“We can’t make him disappear; that will just make the Germans look foolish. We can’t trade him one for one because it’s been years since we’ve held a German citizen as a gheight=f Her Majesty’s Displeasure. We can’t bully them into giving him back; how would that make us look? Give us back the man who just killed the Pope! Can you imagine? Just be grateful they don’t have the death penalty anymore. They’d have him hanging from a gibbet in the same town square, ironic given one of the purposes of the blessing, if you think about it.” Control had the decency not to chuckle at his own joke. “No one is going to come out of this very well, Charles. Now it is all about damage limitation. The eyes of the world are on Koblenz. Give them Khavin. They have it all on film, they get to look good, a fast efficient clean up, justice served and everyone is happy. That’s the long and the short of it.”
“Not everyone,” the old man said. “You don’t want me to turn this into a war, Quentin. He’s my boy. I lost one of mine today, and I refuse to lose another.”
“Is that a threat, Charles?”
“You know it is, old boy,” the old man said. “I suggest you make the call and don’t try and fob me off with deniability. You’ve got a duty to Konstantin.”
“I suppose you want me to mount an invasion? We could take Tel Aviv while we are at it, bring your girl home, a two-for-one special. Don’t be so naive, Charles. Khavin is nothing more than an unfortunate incident. He doesn’t even register as collateral damage. You need to understand, if you continue to push this, we’ll cut you off. It’s as simple as that. Ogmios will cease to be useful. You’ll be closed down.”
The old man breathed into the phone, letting his silence speak for him.
“In case the nuance was lost on you, that was a threat, dear boy,” Quentin Carruthers said.
“Or I could just send Frost around to your house tonight. It’s always tragic when an old man dies, but there’s something natural about dying in your sleep, don’t you think?”
“And to think I used to call you my friend.”
“There is no such beast in this game, Quentin. There are those that can help us and those that stand against us. I want my boy back, and I will do anything to make it happen. So, I say again, make the call, bring him home.”
“If I do this, and that’s by no means a given, Charles, if I do this, you’re through. I want everything you’ve got on this operation turned over to my people in the morning. I’ll close you down. You understand just what is you are asking?”
The old man didn’t answer him.
He hung up.
28
Time lost all meaning in the dark of the dungeon. Occasionally Orla heard something. Sometimes it would be the skitter and scratch of rats scurrying along the edge of the cell wall; other times it would be a whimper in the blackness, a voice, a sob, a cry. And then there were the nightmares as her head went down and she thought she’d slipped into the dark for real, only to hear him whispering in her ear, goading her, “Tomorrow you die.”
How could he not understand that tomorrow was all she wanted,ign="jusause that tomorrow was an end and she was done with the fear and the fighting?
The cuffs dug into her wrists, cutting the balls of her palms bloody. She had hung herself, putting all of her weight onto them, only for the steel to bite deeper and the blood to run hotter, but it didn’t matter how deep the cuffs sliced, she couldn’t wriggle free of them. She twisted, pushing off the wall. The cold stone was damp against her back.
She had seen what had happened to the girl, how they had taken her head as a trophy and thrown it at the camera.
She knew that was her fate if she didn’t get out of this dark country.
She was going to get out.
It was as simple as that.
She was going to get out.
She said it over and over, like a mantra.
Somehow she’d let herself be turned into a victim. It wasn’t her. She was stronger than that. She’d been to hell and back and survived. She would survive again.
She was alone in the dark. She stood on her toes when she could no longer bear the agony of hanging, and hung from her wrists when she could no longer bear the torture of trying to stand.
Every ninth heartbeat a single drop of water dripped onto her skin from the damp ceiling. Sometimes it hit her shoulder and ran down through the valley between her breasts. Sometimes it her cheek and ran down her neck. And sometimes she tried to catch it with her tongue. It was never enough to slake her thirst.
She felt the rats brush up against her bare feet. They sniffed at her ankles. She knew they were drawn to the heat of her body, her blood and her bones, but they wouldn’t feast while she was alive. Every inch of her skin crawled. Every ounce of her flesh burned. She shifted her weight and kicked out at the curious rat. The kick lacked any strength, but it was enough to send the rat scurrying away again.
There was a bucket in the corner. The rats liked to sniff around that, too. They made her wait for it, adding humiliation to the torture, bringing the bucket once a day, once every two days-it was hard to tell in the dark. They wanted her to degrade herself and then to have to hang in her own feces and urine. It was another step to robbing her of her humanity. She refused to give them the satisfaction. She didn’t care if they made her crouch naked over a pot and laughed. She made them fight for every little victory they won, that way she didn’t just give up and let those little victories become big victories. That bucket was her key to salvation. There as some leeway on the chain depending upon how her captors secured it against the wall. There was enough play for her to squat with her hands by her side for support, which meant, if the chain was played out to its longest, there was enough room for her to bring her hands down to her waist while standing, and almost all the way to the floor when she crouched.
Orla heard other sounds then. Footsteps in the darkness.
He was coming back.
She closed her eyes, steeling herself. Her first instinct was fear. Fear would get her killed. She needed to survive. That was the only thing she needed. Uzzi Sokol and his friends could rape and torture her, she would survive. Her body could take the abuse. So could her mind. They could try to break her, she was strong. They could demean her, beat her, spit at her, lash her, they could do all of that. She had suffered worse. There was nothing they could do to her that hadn’t been done before. That was the truth of Israel. There was no torment the country could inflict upon her that it hadn’t done already.
She heard the rattle of keys, and the door opened. The tiniest slither of light spilled into the cell. Her eyes had become so accustomed to the sensory deprivation of the dark that even that was enough to burn them. She twisted, trying to see her torturer. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, a hood over his face like an executioner. He had a pistol in his right hand, a Jericho 941. It was a standard issue Israeli security services handgun known as a Baby Eagle. She felt her breathing change, suddenly shallow and short. If she didn’t get control of herself, she was going to hyperventilate. She struggled to slow the frantic rise and fall of her chest, to catch her breath.
He walked toward her, each footstep deliberately slow and measured. They were deafening in the silence.
“I told you I’d come back,” Sokol said. She felt his rancid breath against the nape of her neck. She knew it was him despite the hood. His voice was imprinted on her soul. She closed her eyes. She felt his hand touch her. She didn’t flinch. Somehow his breath was worse than his touch. Orla stifled the urge to twist away as his hand cupped her breast and pulled her toward him. She knew better than to move. He would only hit her if she did. So she let him touch her despite the revulsion she felt at his hands. “I would never deny you your time in the spotlight. You’re going to shine. I’m going to make you a movie star, like Marilyn, bigger even. By the end of today everyone will know your name. Would you like that, Orla? Would you like to be a star?”