CapturedbytheSS (4 page)

Clutching my shoes in one hand, I silently make my way down
the stairs. Leaning over the railing, I search for any sign of him. There’s no
sound or movement. Of course it’s so dark I can’t see anything. I think there’s
a living room spilling out to the side of the stairs.

Taking a shallow breath, I tiptoe off the last step. My eyes
have adjusted to the darkness, and I can see moonlight streaming in from
several small windows in the foyer. Hurrying toward the door, I glance behind
me, searching for him. There’s no sound or movement. A bit giddy, I fiddle with
the locks.

My mind is already planning my next move. I have no idea
where I’m going to go or how I’m going to get there. Hannover is still my best
bet. But I don’t know where David’s synagogue is, and by now, he’s probably not
at our rendezvous point anymore. I’m basically stuck behind enemy lines with no
ID, no transportation and no help.

Of course, the ID is the really important thing. It’s hard
to walk in any direction without a guard or a patrolman asking for
identification. I have no idea how far I’m going to get, but at least I won’t
be here. There’s a distinct click when I turn the deadbolt. Off to my right, I
hear a soft sound and then a startled intake of air…followed by rushing
footsteps.

Crap. He’s in the living room. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

I frantically try to get the door open, but he’s on me in an
instant. His arms wrap firmly around me.

“And where do you think
you
are going, American?”
Amusement filters through his German-heavy English.

I thought I’d leave. It’s been fun though. “Let me go!” I
protest, pulling against him. In the struggle, I drop my shoes.

“You
said
you would be good.” He chuckles softly into
my hair.

I lied!

He drags me down a dark hallway. After stopping in another
room, he turns on a light. We’re in the kitchen. My bare feet don’t even touch
the floor as he holds me firm in just one arm. He marches to a drawer and then
opens it. He pulls out a spool of thin, sand-colored rope. Leaving the rope on
the counter, he walks across the kitchen. His arm around me constricts as he
pulls open another drawer. Much to my concern, he retrieves a
very
long
knife.

Oh dear.

I wrestle against him, trying to break free, but his grip is
incredibly tight. After gathering the knife and the rope, he carries me back
toward the stairs. A bit panic-stricken about the items he’s holding, I
desperately try to formulate another plan. The minute he steps on the stairs, I
shove against the wall with my foot in an attempt to knock him off balance.

“Stop it,” he orders, catching himself on the banister. “Do
you want me to shoot you? Because I will if you refuse to behave.”

Oh yeah, I kinda forgot about that threat. “All right,” I
growl. “I’ll behave.” I stop fighting and let him carry me upstairs. He takes
me back to the same room.

“You are the most unusual American spy I have ever
encountered,” he declares, setting me down. “Now sit down on the edge of the
bed.”

Grudgingly, I comply. He sets down the rope and the knife on
the nightstand. He turns and zeroes in on my dangling handcuff. He only
chuckles softly as he unlocks it. After slipping his handcuffs back on his
belt, he merely studies me. I think he’s trying to determine how I picked the
lock.

His gloved fingers brush through my hair. I’m not sure why I
notice, but his fingers feel strong and nimble.

“Aha,” he murmurs, finding the pins. He gently pulls them
out. “You continue to surprise me with your tricks.” He gestures at me with my
bobby pins as he talks. My eyes unwillingly meet his. Pausing, he raises an
eyebrow quizzically at me. He wordlessly pockets the bobby pins as his piercing
eyes scrutinize me. Uncomfortable under his heavy stare, I pull my gaze away
and instead look down at the floor.

His gloved fingers glide under my chin and tilt my face up.
I know he wants me to look at him, so I reluctantly cooperate. His eyes bore
into mine as he bends over slightly. He leans in closer to me. “Your eyes
are
different. I thought it was just the lighting at the checkpoint.”

I look away from him and instead study the wall. I try to
pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. In all honesty, I do.

If I had to describe my comrades in only one word I would
say
unfazed
. It’s as if nothing ever bothers them or taxes them. It’s an
odd calmness that’s also reflected in their eyes. Don’t get me wrong, my fellow
agents are smart, clever, funny…they’re ordinary people really, but
just…unfazed.

