CapturedbytheSS, page 3
Steadying my nerves, I decide to ask what I really want to know. “Where are you taking me?”
“Ordinarily, American spies are taken to a facility in Berlin. But since you behaved so differently in the initial interview…and because you continue to act somewhat strangely, I want to spend more time questioning you, so I’m taking you to my residence. That way, I can spend as much time interrogating you as I like.”
Oh, well, goodie. Lucky me. “And what exactly are you going to do to me?”
Without batting an eye, he answers my question. “You will be made to cooperate of course.” His answer is very matter-of-fact, as if he’s commenting on the weather. There’s nothing malicious or threatening in his tone, which actually scares me more.
In a sudden panic, I wonder how many valuable secrets I know…or if I even know any valuable secrets. My job is to memorize and obtain military details about the Nazis to give to my American superiors…it’s not the other way around. Hell, I don’t think I even know anything.
It may not be pretty, but spies are expendable and intentionally kept in the dark about most US military affairs. There are a lot of things I don’t know. I don’t know how my superiors find and communicate with contacts in Germany. I don’t know anything about informants in the empire or how they communicate with my superiors. I really don’t know anything about anything. Questioning me may be pointless at best.
We drive for about an hour or so before he exits the freeway and then turns onto another road. The vehicle’s speed decreases greatly, and we cruise at a slower clip until he turns down a gravel road.
After what feels like an eternity, he stops in front of a white stone house. I don’t see any lights on inside nor do I see any buildings around. Unlike the checkpoint, there aren’t any armed guards either. I could slip my handcuffs under me, open the door and then run like hell.
“Don’t move,” he orders, killing the engine. “If you run, I will shoot you in the leg.”
Hmm, I think he sensed something from me.
I reluctantly glance at his sidearm. Although I don’t say anything, I silently agree not to run. I don’t want to spend my last few days of life in unnecessary agony.
After stepping out of the car, he pockets his keys and walks around to my side. He opens my door and gestures for me to get out.
“Out, please.”
I lean away from him, not wanting to cooperate.
“Out, please,” he repeats. Instead of gesturing again, he tugs on my arm.
“All right,” I growl, angrily stepping out.
Again, he seems a bit surprised by my behavior. He didn’t ask me to reveal anything or give any information yet. He told me to get out of the car. I really shouldn’t be so disagreeable so early in the game. But I’m not at all happy about this, and I want him to know that.
He pulls me toward the house. After unlocking and then opening the front door, he shoves me inside without releasing me. He takes a moment to relock the front door as he holds me firmly. I tug against him, but he only ignores me as he turns the deadbolt. Without a word to me, he effortlessly drags me upstairs. We stop in a dark room.
He clicks on the light. A bit disoriented, I take in the sparsely furnished room. It looks like a rarely used guest bedroom. There’s only a twin-sized bed, a nightstand and a small lamp. I’m not sure why, but he unlocks one of my handcuffs. Giddiness washes through me as I pull my hands from behind my back.
“Lie down on the bed, please.”
I ball my freed hands into fists. “I’m not cooperating with you!” I can practically hear my instructors screaming at me that I’m doing precisely the wrong thing. Again, he didn’t ask for information. He told me to lie down.
Wordlessly, he snatches my wrist and pulls me to the bed. I yank against him, fighting him, which I’m actually not supposed to do. Unfortunately, I quickly find out that I’m physically no match for him. Tugging against him, I practically sit down, trying to break free, but he only drags me across the floor to the bed.
My other hand tries to grab something to stop my forward progress but only pointlessly skids across the hardwood floor. His handcuffs are still locked to my wrist, and they clatter against the floor as he pulls me.
Falling back on pure, primal instincts, I kick his leg…hard. He only grunts and stumbles, but he doesn’t release me. He flashes me a vicious look that kinda makes me regret doing that.
“I have had a very long night, American, and I have little patience left. If I were you, I would be nicer.” He brutally yanks me up to my feet. Taking hold of my wrist, he roughly twists my arm behind my back and bends me over the side of the bed. Pain spears through my arm and shoulder. Pressing my face against the bedding, I squeeze my eyes shut and stifle a sob.
