The Henchmen's Book Club (23 page)

But I couldn’t. And there was nothing I
could do about that anymore.

Because all at once I was dead.

26.
NEVER SAY DIE

I awoke in hospital.

Bright lights. Urgent voices. Pain.
Wooziness. Confusion.

I had tubes in my throat and needles in
both arms. The moment I started to blink somebody shone a brilliant white light
in my eye and reported I was dilating.

My memory was shot. I didn’t know where I
was or what was happening to me.

I was in so much pain.

I think somebody picked up on this
because yet another needle skewered my arm and I was quickly stifled by a cold
sensation that invaded me, creeping through my veins and into my body until I
floated away, out of pain’s way and deep, deep within myself.

More pain.

This time it was a duller pain: an ache
of slumber, of distant injuries. Of recovery.

I’ve been under the knife enough times to
recognise post-op pain when I wake up to it, although I was totally confused
for a few minutes because I couldn’t remember having gone in for surgery. I’d
become separated from my own time line and had to rewind my memories to a place
I recognised before I could get my bearings.

The skyjacking.

The base.

The cells.

The fire fight.

Captain Collett.

I played them through my mind, out of the
snowmobile dock and down the gully until the avalanche rolled over me. But that
was all I had. The tape was blank from that point onwards. How had I gotten out
of there?

And where exactly was I?

A white-coated doctor entered and
introduced himself as Captain
Nekoroski of the United States Navy. I could address him as
either Captain or Doctor, whichever I preferred. I tried them both but no words
tumbled out.

“It may take you a few days to get your voice back, we’ve
had a lot of tubes down there,” the doctor informed me. “For the record, you
are on-board the USS
John Wayne
in
the IC unit and in the custody of the United States Navy.”

“When…?” I somehow managed to mouth.

The doctor elaborated. “You’ve been with us for the last
two weeks. You’ve been pretty badly bashed about, but nothing you can’t take
I’m sure. So we’re gonna patch you up and send you on your way, first to
Augusta and then to McCarthy – that’s Fort McCarthy to you,” he said in a
way that set alarm bells off across my battered pain system. “So sit back, take
it easy and let us know if we can do anything for you. Because this is as good as
it gets. And it ain’t gonna stay this good for much longer.”

I have to say I wasn’t a fan of the Doctor’s bedside
manner, but then again I guess he was part Doctor and part Naval officer and
those were often two difficult hats to wear together. For the most part he was
perfectly civil, if a little officious, and I couldn’t fault him on his
standard of care because I was comfortable, pain-free and, most surprising of
all, still alive.

But what was truly remarkable was how I’d come to be here
in the first place. I mean, I simply couldn’t fathom it, that the United States
Navy had found me buried in a God forsaken corner of nowhere under several
thousand tons of snow and ice, thawed me out, resuscitated me and shipped me
back to civilization. Or at least, as close to civilization as the USS
John Wayne
was ever likely to sail.

Actually, forget how they’d done this; I couldn’t figure
out
why
they’d done this.

Somewhere beyond my range of vision, a door opened and a
pair of heavy combat boots entered the room.

The doctor looked up at the new arrival and saluted him
before returning to the question of my blood pressure.

“How is he, Captain?”

“He’s out of danger, sir. A few broken bones, torn
ligaments and trauma injuries, but the ice protected him until we could get him
to ICU. Residues of hypothermia, moderate concussion and a touch of shock but
he’ll recover, I’m sure,” the doctor diagnosed.

“Good,” my visitor replied. “Because I’ve got plans for
him. I need him fit and healthy to play his part,” he said now stepping into
view so that I could see his miserable face.

Rip Dunbar.

“Thought you’d got away from me, didn’t you, Cyclops?” Rip
growled, his lips so taut they barely quivered. “Well you don’t get off that
lightly!”