For example, if our superiors woke us up at three in the
morning and told us to go on a five-mile jog in the pouring rain, which they
sometimes did, my comrades literally didn’t care. They just got up, got dressed
and did it. Meanwhile, it took every ounce of strength I had not to complain or
mutter unhappily about it. I mean, seriously, who wants to go on a five-mile
jog at three in the morning in the pouring rain! But stuff like that just never
bothered the others. And if I tried to talk to them later about it with a
casual, “Hey, that jog was kinda tough this morning, huh?” they usually just
looked at me and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Why are you so different?” my captor demands.

I only study the wall, not wanting to meet his eyes. He
hitches my chin up higher, obviously wanting me to look at him. Angrily, I do.
He seems intrigued about something.

“Answer me,
fräulein.
Why aren’t you like the
others?”

In modern German,
fräulein
basically means
little
girl
and is more of a derogatory term now, though it once meant
miss
or
young lady
. It’s typically reserved for parents to scold young girls
in private, but I’m more bothered by his question than the title he chose.

I only shrug indifferently, as if I have no clue what he’s
talking about. But in truth, his question just hit a nerve. He’s dragging out a
truth I’ve tried hard to either ignore or deny.

Since my first day in intelligence, I’ve always felt there
was something odd about me, though I never knew what, and it was often a source
of frustration and displeasure to my superiors. I was often told things such
as, “You ask too many questions” or “Just follow orders”.

It’s one reason why I volunteer for more assignments. I
always feel I’m trying to prove something. His hand slips out from under my
chin.

“You are a curious case,” he mutters, standing up straight.
“I was right to bring you here. I need more time to question you. I want more
than a name and serial number.”

He reaches beside him to the items he left on the nightstand.
He picks up the rope and the knife. Much to my relief, he uses the knife to cut
up sections of rope. I’m hoping that’s all he plans to do with it.

“Lie back down, American. I doubt you can pick a knot.”

I don’t want to, but I don’t feel I have much choice. Since
he took my bobby pins, I wouldn’t be able to pick the handcuffs anyway, but I
guess he’s not taking any chances. I obediently lie back the way I was. He
retrieves my right wrist and pulls it over my head.

He holds my right hand against the headboard and positions
my arm with my wrist facing out. He then knots the rough, thin rope around my
pinned limb, effectively immobilizing my arm. Clutching another section of cut
rope, he leans over me and captures my other hand. He tethers my other wrist to
the headboard. I don’t fight him at all.

Walking toward the foot of the bed, he pulls a delicate
silver chain from his pocket. It looks like a bracelet or a piece of jewelry.

“Obviously, I should have put this on you earlier,” he
mutters, wrapping the silver links around my left ankle.

I know what the anklet is…at least, I think I do. I’m
guessing it’s part of a tracking system, most likely a GPS locator. If I do
manage to get away, he’ll be able to find me with it. My suspicions are
confirmed when he pulls a small handheld device from his pocket. It’s about the
size of a cell phone or a digital camera.

I see the light from the device’s screen on his uniform and
face. I think he’s checking to confirm my locator is working. Without a word to
me, he pockets the device and then retrieves a longer section of rope. Wrapping
the rope around both my ankles, he ties my feet together before knotting the
rope to the footboard.

“There. I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere now.”

He straightens before looking me up and down. I’m not
certain, but he seems to pause for a moment. I’m not sure what exactly he sees.
Seemingly embarrassed, he shakes his head slightly and looks away. A muscle
tightens in his jaw, as if he’s angry about something.

Well hell, I don’t know what his freakin’ problem is. I’m
pretty sure I’m the one having the bad day here!

Genuine fear settles over me. I don’t like being tied down.
It reminds me a little too much of certain pictures and rape films my
instructors made me watch. I have no idea what he’s going to do to me, but I
can take a pretty good guess. I’ve been trained on what to expect in the event
of capture. He’ll most likely rape and torture me before dragging me off to my
public execution. I don’t mind…seriously, I don’t.