I can tell he’s capable of really hurting me. If he pulls much harder, he’ll break something or possibly dislocate my shoulder. Swallowing my pride, I fall back on my training, vaguely remembering I’m not supposed to provoke my captor. I will myself to go limp before speaking. “Please,” I whisper, turning my head to the side. “I’ll be good.”
He stops twisting my arm and releases me.
“Thank you, American. I did not want to have to hurt you over such a simple request. Now please take off your coat and lie down on your back.”
Inhaling deeply, I stand and slowly slip off my coat. My captor takes it before tossing it on the other side of the small bed. Without looking at him, I sit down on the bed before obediently lying back.
Firmly, but not roughly, he takes hold of both my wrists and pulls them toward the wrought iron headboard.
Tilting my head back, I watch him loop the chain of my tethered handcuff over the headboard before securing the loose shackle to my other wrist.
Apparently satisfied, he turns without looking at me and then wordlessly leaves the room. I hear his heavy footfalls going down the stairs.
Fairly certain he’s downstairs, I grab the headboard with both hands and quickly pull myself up. Resting my head against my hands, I frantically dig for a bobby pin. I always try to have at least two tucked in my hair somewhere during an assignment. I actually know how to pick several types of locks with just a bobby pin, including handcuffs. To me, they’re a vital tool behind enemy lines.
No one ever actually taught me how to pick a lock with a bobby pin. It’s a trick I taught myself. I told one of my instructors about it once, but he just rolled his eyes and told me, “A hairpin will pick only the simplest of locks. It won’t get you into a secure building.”
Technically, my instructor is indeed correct. Whenever I break into a highly secured building, like the Echelon, I have a little toolkit I keep strapped to my thigh. It has sophisticated lock-picking tools, a Philips and flathead screwdriver, a small saw for stubborn locks and even a lock scrambler that can bypass both fingerprint scanners and ocular readers. I always have to toss it before leaving Berlin though. Something like that could be a problem at checkpoints.
But I don’t need my toolkit for handcuffs. Holding my breath, I find a pin in my hair. After pulling it out, I deftly get to work on unlocking one of my cuffs. In a matter of seconds, I have one unlocked. I don’t have a lot of time, so I leave the other cuff on and let the restraint dangle from my wrist. Not making any noise, I hurriedly sit up while tucking the pin back in, and then slide out of bed. The minute my shoes hit the hardwood floor, there’s a distinct tap.
Biting my bottom lip, I quickly bend over to pull off my shoes. I walk softly across the hardwood floor barefooted toward the open door. Peering through the door, I search for my captor. I don’t see or hear him. Being careful not to make any noise, I slip into the pitch-black hall and feel my way toward the stairs.
Clutching my shoes in one hand, I silently make my way down the stairs. Leaning over the railing, I search for any sign of him. There’s no sound or movement. Of course it’s so dark I can’t see anything. I think there’s a living room spilling out to the side of the stairs.
Taking a shallow breath, I tiptoe off the last step. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and I can see moonlight streaming in from several small windows in the foyer. Hurrying toward the door, I glance behind me, searching for him. There’s no sound or movement. A bit giddy, I fiddle with the locks.
My mind is already planning my next move. I have no idea where I’m going to go or how I’m going to get there. Hannover is still my best bet. But I don’t know where David’s synagogue is, and by now, he’s probably not at our rendezvous point anymore. I’m basically stuck behind enemy lines with no ID, no transportation and no help.
Of course, the ID is the really important thing. It’s hard to walk in any direction without a guard or a patrolman asking for identification. I have no idea how far I’m going to get, but at least I won’t be here. There’s a distinct click when I turn the deadbolt. Off to my right, I hear a soft sound and then a startled intake of air…followed by rushing footsteps.
Crap. He’s in the living room. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!
I frantically try to get the door open, but he’s on me in an instant. His arms wrap firmly around me.
“And where do you think you are going, American?” Amusement filters through his German-heavy English.
I thought I’d leave. It’s been fun though. “Let me go!” I protest, pulling against him. In the struggle, I drop my shoes.
“You said you would be good.” He chuckles softly into my hair.
I lied!
