Undersea Prison (25 page)

‘Hank. How was your trip?’ Mandrick asked.

‘Fine,’ Hank replied dryly.

‘This is Christine Wineker from the Federal Bureau of Prisons.’

‘Yeah, I heard.’ Hank could not make his reluctance to meet her more obvious.

‘Pleased to meet you too,’ Christine said. She knew he was CIA, probably one of the senior guys if not
the
senior, and that he suspected her and loathed her.

‘Hank’s one of our VPs,’ Mandrick explained.‘I don’t know what the hell he does, though. Just turns up here once in a while to get in the way.’

‘We need to talk,’ Hank said, ignoring the charade.

‘I was on my way out,’ Christine said, shouldering her laptop and heading for the door.

‘Thanks for stopping by,’ Mandrick said.

Christine did not look back. Mandrick closed the door behind her.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ Hank blurted out as soon as the door had sealed shut.

‘You sound in a bad mood,’ Mandrick said, walking over to his desk.

‘I’m gone three goddamned days and the goddamned wheels start falling off the place.You gonna tell me that ferry disaster was an accident? I could tell it was a goddamned massacre all the way from Florida.’

‘Why are you acting so surprised?’ Mandrick’s question was sincere.

‘Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!’

‘Hank. The order came from your own people.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘OK. The order came from Forbes. Now, if you suddenly believe he’d make a decision like that on his own then you are crazy.’

Hank was stunned. His voice became quieter. ‘You’re serious?’

‘He told me it was a direct request from your outfit.’

‘Why?’

‘The feds were trying to slip one of their people inside as an inmate. We had no ID so . . . everyone had to buy it . . . You clearly didn’t get the memo?’

‘They’re out of their friggin’ minds.’

‘But we know they’re not. They thought it through and decided it was a good idea.’

‘It could close this place down.’

‘They have to prove it wasn’t an accident.’

‘That’s the first really dumb thing I’ve heard you say. I don’t care how you did it - there’ll be a clue and someone’ll find it.’

‘Hank. You’ve misread me. I couldn’t agree more.’

‘Then why the hell did you do it?’

‘I didn’t realise the Agency had given me veto power.’

‘You should’ve called me.’

‘Now you’re starting to sound pretty dumb yourself.’

Hank had to agree. He just couldn’t believe it.‘There were smarter ways of handling this.’

‘There’s one clue lying in the hospital.’

Hank looked at him. ‘Styx hospital?’

Mandrick nodded. ‘The lone survivor - from the prisoners, that is. The other one was Gann.’

Hank shut his eyes and squeezed his temples tightly. ‘Shit. I should’ve guessed that moron was involved.’

‘You thought I would get my own hands that dirty?’ Hank pondered the situation for a moment. ‘How do we know he’s not the fed?’ he eventually asked.

‘We don’t.’

Hank went silent again.

‘Interesting, isn’t it? We don’t kill him we could be damned, but if we do and he’s the fed . . .’

‘It doesn’t seem to bother you,’ Hank said accusingly.

‘I take life as it comes.’

‘You can afford to.’

‘I’m not in control. I’m just a hired hand.’

‘And getting well paid, too. How is that offshore bank account? Don’t forget that’s the reason this place came about in the first place.’

‘This place was built by your people to interrogate political prisoners.’

‘Maybe. But the mine’s drying up, isn’t it? I know that. You people want out now, don’t you? And while we’re on the subject of money, my bank account hasn’t seen any zeros added to it for a couple months now. That looks to me like someone’s planning on leaving without paying the rent that’s due.’

‘Why’re you bitching at me? I’m on the same level as you when it comes to distribution.’

‘Sure you are. How ’bout we take a look in your safe? I’ll give odds there’s a bag of gems sitting in there right now.’

Mandrick sighed, tired of the line the conversation was taking. ‘When I first met you at the start of this project you gave me a long and patriotic speech about the purpose of this prison. You cited national security, revenge for nine-eleven, protection of fossil fuels and the lifeline of this great country’s economy. You never mentioned money. I’m not pointing the finger, Hank. In the end it all comes down to money. And you’re due your share.’

Hank looked away as if Mandrick had wounded him - which, in fact, he had. Hank was a patriot who had lost his way.

Mandrick saw the effect of his dig but he knew he could not afford to make an enemy out of Hank.‘You’re wrong, anyway. We’re not planning on leaving any time soon. I would know . . . No one’s ripping you off, either. Pay’s been slow the last couple of months because of the market. It’s not the first time. It’ll pick up . . . You’re wrong about the mine, too. It’s doing just fine.’

Hank regretted his own outburst. He didn’t like to hear himself talking about money. There was a time when he would not have given it a second thought. But he was older now and the disillusionment of the job had been wearing him down over the years. He was still a patriot but he also wanted his share of the spoils since everyone else around him seemed to be getting theirs. There was no end to the stories about people he had either worked with or for who had made fortunes along the way.

He had begun to weaken around the time he started calculating the pension he could look forward to when he retired, realising how paltry it was considering all he had done for his country. Normally he didn’t lose control the way he just had but the ferry disaster had set him off. It had been a crazy stunt but Mandrick was right. He needed to examine all the implications and possible Agency motives before he did or said anything else. The first thing he wanted to know was why the hell he hadn’t been informed.

‘When’s that bitch outta here?’ Hank asked, wanting to change the subject. ‘I came back for a specific interrogation and I don’t feel comfortable while she’s snooping around.’

‘I think she’ll be gone tomorrow. I’m doing everything I can to facilitate her.’ Mandrick privately enjoyed the double meaning. ‘Anything I can do in the meantime? ’

Hank walked over to Mandrick’s drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. ‘I need a pre-interrogation.’

Mandrick picked a pen up off his desk. ‘Who?’

‘Durrani. Four seven four five.’

‘Duration?’

‘I need him ready by tomorrow midday. You need to start right away.’

‘He’s not been through pre-int before. That makes it easier.’

Hank finished his drink and put the glass down. ‘You tell your boss to make sure I get my money. Unless he gets a cave alongside Bin Laden there’s nowhere on this planet he can hide from me.’

Mandrick hit a button and the door hissed as the seal deflated. Hank walked out of the room, leaving Mandrick with his thoughts. He set them aside, picked up the phone and punched in a number while at the same time opening a computer file. The senior operations controller answered the phone.

‘I’ve got a pre-int for Durrani, number four seven four five,’ Mandrick said, consulting his monitor. ‘Cell number three eight eight . . . and get the right cell this time . . . Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just make sure. It’s important. ’

He put down the phone and sat back to resume thinking.

Stratton, handcuffs securing his wrists, a clean laundry bag over one shoulder containing his bedsheets, towel and spare underclothes, walked along a dripping, dingy corridor that had been cut through the rock and smelled of strong disinfectant. The roughly hewn ceiling was arched and no more than a couple of feet above his head at the highest points. Water leaked through cracks and ran down the walls, providing moisture for the slimy kelp-like vegetation that clung to the rock in green and grey sheets. A gum-chewing guard wielding a baton which he spun on the end of its leather strap sauntered alongside Stratton. One of the low-voltage fluorescent lights flickered and dimmed up ahead as if it was about to die. The guard gave it a tap with his baton as they passed but the blow had no effect.

They were on level three which was where all Western prisoners were accommodated. Level one was operations, level two was given over to the kitchen, laundry and galley while level four housed the foreign and Muslim prisoners. The layers below that housed the pumps, storerooms and various pieces of life-support systems machinery and were the main source of the constant humming that filled the prison. Then there were the various split levels and sections that contained the hospital, the ferry dock, Mandrick’s office and what was commonly known as the spook wing where the Agency had its various quarters.

Stratton and the guard walked along a row of identical heavy steel doors spaced at regular intervals a few metres apart. All were painted in a dull green and displayed brown streaks that radiated from suppurating rust sores. Each had the same characteristic bulging rubber seal around the edges, indicating that they were pressure doors.

‘Here we go,’ the guard said, stopping outside one of the doors. ‘Two, one, two.’ He checked a pressure valve on the wall and pushed a button on the side of a small flat-screen monitor inside a clear protective plastic box. A fish-eye image crackled to life, showing a small room with a bed either side of it and a man in prison uniform seated at a small desk. A curtain drawn across one of the corners partially hid a toilet bowl.

