Rise of the Enemy (5 page)

When you get down to the basics, there are two reasons for torture. The first is simply to inflict as much pain and suffering on another person as you can. Victims are horribly mutilated, brutalised, raped. Very often they end up dead, quickly. The human body can only withstand such torment for so long. And the tormenters rarely have the ability to pace themselves. The second is for information. The goal isn’t to kill the victim. It’s to get them to talk.

The people holding me wanted information from me, that was clear. Which meant they weren’t about to disembowel me before my eyes and they weren’t going to pull the skin from my face. Not yet anyway. That made me feel better. Because as long as I retained my wits, I also retained the position of strength. I had what they wanted.

How long I could keep it up for, I wasn’t sure.

I knew what they were doing to me. And that, to some extent, helped. I had experience as both a giver and receiver of torture. But that meant I also knew the effects of what they were doing. And I didn’t know how much longer I would be able to hold out.

I thought I had been held for something close to nine days, but I had no way to know for sure. I had no reference point. I didn’t know how long I had been out for when I first arrived here, or each time they shot the tranquiliser dart into my thigh
to remove me from my cell. And on the very rare occasions that I slept, I had no way of knowing whether I had ten minutes, one hour or ten hours.

When I was awake and alone I could count time easily. In fact counting time was something I could at least do to take my mind off the ordeal. But I hadn’t been given that luxury often. And counting endlessly would probably send me insane.

I needed to try to retain some focus.

My brain was beginning to succumb, that was for sure. At times I wasn’t sure whether I was awake or asleep. The world before my eyes was like a dream that I wasn’t even a part of. They had been deliberately depriving me of sleep. I had been shut in a room with white noise blaring. I’d had my eyelids forced open, spotlights pointing at me so bright that it burned my skin after a few hours. I’d been put into one stress position after another after another.

Much like I was now.

Blindfolded, I was standing in a half-squat, my arms held out in front of me. The white noise was still going. I didn’t know how long I had been here. A few hours for sure. But my mind was starting to play tricks on me. Every so often it would take me away somewhere else. Sometimes to a king-sized bed in a five-star hotel. Sometimes to the cell. More than once I’d drifted off to be with Angela, though unlike in my real dreams the time with her was sinister, nightmarish.

Any time that I moved, if my arms fell down, or if my legs gave in, they would whip me. One lash. Enough to break the skin. Most of the time enough to bring my mind back, to pick me up off the ground. A few times it took more than one crack.

And now I was nearing the point where I wasn’t sure I could stay in position any longer.

My arms were in spasm and heavy, as though lead weights hung from my wrists. My legs were on fire; my thighs in agony,
feeling like thousands of pins were being pushed into them. Every part of my body ached.

I gritted my teeth. Tried to count the seconds away. Tried not to think about the pain. Tried to buy myself a few more minutes.

But the inner fight didn’t last long this time. I was too far gone.

I gave in.

I fell to the ground in a heap.

‘Get up,’ the voice said from behind me, almost immediately.

I now recognised the voice. Not the man from the questioning room. One of the guards. He had a husky, accented voice. I didn’t move. Perhaps I tried to. I’m not sure. Even if I did try, it hadn’t worked. I stayed on the ground. Enjoying the feeling of release washing over my body. Not thinking about the consequences of what I was doing.

‘Last chance. Get up, now.’

I closed my eyes. The world seemed to calm, the gritty noise from the speakers fading away from me. The walls around me were changing, the pillow beneath my head warm and soft.

The crack from the whip brought me back around, back to my confines. I cried out. I imagined I could feel the skin on my back splitting as the leather cut across me.

‘Get up.’

But I couldn’t move. Not this time. I just lay there, quivering, grimacing. Wanting something to take me away.

Another crack.

I shouted out again, kept my eyes closed. Squeezed them shut. Willing, hoping, that I could get away.

Crack.

My whole body flinched. I squeezed my eyes shut even harder.

Crack…Crack.

It was working. My mind was taking me away. I wasn’t even sure that I could feel the whip any more.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

I stayed on the floor. Still aware of the sensation of the whip as it cut into my skin, aware of the pain, but no longer caring. No longer able to care. I could barely hear the sound, even. My world was changing. The sound and the pain were fading fast. Before long, they were completely gone.

