a marathon run. He was looking straight at Wilmington, and the professor was staring right back at him.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Nick said again, his voice louder this time.
Wilmington’s eyes were narrow and tight, focusing intently on Nick: the expression of a man weighing his own chances of survival. ‘I might ask you the same question,’ he said eventually, pronouncing the words with deliberate slowness.
Nick took a step closer, so that he was leaning into the bars of the cage. ‘I’m looking for my bloody daughter,’ said Nick. ‘And I don’t want to hear any bollocks from you about how you don’t know where she is.’
The professor nodded. ‘Let me out,’ he said, speaking with quiet determination. ‘I can take you to her.’
Jed eyed him suspiciously. He had the set of keys in his pocket they had taken from the two guards. They could open the doors to any cell if they wanted to. But, he thought, I’m not in the mood to negotiate. If Sarah’s not here, we need to know where she is.
He held the keys in his hand, just a few inches away from Wilmington. ‘Don’t play games,’ he said. ‘Tell us where she is, or you can rot in here.’
‘Let me out,’ repeated Wilmington. His voice was calm and determined: he was speaking with the tone of a man who had made up his mind and was not about to change it.
Jed glanced at Nick. ‘We break his balls here, or we do it later.’
‘Later,’ said Nick. ‘Hang around here, the buggers are going to find us.’
After several attempts, Jed slipped the right key into the lock, and turned it. Wilmington flung the door open, grasping for his freedom the way a starving dog will grasp for food. Jed grabbed him by the arm, and started to hustle his way quickly back towards the entrance. So far as he could see, there was no other exit. Makes no difference, he thought grimly. Usually, the only way out of here is in a coffin.
Two men were moaning desperately as he approached the doorway. He could hear gasps for help, and a rattling of chains. One man was beginning to scream. They were making enough noise now to wake some of the other prisoners, and the few whose spirit had not yet been completely broken were desperate to find any way to escape they could.
Jed closed his ears, shutting out the pleas echoing up from deep within the cells. You found your own way in here, boys, he thought. You can find your own way out as well.
The lights were brighter as they stepped back into the guards’ room. Nick had already rushed ahead of them, and was kneeling down on the floor, stripping the uniform off one of the two dead guards. He handed the olive-green trousers and tunic up to Wilmington. ‘Here,’ he snapped. ‘Get your kit off and get these on instead.’
Blood was still smeared across the uniform. ‘I’m not a soldier.’
Nick shot up to Wilmington, ripping the torn and stained T-shirt he was wearing off his chest. ‘You try and walk out of here, and a soldier is exactly what you want to look like. If they see a civilian, they’re going to bloody shoot him.’
‘It’s got blood on it,’ said Wilmington.
Nick leant closer into Wilmington face. ‘I’ve got one message for you,’ he said. ‘You do every single thing I say, and you do it immediately, and we’re going to rub along just fine. But you give me any aggro, pal, I’m going to take great pleasure in slicing your balls off and stuffing them down your throat.’
Jed noticed the professor turning visibly paler. You’re on our territory now, mate. You’re going to have to get used to our way of talking. And our way of doing things.
‘Just do what he says,’ said Jed to Wilmington.
In a moment, Wilmington had pulled the tunic over his chest and the army trousers up to his waist. They were a lousy fit: the professor was running to middleaged lab, and his stomach was bulging out of the trousers of the young man they’d been taken from. It makes no difference, Jed thought. Most of the Iraqi Army seemed to be running around in uniforms that didn’t fit: one more wouldn’t make any difference.
‘Now move it,’ snapped Nick.
All three men started to run up the stairs. Nick led the way, while Jed brought up the rear, pushing Wilmington forward. He was in no shape for strenuous physical exercise, and from the looks of him, he probably hadn’t eaten for the last few days. Just keep going, Jed thought. We can patch you up when we get you to safety. That’s if we haven’t killed you first.
At the top of the stairs, they pushed through the door that led back into the main corridors occupied by the staff officers and military planners. ‘Just keep completely quiet,’ Jed hissed into Wilmington’s ear. ‘Walk like you belong here, and we’ll be OK. One false m
ove, and I’ll kill you so quickly, you won’t even have time to ask sodding Muhammad for forgiveness.’
Nick was already walking briskly along the corridor. The atmosphere had changed for the worse in the last hour, Jed decided. The air was crackling with tension. You could smell the anger of the commanders. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the blaring of air-raid sirens. It was a vicious, squawking sound, like a duck being strangled, that assaulted your ears and senses. Jed tried to shut it out of his mind, as he pushed on. The corridors were crowded with soldiers, all trying to figure out what was going on. From the looks of confusion and anger on their faces, Jed figured they had no idea whether they were safe down here or not. Just like us.
Nick had already pushed his way through the door that led to the main staircase, and Jed bundled Wilmington ahead of him, making sure he kept a tight grip on the professor’s arm. As he hurried up the staircase, he could see Nick pause. He’d turned round, and was holding up an arm. Stop. That’s what’s he’s telling me. Something’s wrong.
They were one flight up, with six more to go before they hit ground level. Nick was standing on the turning of the bleak, dark staircase. During the missile strike, even more of the bulbs had popped: with no more than one in five lit, it was impossible to see anything more than a few yards ahead. Jed took five more steps, bringing him closer to where Nick was standing. He could see two corpses lying on the ground up ahead: the two men they had killed on their way down. They were lying in a bloody, messy heap. Above them, a Fedayeen officer was kneeling, examining the wounds that had felled them.
The officer barked something at Nick. What he was saying, Jed had no idea. But it didn’t sound friendly …