The guard pushed several buttons on a keypad beside the monitor. ‘Pete to OCR,’ he said into a mike clipped to his jacket lapel. ‘Prisoner Charon at cell two one two requires entry.’

‘Copy Charon entering two one two,’ a voice echoed and a second later there was a loud hiss, followed by a heavy clunk. As the seals shrank the door was free to move inwards.

‘Comin’ in,Tusker,’ the guard called out as he pushed open the door and remained in the opening. The man at the desk was typing on a laptop and acted as if he was not aware of the intrusion. ‘I got some bad news for you, Tusker.’

The man continued to ignore the guard who grinned as if he was about to enjoy what he had to say next. ‘We got you a room-mate.’ He chewed his gum noisily as his grin broadened.

The man stopped typing and slowly looked around at the guard.Then he shifted his gaze to Stratton.Tusker was in his sixties and nothing like what one might expect a special-category prisoner to look like.

‘We got no space, for a few days at least,’ the guard explained. ‘Charlie section’s got a serious mildew problem.We had to shut it down for the prison inspector. Soon as the inspector babe’s gone we’ll open it back up and you’ll have your room back to yourself. That sound OK?’

The older man frowned and went back to his typing.

‘Step inside,’ the guard said to Stratton, who obeyed. ‘Turn your back to me. Release the bag.’

Stratton let go of the end of the bag and it hit the floor. The guard unshackled him, pushed him into the cell and stood back as Stratton felt his wrists. ‘You two get along, now. And don’t be teaching him any of your bad habits, Tusker, ya hear?‘ He chuckled as he put his mike to his mouth. ‘Close down two one two,’ he said as he pulled the door shut with a clang. A second later there was a loud hiss as the seals inflated. Stratton felt the pressure-change in his ears. It was severe enough for him to have to hold his nose and blow, equalising his tubes.

Tusker winced as his hands shot to cover his ears. He was clearly in pain. ‘Assholes,’ he growled. ‘Sons of bitches always slam it up - they know my ears can’t adjust that quickly.’

Stratton looked around at the windowless damp walls, the beds and the toilet behind the curtain. He picked up his bag and paused, unsure which bed he was to use. Both were made up although one had several items of clothing neatly folded on it.

Tusker read Stratton’s quandary, got to his feet, walked over to the bed that was covered in clothing, removed the items and placed them on the edge of the desk.

Stratton put his bundle down on the bed as Tusker went back to his desk.The pasty walls covered in mildew patches had been recently scrubbed and Stratton wondered how people could spend years of their lives in such confinement without going crazy.

He wondered what the older man was in this hole for. It must have been a serious crime for someone his age to wind up in Styx.

‘Hi,’ Stratton said, deciding to break the ice. ‘Name’s Nathan.’

‘One second,’ Tusker said, as if he needed to finish a train of thought.

Stratton sat on the edge of the bed and wondered what these people did to pass the time. There was no TV, no entertainment that he could see other than books and the laptop. Perhaps the old guy was writing a book himself. The ones stacked on the desk appeared to be on the subject of engineering, except the one on the end.That was a copy of Jules Verne’s
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
. Apt, Stratton thought.

A vent in the ceiling came to life as a blast of air blew into the room. It lasted about ten seconds and ended in a low growling noise.

Tusker appeared to finish what he was doing and sat back for a moment as if it had been somewhat tiring. He closed the top of his computer and turned in his seat to look at Stratton. After studying him for a few seconds he held out a hand. ‘Tusker Hamlin,’ he said in a cordial if neutral tone.

Stratton knew the name immediately. He was in the presence of America’s most infamous domestic terrorist. This guy was into everything from deadly toxins and chemical agents to home-made explosives. It must have been ten years ago that the media had been filled with the news of his capture. Stratton remembered the footage of a solitary dilapidated caravan in the midst of some vast forest miles from anywhere in one of the northern US states. He took Hamlin’s hand and they shook. The older man’s grip was firm and his palm calloused as if he’d been doing hard labour.