I slept for a solid twelve hours. But it hadn’t been good sleep. My body, at least, felt somewhat revitalised, but my head was swimming.

During my waking hours I tried hard not to think about what I had been put through over the last three months. But in sleep I was a victim of my own mind. The physical wounds would heal. Many of them had already; it had been a number of weeks since the physical abuse had stopped. The mental wounds – well, they take much longer. I knew that from experience. The last three months weren’t the only time I had been held against my will. But they had made me question myself, my life, everything I knew.

Every time I closed my eyes, my mind replayed my ordeal from the previous months. What they’d done to me. But it wasn’t just the torture. It was the things they’d said to me.

I didn’t believe them.
Couldn’t
believe what they’d told me. And yet the doubts were there. Creeping into my thoughts at every opportunity. I didn’t
want
to believe them. But I had to find out for myself. I had to get to Omsk.

And when I was there, safe, I would speak to Mackie. My boss. The man who’d sent me to RTK Technologies.

I got up off the bed and stretched, my aching muscles
straining with the movement. I’d rested, now I needed to replenish. I left my cabin and walked through four long carriages to the restaurant car. As I walked in, I spotted the narrow bar area in the far corner, just four stools up against it. Numerous tables made up the remainder of the carriage.

The time was almost midnight. All the diners had long gone, but the place was bustling with drinkers still. Couples sat side by side or opposite each other. Larger groups took up several rows, with empty cans and bottles stashed high around them. The bar would stay open all night, twenty-four hours a day. I wondered how many of these people would last the pace through to the morning.

One of the large groups, a gathering of about ten gruff men, was already drowning out pretty much everything else with raucous laughter and drunken shouting. I reckoned it wouldn’t be too long before they either passed out or were thrown out.

Ignoring the stares from the rough-looking comrades, I walked over to the bar and took one of the two empty stools. The other two were already occupied by a couple: the woman maybe mid-twenties with a cute face and fair hair pulled into a bun; the man a few years older, only the first signs of grey in his receding hair and a gentle, clean-shaven face. They both looked up at me as I sat down. I nodded and smiled. They smiled, then turned their attention away from me.

I ordered a beer from the sole barman, a tired-looking man with a creased face, and was given some local muck that I’d never heard of. I didn’t care. It was cold – how could it not be in Siberia? – and it tasted better than any drink I’d had in a long time.

The lengthy sleep hadn’t eased any of the tension in my mind. Hadn’t de-stressed me. Hadn’t helped me to forget or
to understand. Maybe alcohol would. I emptied two-thirds of the bottle in just one gulp.

As I put the nearly finished bottle down on the bar, I noticed the woman next to me staring. I looked over at her and she quickly glanced down at her drink, a tumbler of something. It wasn’t a surprise that she’d been staring. I probably looked out of place here, wearing what appeared to be military fatigues – big black leather boots, grey combat trousers, a grey pullover. Just as well I’d taken off the jacket and overcoat. Plus I had seen the state of myself in the mirror in my cabin. My hair had been crudely cut short, looking like a toddler had hacked away at it with pinking shears. I only had a few days’ stubble but nicks and scratches covered my face from the blunt razors that had been used. My once-sparkling green eyes were bloodshot and dull. I was a mess.

I glanced from the woman to her companion. I caught his eye and looked away childishly, just like she had to me. I stared down at my drink, conscious that the man’s eyes were still on me.

‘Where are you travelling to?’ the man said after a few moments. I couldn’t detect any particular accent in his Russian.

‘Omsk,’ I said, looking up at him.

‘What a coincidence; so are we!’ the man said, excited. ‘Where are you from? You’re not Russian. I can tell.’

‘England.’

‘Whoa, long way from home then.’

‘You got that right.’

Someone at the table of raucous men behind hurled a comment in my direction. They must have heard what I said, where I was from. I didn’t catch it all, but it was something to do with the English and faeces. The taunt was followed by more rapturous laughter from his companions. I
didn’t bother to turn round to see which one thought himself a comedian. I didn’t need a fight, no matter how much better it might have made me feel.

‘Ah, don’t worry about them,’ the woman said. ‘They’re just a bunch of loggers. Finished their rotations. Off home for a few weeks. Just ignore them.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ I said, looking into empty space ahead of me.