The Doctor was as good as his word. Over the next ten days he and his staff
nursed me away from the red readings and back to some semblance of health. Then
when the tubes were finally pulled from my arms, I was strapped up all over
again and shipped off to mainland USA. I couldn’t tell you where exactly Fort
McCarthy was, as I was required to wear a blindfold for the entire journey
(presumably to prevent me from memorizing the air route) but I think it was up
north somewhere. The cold winter’s air that greeted me when we landed told me
as much.

The place was quiet too. Almost unnervingly so. Over the
sounds of Humvees tearing about the place and aircraft taxiing or winding down,
there was almost nothing beyond the perimeter wire. No sounds of town. No
distant freeways. Not even any birds twittering overhead, which meant no trees:
just a lot of military hustle and bustle and a shrill wind to chill my soul.

I listened to a clipboard being signed, then a few
cigarettes exchanged, before I was loaded onto an armoured car and driven out
across the plains. The road we travelled along was flat, straight and
featureless. As far as I could tell we passed nothing and no one the whole time
we were on the road. A brick on the accelerator and a broomstick to stop the
steering wheel from spinning could have driven me out here, but bricks and
broomsticks cost money so they had a Marine Corporal do it instead.

Then, after an hour of counting potholes and more
cigarettes being smoked in the front, the armoured car slowed and we finally
arrived at our destination.

We stopped and started three times in the space of half a
mile or so, which told me we were passing through three lines of security, then
we drove down a long sloping causeway until I heard the engine roaring back
against itself to suggest we’d gone underground.

A few more twists and turns and we parked up to the sounds
of an escort being formed up outside. The rear door was yanked open and a
craggy gunnery Sergeant climbed on-board to push me out. A small squad of Delta
Force soldiers was there to pick me up and finally my blindfold was removed,
although my cuffs stayed where they were. I didn’t know whether to feel
flattered or sorry for the American tax payer but I had time for neither
because some three-star General with more ribbons than a maypole maker’s
daughter stepped forward to give me the welcome speech.

“I am Lieutenant-General Major of the Fourteenth Tactical
Infantry Division and you are in the United States military penitentiary known
as Fort McCarthy…”

“Never heard of it,” I told him.

“Good. You are indicted to stand trial for crimes in direct
violation of international law as well as those of the United States of
America,” which were obviously the ones he and his buddies were most upset
about. “These charges are as follows,” he said, looking down at his clipboard
and rattling through them without pausing to see how they were being received.
“Three counts international terrorism. Three counts international sabotage. Two
counts crimes against humanity. One count international piracy. Thirty-eight
counts of murder in the first-degree. Twenty-four counts of murder in the
second-degree. Two counts conspiracy to commit acts of genocide. One count
conspiracy to extort monies with terror…”

“Isn’t that the same as terrorism?” I asked, but the
General ignored me and carried on ploughing through my CV.

“… One count conspiracy to depose a democratically elected
government. Two counts conspiracy to cause destruction of government property.
Two counts international espionage against the United States of America. Four
counts conspiracy to commit explosions. Three counts belonging to organisations
banned under international law. And finally one count working to undermine to
interests of the Congress of the United States of America and her allies, both
at home and aboard. ”

“Is that it?” I asked.

“As I say, you will be called to answer for all these
charges and face a military tribunal in due course. A lawyer will be appointed
to act on your behalf and you will have the right of due process, though you
are not permitted to make contact with anyone beyond these official channels.
If you attempt to do so by any means, all rights and privileges will be revoked
and you will face instant military justice under section twenty-seven of the
special detainees act. Do you understand everything that has been explained to
you?”

“Am I allowed to choose my own lawyer?” I asked.

“Negative. A military lawyer will be appointed to work on
your case, but I repeat, you will not have access to anyone beyond these
walls,” the General reiterated.

“What about witnesses?”

“These are questions for your lawyer,” he said with a snap
of impatience, handing his clipboard to the Aid standing in attendance just
behind him before completing his spiel.
 

“Welcome to Fort McCarthy.”

