by Niles Kovach
Besides pain, my memory holds only a few distinct images of that night. One is of a large cream-colored car in which we traveled and in which Achim pawed me roughly as a prelude to what would follow. He must have been satisfied that I was what I appeared to be because what followed was asexual in nature. Not that I cared much once it began. Still, I suppose Misha was right once again. I doubt I could have withstood the psychological pain had it been otherwise. At twenty, my body was stronger than my mind.
I was taken to what I presumed was a basement in the Sears Tower. I had an impression of a very large building and I distinctly remember being forced down some stairs. Frankly, I did not care much where I was. My world was centered on a grey metal case that covered humming ventilation machinery. It made a handy platform, six by six by three feet high, like an oversized, inverted coffin, where they laid me out to hurt me. There were ducts, pipes, and valves above my head. Bare light bulbs scattered about this place gave light and shadows to more grey-cased machinery and ductwork and the faces of the men who gave me pain.
I saw these things in between the pain, when I rested. When there was pain, I saw nothing but a red-painted valve handle above me that I concentrated on.
I came to know in the next few hours that life is not all that is and that losing it is not the worst thing that can happen. I had wondered why Misha said he feared pain more than death and after fifteen minutes in that cellar with Achim and company, I understood perfectly.
It was not just physical pain, it was a loss of everything else. While I hurt, I lost time, memory, mind, heart, will. I was absorbed by myself. There was only me, a screaming, aching me I did not recognize. There was no time when there had not been pain, and there was no time when there would not be pain. Pain was now; there was only now, and I could not escape it, and I could think of nothing else. A voice inside me counseled me, telling me this would end. Eventually it must end, it could not go on. But I rejected this counsel, because I had forgotten everything else. It would never end.
I did not pray. There were no prayers in me. Only pain. I looked down a dark place within and did not like what I saw. Only the tiniest fraction of my will held onto the hope I had once foolishly boasted I would never lose. Yet that fraction was enough; I survived. More than that, I changed. It was a change that cannot be explained, only experienced.
During interruptions, I rested. I paid little attention to what was said. I did not answer any of the questions I was asked. The brothers left at various times and returned, carrying packs of explosives, timers, and detonators. Evidently, their suppliers were satisfied with the section of the icon and had given them what they needed. Their attention was no longer devoted to me and they allowed their leering henchmen much leeway in the way they treated me.
It had become pointless and I knew it. The pain was for nothing, and there was no sign of rescue. But I could not tell them where the icon was and end it. I longed for death. I knew it would release me, but I could not be the one to bring it about. I clung to life with white-knuckled determination. I would not let it go while it was in my power to keep it. Life was a pointless misery, but I hung onto it at any cost.
I had long since given up hope of rescue and was resting during an interruption when Achim came into the room. Ahmed was off somewhere, I don't know where, setting charges, I suppose. There were five or six odious henchmen in the room, or space rather. It wasn't quite a room, but a space divided into sections by machinery cases, supporting pillars, and foundation work. It hummed and echoed.
In the echo I heard a change in Achim's tone. I felt a change in his manner. I opened my eyes.
"Where the hell are they?" he said to one of the men who sat about ten feet from me watching something in a briefcase. Achim stepped behind him and peered into the case. "They should have been here by now," he said. "Any indications?"
"No. Nothing." The watcher shook his head.
"But everything is in place? All the sensors?"
"Everything." This time he nodded.
"There is no point to this thing if we do not get Charlemagne. Where the hell are they?"
Ahmed came in from a narrow space to my left. "They will be here," he said. "And even if they're not, it will be a nice big bang." He picked up more of what I assumed to be plastic explosive and began walking away to my right.
"The bang is secondary, fool," said Achim. "It will get us nowhere without the primary. Go on, finish, and let's get out of here. They are not coming. Somehow they know."
I felt his attention turn to me. I was careful not to look at him.
"Has she told you anything?"
"No," answered the man whose turn it had been to hurt me for the last half hour. "Not a thing."
"Nothing?" Achim stood over me. "Look at me," he said.
I obeyed.
I could see very clearly. It was as if I were looking into his mind. I watched as he began to understand, even as I understood what his plan had been. What little hope I had left faded. This was a trap. Charlemagne knew it was a trap. They were not coming. Achim would shoot me now. Except that he would not shoot me now, I knew, because there was something else in his face.
"You should have told us by now," he said. "You have been coached." His face contorted with anger as he grabbed me by the shirt, pulling me toward him. "Who coached you?"
I had no opportunity to answer him as the man on my left slumped over the machine case I was sitting on, his blood splattered on my legs. The other men were falling also, but it was outside my experience, and I did not understand what was happening. Achim pulled me off the case by my hair, hooked his arm under mine from behind. I heard his knife open and felt it cold against my neck as he dragged me from that place. I did my best to stay on my feet and cooperate rather than test the edge of his knife, but my feet had been injured and he had to drag me as he ran through a maze of machinery and pillars.
I did not realize he was being chased until we came to a cul-de-sac formed by a large packing case, a pillar, and an outside wall. He turned, with me in front of him, and faced Misha.
"I will cut her. She is yours, isn't she?"
Misha's gun was pointed toward us. "She is not mine," he said. "Go on. Kill her.”
Well thank you very much, you bastard.
Achim hesitated, uncertain, and in that moment Misha crossed the ten feet between us. He kicked me squarely in the ribs of my left side. The force of that kick tore me from Achim's grasp and slammed me against the wall. I fell, breathless, and lay insensible for several seconds.
When I could look, I discovered that things were not going well for my side. It is true that "my side" was only the lesser of two evils (depending upon perspective), and it is also true that I was not qualified to determine what constituted "going well" or "not going well." But the point is that I would have been happier if Misha were the one on top with the knife. As it was, he was on bottom, the knife was in Achim's right hand, and Misha's left hand was around the larger man's wrist, straining to keep the knife edge from his own throat. I could not see Misha's right hand, nor Achim's left, but I could clearly see the faces of both men. Their concentration was total. Only one would win.
I knew which one I wanted to win. I sat up, looked around, and tried to think. Misha's gun was in the corner near where my head had been. I hadn't the faintest idea how to use it, but I picked it up. I considered trying to shoot Achim, but knew I would never be able to do it accurately. The gun was heavy, so I held it by the muzzle, crawled toward the two men, and swung the gun down on Achim's head with has much force as I could muster, which wasn't very much. It was so puny, in fact, that nothing happened. There was only the briefest distraction.
But perhaps that distraction was enough for Misha. In the next moment, Achim grunted and heaved, spilling the bloody contents of his stomach over the right side of Misha's face and shoulder. There was a pause, then Misha levered the body away from him and it fell face up, disemboweled, knife clattering from its right hand. Misha pushed himself to a sitting
position, leaning against the wall, his own knife in his right hand. There was blood everywhere and he was wet with it. I was sick but empty, and he waited a moment, panting to catch his breath, then held out his left hand as soon as my first bout of heaving had passed. I did not understand at first, then realized that I still held his gun. I gave it to him.
"Don't ever touch my gun again," he said. His eyes were ice-blue as he glared at me through the grime on his face.
I was too exhausted to be indignant.
I heard footsteps, but Misha paid no attention and continued to glare at me.
It was Louis. "Ahmed is headed out. He has the remote."
Misha looked up and nodded. He put his gun away and pushed himself up wearily, using the wall behind him for leverage.
"Cover Vasily," he said. "And take her with you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR