name’s Peter, not Nick. I’m a tourist and only speak
English,’ Nick said, unwinding his initial cover story. ‘Why am I being treated
like this, I need to contact the British Embassy.’
‘We’re here to help you, Nick,’ she offered, her English clear.
‘My name is Anastasiya and my colleague is Alexei and we’d like to get you home
as quickly as possible.’
Nick nodded, wondering if everyone he’d be meeting had picked
their worknames out of a hat. ‘I was hitching a ride and the car I was
travelling in was involved in an accident. That’s why I need to notify my
embassy.’
Ten minutes without a response, nothing from Anastasiya or
Alexei except the gentle rustling of papers and the slow steady breathing from
figures standing behind Nick. At least one of them also a woman he decided,
catching a hint of a distinctive perfume. This one not part of the
interrogation team, but one of the invited observers waiting to see what he’d
deliver.
Clearing his throat Alexei broke the spell, his English
containing an American ring. ‘You’re an important man Nick, you’re the Director
of CO8 Nick, so why lie to us?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Nick. ‘I’m a
tourist, take a look at my papers.’
‘London don’t care about you Nick,’ Anastasiya said, the
friendly smile in her voice gone. ‘Your colleague Mr. Alistair Foula is dead,
Nick,’ she reminded him. ‘You and he are British spies.’
‘What did your contact want to sell?’ Alexei demanded.
‘You’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I just took a ride
in the wrong car, that’s all,’ protested Nick knowing his cover was shot to
pieces and they were merely warming up.
‘Okay, Nick, we’ll leave it there for today,’ Anastasiya
offered, her charm restored as though she were winding-up a sales seminar.
In an instant they’d bound Nick’s hands and covered his eyes,
then movement all around him as Alexei, Anastasiya and the VIPs solemnly
trooped out before Nick descended back to his cell at double speed. That night
they started with the electronic games; noise mostly and even though his eyes
were covered, Nick could see the strobe flashes. When they stopped the
electronic show Nick didn’t know if it was night or day. Hunched into a corner
he tried to regulate his breathing, reassert control of his senses. But they
wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of gaining any self-control.
Displaying remarkable diligence they instituted a new regime.
With his eyes bound tight, they pushed and tugged him on a slow shambling walk
round the perimeter of a freezing high-fenced courtyard, feet from snarling
guard dogs. Fifteen steps to the first turn, ten to the next, nineteen to a
spot where the cold really nipped his face, and eleven back to where he
started. After his ‘exercise’ they provided water to drink, followed by a
cigarette that he had trouble smoking through burst lips he guessed he must
have received when the Lada went belly up.
The next day or maybe it was night, Nick really couldn’t tell,
nor by now did he care, a different phase of interrogation began. Led again by
Anastasiya but this time she’d brought along some new friends who made him
kneel, facing who or what he didn’t know.
‘What did the traitor Lubov wish to sell?’ She asked, and Nick
knew there was a sharper, intense edge to her question.
‘My name is Peter May,’ Nick said, ‘I’m a visitor, a tourist. I
don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.’
Strange how the first kick, hard to the middle of his back
brought no pain. Nick smiled. Actually smiled as the foot laid into him again,
fiercer, lower or higher, it made no difference. He was happy because they’d
stripped him naked, taken his clothes, boots, and he knew they couldn’t have
found the SIM because they weren’t sure what Lubov’s treasure entailed.
‘Nick, you’re doing yourself only harm,’ Anastasiya informed
him. ‘Think of your
English,’ Nick said, unwinding his initial cover story. ‘Why am I being treated
like this, I need to contact the British Embassy.’
‘We’re here to help you, Nick,’ she offered, her English clear.
‘My name is Anastasiya and my colleague is Alexei and we’d like to get you home
as quickly as possible.’
Nick nodded, wondering if everyone he’d be meeting had picked
their worknames out of a hat. ‘I was hitching a ride and the car I was
travelling in was involved in an accident. That’s why I need to notify my
embassy.’
Ten minutes without a response, nothing from Anastasiya or
Alexei except the gentle rustling of papers and the slow steady breathing from
figures standing behind Nick. At least one of them also a woman he decided,
catching a hint of a distinctive perfume. This one not part of the
interrogation team, but one of the invited observers waiting to see what he’d
deliver.
Clearing his throat Alexei broke the spell, his English
containing an American ring. ‘You’re an important man Nick, you’re the Director
of CO8 Nick, so why lie to us?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Nick. ‘I’m a
tourist, take a look at my papers.’
‘London don’t care about you Nick,’ Anastasiya said, the
friendly smile in her voice gone. ‘Your colleague Mr. Alistair Foula is dead,
Nick,’ she reminded him. ‘You and he are British spies.’
‘What did your contact want to sell?’ Alexei demanded.
‘You’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I just took a ride
in the wrong car, that’s all,’ protested Nick knowing his cover was shot to
pieces and they were merely warming up.
‘Okay, Nick, we’ll leave it there for today,’ Anastasiya
offered, her charm restored as though she were winding-up a sales seminar.
In an instant they’d bound Nick’s hands and covered his eyes,
then movement all around him as Alexei, Anastasiya and the VIPs solemnly
trooped out before Nick descended back to his cell at double speed. That night
they started with the electronic games; noise mostly and even though his eyes
were covered, Nick could see the strobe flashes. When they stopped the
electronic show Nick didn’t know if it was night or day. Hunched into a corner
he tried to regulate his breathing, reassert control of his senses. But they
wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of gaining any self-control.
Displaying remarkable diligence they instituted a new regime.
With his eyes bound tight, they pushed and tugged him on a slow shambling walk
round the perimeter of a freezing high-fenced courtyard, feet from snarling
guard dogs. Fifteen steps to the first turn, ten to the next, nineteen to a
spot where the cold really nipped his face, and eleven back to where he
started. After his ‘exercise’ they provided water to drink, followed by a
cigarette that he had trouble smoking through burst lips he guessed he must
have received when the Lada went belly up.
The next day or maybe it was night, Nick really couldn’t tell,
nor by now did he care, a different phase of interrogation began. Led again by
Anastasiya but this time she’d brought along some new friends who made him
kneel, facing who or what he didn’t know.
‘What did the traitor Lubov wish to sell?’ She asked, and Nick
knew there was a sharper, intense edge to her question.
‘My name is Peter May,’ Nick said, ‘I’m a visitor, a tourist. I
don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.’
Strange how the first kick, hard to the middle of his back
brought no pain. Nick smiled. Actually smiled as the foot laid into him again,
fiercer, lower or higher, it made no difference. He was happy because they’d
stripped him naked, taken his clothes, boots, and he knew they couldn’t have
found the SIM because they weren’t sure what Lubov’s treasure entailed.
‘Nick, you’re doing yourself only harm,’ Anastasiya informed
him. ‘Think of your
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