27.
YOU ONLY GET LIFE TWICE

Crimes against humanity? Conspiracy to commit genocide? Sixty-two counts of
murder? They were having a laugh, weren’t they? I’d spent most of the last
dozen years guarding vending machines. Well all right, so I’d been involved
with a few unsavoury sorts and I had, admittedly, killed a few men in my time,
but never anyone who hadn’t tried to kill me first. How was that murder? Let
alone genocide?

My military lawyer explained the finer points of the
charges against me when he came to see me in McCarthy’s infirmary a few days
later. I still wasn’t well enough to be moved to a proper cell yet so Captain
Blakeney perched on the end of my bed, rested his file on my anti-biotics
machine and went through the indictments one by one.

All of them related to my time in the employ of either
Victor Soliman or Griffin Marvel, as Rip Dunbar’s testimony put me at both
scenes, so I was tarred with the conspiracy brush. ie. Victor Soliman had
brought down a couple of satellites with his Star Ray, so that was
international sabotage and destruction of government property. Griffin Marvel
had threatened to blow up a big chunk of Finland with his CSMK guided missiles,
so that was international terrorism and genocide. It didn’t matter that it
hadn’t been me who’d pushed, or threatened to push, either button; all they had
to do was slap the word “conspiracy” into the indictments and they could lay
the same charges against me that they could lay against Soliman, Marvel or
either of the blokes who used to fry the chips in the staff canteens (Anton in
Mozambique, Eric in Greenland. Anton was useless – his chips really were
a crime against humanity).

And the murders?

Thirty-eight military personnel and twenty-four civilians
were recorded as having lost their lives as a direct result of action taken by
either Soliman or Marvel (and one by Anton). American, British, Russian,
French, Danish, Finnish, Canadian and Mozambiquean. I’d been part of each
organisation at the time so I’d be called to answer for each death. Ironically,
the authorities didn’t realise I’d been part of the team that had skyjacked the
USAF C-17 but I got charged with those murders all the same just by
association.

In actual fact, there was only one murder charge on my
entire rap sheet that was directly linked to me – that of
Jabulani
Mthunzi, that annoying little Nguni guide who’d so won Rip Dunbar’s heart. That
charge was laid out in meticulous, if slightly weighted, detail claiming I’d
gunned him down while he’d been unarmed. Which I guess was technically correct
but that told only half the story. I wondered if I’d get the chance to tell the
other half.

“What am I looking at?”

Captain Blakeney followed my eye-line
down to my manacles and blinked.

“No (literal cunt) I mean what sort of
sentence can I expect to receive if I’m found guilty?” I spelt out,
optimistically using the word “if” instead of “when”.

Captain Blakeney sucked his teeth.

“Death,” he shrugged.

“Death?”

“Yeah, for these charges, there isn’t any
other sentence.”

“And what’s the likelihood of me being
found guilty?” I asked.

“Oh it’s certainty,” he replied without
so much as a second’s hesitation.

“Oh lovely,” I scowled. “And so you’re
here for what? Just to keep me chuckling until it comes time to plug me into
the mains?”

“I’m here to ensure due process and see
that you get a fair trial,” he said in all seriousness.

“Something tells me you don’t get paid on
results,” I pointed out.

“Mr Jones, I don’t see what else I can
do. I mean you were there at the times stated. You were in the employment of
both Victor Soliman and Griffin Marvel and took an active part in perpetrating
these offences.”

“How do you know I took an active part?”
I demanded.

“You were employed in a combat role,
namely installation security, therefore by definition you played a vital
logistical role supporting the perpetration of these crimes. It’s an open and
shut case,” he said, making no friends around here whatsoever.

“Then once again, what’s the fucking
point of you? Are you on the family pay roll or something?” I fumed, rattling
on my manacles as I sought to add a sixty-third count to my charge sheet.

“Mr Jones, there are more options available to us than just
pleading guilty or not guilty,” Captain Blakeney advised.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, we could enter a plea. The indictments as they
stand will get us fried, but if we can argue them down to a raft of lesser
offences, we might be able to avoid the death penalty and receive a sentence of
life imprisonment.”

