Crossfire (29 page)

I was shivering, and not just from the cold. My
muscles trembled from the effort of maintaining
the stress position. I dared not move. I didn't
want to find out what the punishment was. My
sutured arm was aching severely. There wasn't
enough blood working its way up there and I
wanted to scratch it to death. The pain in my
hands had passed the pins-and-needles stage. I
knew they'd ballooned. There was going to be
permanent damage unless I could relieve the
pressure. I moved my left arm a fraction of an
inch.

But even that was too much. A massive kick
swept my legs from under me. I dropped, knees
first, on to the harshly ridged concrete. Pain shot
through me. I could feel my skin being forced
open by the sharp edges. Unseen hands hauled
me up again and slammed my hands back
against the wall. I gritted my teeth, tensed my
body, waiting for kicks that didn't come. I could
feel the blood leaking down my legs.

Some time later they gripped me and pulled
me away. They'd been waiting for the last
possible moment before something went
seriously wrong.

I was dragged off the concrete and back on to
a flat, tiled floor. From the smell of cigarettes and
kerosene I guessed we were back in the corridor.

We must have come to a door. One set of arms
let me go, and the other shoved me between the
shoulder-blades. Then both pushed down on
my shoulders. My arse and bollocks hit a cold,
hard chair.

This place was damp and musty. I could smell
it, and feel it on my skin. The floor beneath my
feet was hard and wet.

I kept my head down and gritted my teeth. I
didn't want anything loose when the punches
came.

Maybe a minute went by. They were fucking
about, letting me flap.

Then somebody grabbed a fistful of hair and
jerked back my head. The goggles and ear
defenders were whipped away.

Now it would begin.

A body shuffled behind me. He bent down and
shouted, 'Look up!' He was so close I could feel
his breath on my neck.

I blinked uncontrollably. The room was lit as
brightly as a TV studio. Strings of bulbs hung
along the wall opposite me.

Sundance was walking away from me. I
watched his brown leather boots and the bottoms
of his jeans.

Trainers sparked up. His voice was surprisingly
calm. 'You can make this hard or easy for
yourself, son. The choice is yours.'

I tilted my head. He was in the far corner of the
room, arranging himself a roll-up. Big chunks of
plaster had fallen out of the wall behind him.
What little rendering was left was covered with
grime and various shades of dried blood.

I was sitting on a stackable plastic chair. Dark
puddles had gathered across the pitted concrete
floor.

My gaze shifted as he brought out his lighter.
The door was covered with a steel plate, and had
a little porthole that could be opened from the
outside. This was looking horribly familiar.

I glanced up at the ceiling and saw a meat
hook that hadn't been in the Yes Man's pictures.

The two of them shared a laugh, then
Sundance came right up close. 'That's right, son,
you've seen this place before. You've been
rendered, son. You're a fucking terrorist now, so
we can do whatever we want.' He slapped my face
hard. 'Never thought you'd be one of those poor
fuckers, eh? Next stop Guantánamo for you, son.'

I had more important things on my mind right
now. 'Where's Dom?'

Sundance rolled his eyes. 'Getting more of the
same.'

The door crashed open and Mr Sheen and Top
Lip thrust themselves into the room. Top Lip had
his hair tied back, ready for business. Sweat
glistened on his forehead. I wondered if he'd
been practising on Dom. He reeked of lemon-scented
cologne.

He brought in a wooden stool. I admired the
scars on his outstretched forearm as he shoved it
down in front of me. He had the look of a man
who was about to treat himself to a really good
workout.

Mr Sheen was holding a device like a matt grey
starship. It had three legs and a speaker suspended
in the centre. A lead trailed behind him.
It looked like somebody was about to make a
conference call.

One thing was for sure. The Serbs and the
Paddies weren't speaking to each other. Mr
Sheen gave Sundance and Trainers a look that
said fuck off in any language. Perhaps they
didn't like smoking in the workplace.

The Irish both took an extra long drag of their
roll-ups.

Mr Sheen put the starship on the stool and hit
a button. A small red light blinked on.

The Serbs exchanged a glance and stood back,
facing me, with their arms crossed.

We all waited. The smoke was making my eyes
water.

After a minute or so the Yes Man's voice
boomed out from the speaker. 'Why didn't you
do as you were told, Stone? Do you really think
I'd just let you wander off and do your own
thing?'

'You kept the Predator tasked?'