I knew what I got myself into when I agreed to work in
intelligence. No one sugar-coated this profession. I was told point-blank what
to expect in the event of capture, but that doesn’t stop me from being afraid.
That annoying self-preservation instinct is just making this harder than
necessary.

With me securely tied down, he turns and simply walks away.
His boots thud across the hardwood floor.

Tilting my head, I search for where he went. I hear him
moving about the house, but I’m not sure what he’s doing. I swallow hard as his
heavy footfalls grow louder. When he walks back into the room, I notice he’s
holding a black case that’s roughly the shape and size of a large book. I also
see a notebook and a pen. Holding the items in one hand, he picks up the lamp
and sets it on the floor. He places the items on the cleared nightstand.
Looking at the table, he frowns.

He slides the small table away from the bed and stands
between it and me. I think he’s intentionally hiding whatever’s in the
mysterious black case. With his back to me, he unzips the rectangular-shaped
bag. Since he’s blocking my view, I have no idea what’s in the case.

He turns slightly, and my eyes meet his. He offers me a
somewhat chilling smile.

“You think I’m going to torture and rape you, don’t you?”

I’m not sure what he wants to hear, but he’s damn good at
figuring out what I’m really thinking, so I go with the truth.

“Yes,” I admit.

Apparently fascinated by something, he walks around the
nightstand so he can watch me as he works. I can see what he’s doing now since
he’s no longer blocking my view.

“I need information from you, American, and we learned
decades ago that torture and rape are not reliable methods of interrogation.”

I might feel better about that statement if he hadn’t just
pulled a syringe with a needle from the case. I’m not sure what this guy’s
definition of torture is, but to me, anything with needles definitely
qualifies. I almost wish he was blocking my view again. I’m not sure I want to
watch.

Without looking at me, he pulls off the needle’s plastic
cap. He sets the cap down on the nightstand, but it rolls off and falls,
clattering noisily against the hardwood floor. He doesn’t pick it up.

He pulls a small glass vial from the case before setting it
down on the table. While holding the vial steady, he plunges the needle into
it. After carefully inverting the bottle, he brings the inserted syringe closer
to his face as he expertly draws the clear liquid. There’s no hesitation or
uncertainty in his actions. I have the impression he’s done this many times.

“What is that?” I ask, though I know he’s not going to tell
me.

He smiles as he looks at me. “You don’t get to ask the
questions, American.”

I’ve read the Nazis have spent billions on pharmaceutical
research. There are rumors they have potent mind-weakening drugs, but I’m not
sure if that’s what he’s going to give me or not.

Since I’m helplessly tied down, I can’t do anything to stop
him. His gloved fingers lightly trace a vein in my upturned wrist. The rope
securing me to the bed is closer to my hand and doesn’t appear to be in his
way. He looks focused. His index finger stops and presses into my flesh. I’m
sensing he’s found whatever it is he’s looking for.

He swabs my wrist with something cold and wet. I find it odd
he’s sterilizing the injection site. I guess he wants to keep me healthy for my
execution.

The tip of the needle touches where his index finger was. I
inadvertently tug against the restraints, but he’s holding my arm, preventing
any thrashing. I squeeze my eyes shut, fearing the injection will most likely
hurt. The needle feels like a sharp pinch, but fortunately there’s nothing
really painful about it. When I feel the needle leave me, I open my eyes.
Willing myself calm, I study the ceiling.

As part of my training, I’ve actually had several so-called
truth serums administered to me. If it’s something my system has been
introduced to before, I might have some resistance to whatever this drug is. My
experience with most truth serums is that they’re not very effective.

As I study the ceiling, I suddenly feel a bit loopy and
sleepy.

I guess my system has never experienced this particular drug
before or it wouldn’t be hitting me this hard and this fast. Reality slowly
dissolves as my eyes unwillingly close. I hear my captor’s heavy footfalls
leave the room. After several minutes, I hear him return. A chair scoots across
the floor. I hear paper rustling. “Now,” he whispers, “you’re going to answer
my questions.” I sense movement next to me, and I hear the chair being pulled
up closer.