“Might we?” I said, fucking loving his use of the plural.
“And why would they agree to that? If this is an open and shut case, as you
say?”

Captain Blakeney cocked his head, as if to suggest I
already knew the answer to my own question.

“Mr Jones, you are a small fish. But you’ve swum in a lot
of ponds that will be of interest to the United States government. Now these
charges only take into account activities relating to your terms with Victor
Soliman and Griffin Marvel,” he said, patting my file, “but don’t for a moment
imagine that we don’t know you’ve worked for other organisations. So, give the
SEO the facts; names, dates and places, outfits you’ve worked with, crimes
you’ve witnessed. They’ll have most of it anyway so you may not even have
enough to save your life, but give them everything you’ve got and leave the
rest to me,” he smiled, laying a hand on my shoulder as a mark of his sincerity
as I almost made it through the cuffs.

Given my options I had no choice but to play ball. Or at least, some limited
form of ball, because the one thing I had going in my favour was the sheer
number of jobs I’d worked on in the last dozen years. Names, dates and places?
I gave them more names, dates and places than they knew what to do with:

S.P.I.D.E.R (Special Political Infiltration Division for
Economic Revolution), M.A.N.T.R.A (Millennium Anti-Nationalist Tactical
Redeployment Association), D.E.A.T.H (Designated Elimination of Assets,
Territories and Homesteads), K.I.S.S (Kingdom’s International Secret Service).
Operations
XY
,
Extreme
,
Blowfish
,
Sunburn
,
Chainsaw
.
Zillion Silverfish, Morris Merton, Doctor Thalassocrat, Polonius Crump, Kris
Kingdom.

I rattled through them and much more
besides as
SEO interrogated me over the next three months, first from
my infirmary bed, then later in the interrogation block. They took down every
detail, recorded my words and cross-referenced my testimony to verify my
claims. Most of it was dead information about dead men and dead ideas anyway
but they were interested all the same, enough to make me comfortable, treat me
right and feed me well. They even got me a new cosmetic eye just to make me
feel like a person again. It had “PRISONER” stamped across the middle of it.

Amusingly, it wasn’t just the stuff about the bad guys that
interested my interrogators; they loved hearing the dirt on their so-called
allies too. Jack Tempest of the British SIS. Jean Cabon of the French DGSE. Kim
Hu of the Wind Brotherhood. Anything I had on these guys was lapped up like
Ambrosia and cross-filed under military intelligence / Facebook gossip. But for
the main, I just told them about the jobs:

Hong Kong, Siberia,
Nanawambai Atoll,
Geneva, East Timor, north Africa, southern Africa, western Africa, Cuba, Colombia
and Kansas.

I’d clocked up some air miles in my time
and was actually surprised at just how much I could remember. But then I guess
when you’ve got nothing else to do for days and weeks it focuses the mind and
you’re able to dredge up all sorts of memories you thought you’d lost to time.

In the end, it was the sheer volume of information I gave
them that allowed me to cover my more sensitive tracks. It was hard going at
times, especially at the start of my questioning when they had me hooked up to
a polygraph machine, because some of their questions were very searching
indeed. But when you’ve got an endless supply of detailed intelligence to
dazzle someone with, you can usually negotiate your way through even the
stiffest of interrogations. So, like a holiday camp magician with a shiny cape
and a tried and tested routine, I pulled an endless stream of colourful
handkerchiefs out of my sleeves to distract my interrogators from the sleight
of hand that brushed the more controversial questions aside.

Namely, questions concerning The Agency.

“And so, how did you get this job, Mr Jones? Who exactly
employed you?”

“It was Polonius Crump’s commander-in-chief, a guy called,
Klive Andrevski, a former Colonel in the Stasi. He defected just before the
wall came down with files on every agent known to the GDR and sold this
information on, resulting in the assassination of some fourteen Western agents,
including two of your own if I remember rightly. I think I can even remember
their names if you want to double-check this?”

Which was true but it didn’t actually answer the question.
Not really. Not completely.