He would have watched our two glowing
bodies stumble down the hill and easily followed
the Hiace across the valley.

'I've known you for too long not to. Now, consider
your answer very carefully. Where is the
film?'

I looked at the four of them and shrugged. 'I
don't know.'

They were pleased. This conversation wasn't
going to end with the call.

'I will ask you again, Stone. Where is the film?
I want every copy.'

'What film? I haven't a clue what you're on
about.'

'What did Condratowicz say to you on the
way there?'

'Nothing. The fucker could hardly breathe. I
think he was trying to say thanks, that's all.'

He sighed. 'Stone, I have a very low boredom
threshold. I want to know where the film is. If
you can't supply that information, then tell me
where he's been hiding in Kabul. Who has he
met, and why? You're his friend. He would tell
you what's going on.'

'He's told me nothing.'

There was a longer sigh this time. 'I'm going to
ask you just one more time. After that, I hand you
over to the gentlemen in front of you. You've seen
the photographs, you know the form.'

Of course I did. And I was scared. But I wasn't
going to show it. I'd hide it for as long as
possible.

I leant towards the machine. 'I don't know
about any film and I don't know where he's been.
I just came and found him, as you asked.'

'Have it your way, Stone. I can hold you both
indefinitely. You're the one who told me to think
of a reason to task Predator. The official view of
Mr Condratowicz is that he's been helping the
enemy by buying their drugs. That makes him a
terrorist. And you're aiding and abetting. So now
– final chance – I want to know.'

I stared down at the wet, crumbling concrete
beneath my feet. 'Why would he tell me? It
would have been Pete he told, if anyone. He was
his mate. He was the one who—'

The Yes Man sighed. 'That's it, Stone. We've
reached it – my threshold. You've insulted my
intelligence long enough.

'I authorize Phase One.' He wasn't talking to
me any more.

I stared at the conference phone. The red light
died.

Sundance and Trainers headed for the door.
'We'll go see how your mate's new bruises are
colouring up.'

Mr Sheen's desert boots squeaked towards me.
He stood to my right, ready to beat the shit out of
me if I moved. Fuck that, I wouldn't give him the
pleasure. The only thought in my head was that
Phase One sounded better than Phase Five and a
whole lot better than Phase Ten.

He gobbed off in Serbo-Croat. Top Lip moved
behind me and grabbed my wrists for Mr Sheen
to plasticuff together. They continued chatting, as
if they'd suddenly got some spare time on their
hands, and couldn't quite make up their minds
how best to use it.

The mouthful of saliva that hit my cheek took
me totally by surprise. They reached down,
pulled me off the chair and rotated me 180
degrees. I opened my eyes, but I didn't need to.
I'd already seen the Yes Man's happy snap.

A tabletop with the legs removed had been
bolted to an oil drum to make what looked like a
party-size see-saw. Two buckets of water stood
next to it, beneath a tap set into the wall. A huge
roll of clingfilm lay on a pile of empty hessian
sandbags.

The only difference between this and the
picture was that a sack was already soaking in
one of the buckets, ready for action.

I knew all too well how this worked. The gag
reflex was an automatic reaction. I knew there was
nothing I could do to stop it. All I could hope
was that they knew what they were doing. That
they'd take me to the edge, not push me right over
it.

They shoved me, face up, on to the tabletop,
my plasticuffed hands beneath me. They threw a
thick webbing strap over my waist and pulled
tight. My legs were clamped.

I kept my eyes closed. My chest heaved as I
fought to fill my lungs with oxygen.

Water poured from the soaking hessian as Mr
Sheen lifted it from the bucket. I managed one
last big breath before it was pulled over my
head. The wet sacking clung to my nose and
mouth.

I fought it. I couldn't help myself. I blew hard
from my mouth to try to get the stuff away from
me.

The tabletop tilted and my head went down. A
bucket of cold water was tipped over the sacking.

I couldn't breathe.

I told myself to keep calm.
You're not drowning!
You're not drowning!

But water poured into my nose and mouth and
my body told me otherwise.

Take it easy! You'll be able to breathe again soon!

The seconds ticked by. I needed so badly to
take a big breath. My reflexes took over.

I gagged.

Another bucket . . .

My body went ballistic. I tried to kick and
buck. My hands scrabbled frantically at the
plasticuffs. I was tearing holes in my own skin.

Another bucket . . .