‘They work for weeks on end away from home in the worst conditions,’ the man said, as though needing to justify their behaviour. ‘This is like a big celebration for them, being on the way home. They’ll be drinking all the way to wherever they’re going. You can bet on that. But it’s good natured. They’re harmless.’

I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. Put that much alcohol into a group of any ten men and it’s fair to say they won’t stay harmless for long. But I knew what he meant.

‘You’re travelling alone?’ the man asked.

‘What you see is what you get.’

I took another drag of my beer, emptying the bottle. I had enough cash for three more. Not enough for any food if I did that, though. So what? I needed a bit of relief. I signalled to the barman for another.

‘Hey, this one’s on me,’ the man said, pushing a note over to the barman. ‘We’ll have the same again as well.’

‘That’s fine. Honestly,’ I said in protest. Though as much as I wanted to be left alone, I wasn’t going to protest too much at the offer of a free beer.

‘Don’t be silly,’ the man said. ‘You can get the next one.’

‘Yeah, of course,’ I said, knowing fine well that my cash probably wouldn’t stretch that far unless his girlfriend was willing to have the cheap-as-shit beer as well.

The bartender passed the drinks over and I clinked bottles with the man before taking another thirsty gulp.

‘I saw you getting on at Taishet,’ the man said. ‘What brought you there?’

‘You saw me?’ I said, one eyebrow raised, feeling just a little perturbed now by the questioning.

‘Yeah – you know, you’re easy to notice, I guess,’ he said, then looked down at my clothes. ‘You don’t exactly blend in. No offence meant.’

I guess he was right on that. With the clothes and what I knew was an unkempt appearance, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.

‘The railway,’ I said. ‘That’s what brought me to Taishet. How else can you get around this place?’

‘Yeah, that’s about all Taishet is used for. Not much else to see at this time of year.’

‘Not unless you like snow, ice and darkness.’

‘Hey, this is Siberia!’ he said, chuckling. ‘If you don’t like those things, you’re in the wrong place.’

I didn’t go as far as smiling back at him, but I did feel some of my tension ease slightly. Just having a normal conversation with a normal person. It felt good after what I’d become used to.

‘I was here a few months ago,’ I said. ‘Not a spot of snow in sight. I was walking around in a t-shirt. I even got sunburnt! It’s hard to imagine that now.’

‘Yeah, that’s the funny thing,’ the man said. ‘You get nice weather here in the summer. Not for long, but while it’s here it’s just so beautiful. And there’s so much to do and see.’

‘I agree. And yet so few people get to see it,’ I said.

‘Tourism isn’t quite the pull that it could be, that’s for sure. You get your backpackers and trekkers but few holidaymakers. But then you have to take a week off just to get here and back!’

I’m not really sure why I was bothering to engage in the conversation. It wasn’t like me at all. But it felt nice to be
doing it. For all these two cared, I was just a hardened tourist or businessman. Nothing out of the ordinary except for the strange choice of clothing.

‘What are you two going to Omsk for?’ I asked.

‘Work,’ the lady replied. ‘We’re work colleagues,’ she added, as if the clarification was an important point.

Just work colleagues. As I digested her comment I pulled my beer bottle up to my lips. I took a more leisurely sip than I had before. No point in accelerating the embarrassment of not being able to return the favour.

‘What’s your name?’ the lady asked.

‘It’s John,’ I lied. Not for any reason other than I was used to not giving my real name.

‘John?’ the lady said, snickering. ‘Ah yes, of course. John Burrows, right? One of your many covers?’

I froze mid-sip and felt my whole body go tense.

How could I have been so stupid – talking away to these two like they just wanted to be my friends? They were such an obvious plant. A couple at the bar, happy to talk to the odd-looking, out-of-place stranger. Even buying him a drink. Three months out of it had certainly taken its toll on me. At a time when I should have been on high alert I’d let my guard slip so easily. Maybe the drunk loggers were part of the ruse too.

My brain began to race, wondering who these two really were. Planning what I would do next.

‘Don’t worry,’ the man said, speaking in English now, in a calm and reassuring manner as if wanting to alleviate the obvious tension in my face. ‘We’re from the agency,’ he said. ‘We’re here to help. Mackie sent us to find you.’

But hearing those words,
his
name, didn’t help at all. If anything, they made it a whole lot worse.