Of course I couldn’t dodge their questions indefinitely but
The Agency had a time-served strategy in place for dealing with polygraph
interrogations. For two days and nights they torture all new recruits
mercilessly whilst we’re plugged into polygraph machines. It’s all part of
basic training. It doesn’t help us learn how to lie properly but it plants the
memory of pain in our psyches so that any and all future polygraph
interrogations sends our readings through the roof (bless ’em).

“He’s lying.”

“Cut the crap and tell us who hired you!”

And this is when you give them the other stuff.

See, besides ruining your happy memories of boot camp, The
Agency also puts into place half a dozen cover stories so that if you’re ever
taken alive you have things to give your interrogators. Advertisements are
placed in
Soldier of Fortune
magazine. Ghost offices are set up and closed down with phone records showing
calls and correspondence sent to pay phones and Post Office boxes near your
home. Paper trails are laid. The Agency does this for every job, layering
shadows on smoke until the truth’s a half-lie, shrouded in uncertainty and
buried beneath a mountain of more plausible alternatives. And then, when that’s
all in place they leave you with one final incentive – protect us,
protect The Agency, and we will pick you up from any extraction point anywhere
in the world within twelve hours of you making it over the wall.

Now I ask you, how can you rat out friends like that?

“Who else were you with? Who made it off the island too?”

“Eighteen of us; Mr Smith, Mr Petrov, Mr Kim, Mr Andreev,
Captain Campbell, Mr…”

“Enough of this Mister crap! This isn’t
Pride and
fucking
Prejudice
!” my interrogator barked, slamming the table between us.
“We want names, asshole, otherwise we’ll fry you on every fucking charge!”

“And I’m giving you names. At least, the only names I ever
knew. We don’t use our full names, not to each other, it’s policy; we’re just
Mister or Missus. Or Captain or Sergeant or Lieutenant. We don’t ask and we
don’t offer our full names for this very reason, in case we’re ever
questioned,” I told him.

“Oh you don’t do you, well how very formal of you,” he
scoffed. “You know more than you’re letting on,
dick wad
, so don’t try to play games with us or we’ll bring Major Dunbar
back in here and let him question you personally.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference, I’m telling you all I
know. I’m a mercenary, for fuck’s sake, not a soldier of ideology. I’m not
trying to protect anyone but myself. Which is why they put these safeguards in
place, to stop soldiers in my position from selling everyone else down the
river to save their own worthless hides.”

The interrogator glared, flaring his nostrils as he snorted
at me, then all at once he sat back down and started asking me about my eye
again.

That’s the way it is with interrogations. They pump you
with questions and hammer formica surfaces as if their very lives depend on
getting the answers, then hit you with different line of inquiry while you’re
still up a tree over your first lot of denials. Linda used to do a similar
thing; she would ask me about my day, then not give me a chance to reply as she
scattergunned me with questions as I tried to get out my lies. Linda? It was
funny how my thoughts kept returning to Linda. We’d only been married for two
years but she’d cast such a shadow over the rest of my life that I sometimes
wondered if she’d meant more to me than a simple marriage of convenience.

But that was a question for another day. For the moment I
had other questions to worry about.

“Who patched you up? Where d’you get the GPS from, bozo?”

My time on the interrogation block blurs into a single overwhelming memory
because there was no structure to it. They came for me day or night, sometimes
for twelve hours at a time, sometimes for barely a few minutes. I got the
occasional slap but on the whole was surprised by how little they physically
abused me. Perhaps that was because I never tried holding back on them. Or at
least, they never thought I was holding back on them. I’m sure if I’d mimed
locking my lips and tossing an imaginary key over my shoulder I would’ve soon
found my head in a bucket of piss but I didn’t. I co-operated as best I could
so that after three months of names, dates and places, picking mug shots out of
family albums and drawing noughts and crosses on satellite photographs, my
interrogators were gone and replaced by a ram-rod panel of military judges,
called to McCarthy to decide how best to reward me for my co-operation.