Neither body nor brain could help me now. I
gave in. I tried to breathe, and the more I tried to
breathe, the more water I took in. I knew I could
swallow it but I didn't; I kept trying to expel it,
and then I ran out of air. My body jerked like I
was being tasered again.

The tabletop see-sawed the other way and my
head swung up. They pulled off the sack. I
vomited water and bile and struggled to fill my
lungs with air. Water poured out of my nose and
mouth and snot streamed down my face. I'd
never felt such relief.

They know what they're doing. They won't fuck up.
They won't let you die. Everything's a reflex. Control
t!

I screamed at them: 'I don't know anything!'

Nobody was listening. One punched my face
and the sack went back on.

The table tilted again. And so did the bucket.

I was going to die. I wanted to blow out but I
couldn't. I had nothing in my lungs to blow out
with.

My strength drained like someone had thrown
a switch. I had nothing left to fight with. I knew
that death was just seconds away.

The table tilted but the sack didn't come off
this time. I coughed and spluttered, puking up
water and more bile.

Then, a miracle . . .

The straps were released. I slid off the table on
to the floor. More freezing water was thrown
over me, but I didn't care. The two of them
kicked me against the wall. They didn't talk; they
didn't need to. When it came to this kind of performance,
the Serbs were best-in-breed.

I curled up with my face to the wall, hands still
locked behind me. More water cascaded over
me. I screamed into the sack: 'I don't know anything!'
I started shivering.

I heard voices. One of them laughed. 'More
soon, asshole.'

I was treated to a few more kicks in the
back and the sack was whipped away. The
goggles and ear defenders went straight back on.

I was off, I was moving.

I kept my eyes closed and every muscle
clenched. I'd happily take a beating, if only they
didn't put me back on that fucking thing.

They lifted me to my feet and half dragged,
half carried me out of the room. We turned right,
back along the corridor. My toes scraped and tore
along the rutted concrete.

I was pushed to the floor, and the skin on my
knees opened up again. Even that pain was bearable
now.

I tried to sit back, and immediately got a kick
in the ribs. I had to keep my thighs absolutely
vertical and my back ramrod straight. My hands
were throbbing again.

I didn't know who else was in there. I didn't
know if or when I'd be back in the interrogation
room. Another bucket of water was tipped over
my head. I shivered uncontrollably. My thighs
started to shake. My whole body trembled. My
back was hurting after the kicking and with the
effort of trying to keep it straight. Something had
to give. I bent forward a little from the waist to
relieve the pain.

Hands grabbed my shoulders and wrenched
me back into the stress position. A couple of
seconds later, I was deluged with another bucket
of water and the shivers took hold.

The concrete ridges dug into my raw knees. I had
to relieve the pain. I leant forward, but that just
changed the angle of attack. I pretended to
collapse.

Kicks rained in and I got hauled back into
position.

I must have been there for another ten or
fifteen minutes. My hands felt the size of watermelons,
and pumped so full of blood they were
within seconds of bursting.

I was grabbed under each armpit. A knife
blade worked its way between the plasticuffs and
my skin.

I was moved immediately. I was relieved to be
out of the stress position, but dreading what
might come next. The worst fear is the fear of the
unknown. The stress positions, the cold water,
the cold rooms, the holding area with the gravel,
I knew all this technical stuff was designed to
disorient me, get me worried, fuck me up. I knew
it all and understood it, but it was still breaking
me.

I tried to gauge how far we were moving along
what I presumed was a corridor. Was I being taken
back to the waterboarding room? If I wasn't,
would that be good or bad? Anew room might be
worse. Anew room might mean Phase Two.

The hands on my left let go of me, and the ones
on my right pulled me through a doorway. My
face banged against the frame.

The floor the other side was slick with water. I
was turned and shoved down on a hard plastic
chair. My hands were plasticuffed to its front
legs.

I stayed hunched for a moment, teeth gritted,
every muscle clenched. Then I eased myself forward
to try to relieve the pressure on my
plasticuffed hands. I'd lost all feeling in them.

My world was dark and silent. I tried to kid
myself I felt safer that way. That instead of fearing
the unknown, it was better just not to know.

Whatever was in the room with me, I couldn't
hear it and I couldn't see it.

I could no longer smell lemon, but I could
smell the sulphur of a struck match, then burning
tobacco, and that was very bad news. These two
knuckle-draggers didn't have the skill to cause
pain and keep people alive at the same time.