He drags me down a dark hallway. After stopping in another room, he turns on a light. We’re in the kitchen. My bare feet don’t even touch the floor as he holds me firm in just one arm. He marches to a drawer and then opens it. He pulls out a spool of thin, sand-colored rope. Leaving the rope on the counter, he walks across the kitchen. His arm around me constricts as he pulls open another drawer. Much to my concern, he retrieves a very long knife.
Oh dear.
I wrestle against him, trying to break free, but his grip is incredibly tight. After gathering the knife and the rope, he carries me back toward the stairs. A bit panic-stricken about the items he’s holding, I desperately try to formulate another plan. The minute he steps on the stairs, I shove against the wall with my foot in an attempt to knock him off balance.
“Stop it,” he orders, catching himself on the banister. “Do you want me to shoot you? Because I will if you refuse to behave.”
Oh yeah, I kinda forgot about that threat. “All right,” I growl. “I’ll behave.” I stop fighting and let him carry me upstairs. He takes me back to the same room.
“You are the most unusual American spy I have ever encountered,” he declares, setting me down. “Now sit down on the edge of the bed.”
Grudgingly, I comply. He sets down the rope and the knife on the nightstand. He turns and zeroes in on my dangling handcuff. He only chuckles softly as he unlocks it. After slipping his handcuffs back on his belt, he merely studies me. I think he’s trying to determine how I picked the lock.
His gloved fingers brush through my hair. I’m not sure why I notice, but his fingers feel strong and nimble.
“Aha,” he murmurs, finding the pins. He gently pulls them out. “You continue to surprise me with your tricks.” He gestures at me with my bobby pins as he talks. My eyes unwillingly meet his. Pausing, he raises an eyebrow quizzically at me. He wordlessly pockets the bobby pins as his piercing eyes scrutinize me. Uncomfortable under his heavy stare, I pull my gaze away and instead look down at the floor.
His gloved fingers glide under my chin and tilt my face up. I know he wants me to look at him, so I reluctantly cooperate. His eyes bore into mine as he bends over slightly. He leans in closer to me. “Your eyes are different. I thought it was just the lighting at the checkpoint.”
I look away from him and instead study the wall. I try to pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. In all honesty, I do.
If I had to describe my comrades in only one word I would say unfazed. It’s as if nothing ever bothers them or taxes them. It’s an odd calmness that’s also reflected in their eyes. Don’t get me wrong, my fellow agents are smart, clever, funny…they’re ordinary people really, but just…unfazed.
For example, if our superiors woke us up at three in the morning and told us to go on a five-mile jog in the pouring rain, which they sometimes did, my comrades literally didn’t care. They just got up, got dressed and did it. Meanwhile, it took every ounce of strength I had not to complain or mutter unhappily about it. I mean, seriously, who wants to go on a five-mile jog at three in the morning in the pouring rain! But stuff like that just never bothered the others. And if I tried to talk to them later about it with a casual, “Hey, that jog was kinda tough this morning, huh?” they usually just looked at me and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Why are you so different?” my captor demands.
I only study the wall, not wanting to meet his eyes. He hitches my chin up higher, obviously wanting me to look at him. Angrily, I do. He seems intrigued about something.
“Answer me, fräulein. Why aren’t you like the others?”
In modern German, fräulein basically means little girl and is more of a derogatory term now, though it once meant miss or young lady. It’s typically reserved for parents to scold young girls in private, but I’m more bothered by his question than the title he chose.
I only shrug indifferently, as if I have no clue what he’s talking about. But in truth, his question just hit a nerve. He’s dragging out a truth I’ve tried hard to either ignore or deny.
Since my first day in intelligence, I’ve always felt there was something odd about me, though I never knew what, and it was often a source of frustration and displeasure to my superiors. I was often told things such as, “You ask too many questions” or “Just follow orders”.
It’s one reason why I volunteer for more assignments. I always feel I’m trying to prove something. His hand slips out from under my chin.
“You are a curious case,” he mutters, standing up straight. “I was right to bring you here. I need more time to question you. I want more than a name and serial number.”
He reaches beside him to the items he left on the nightstand. He picks up the rope and the knife. Much to my relief, he uses the knife to cut up sections of rope. I’m hoping that’s all he plans to do with it.
“Lie back down, American. I doubt you can pick a knot.”
I don’t want to, but I don’t feel I have much choice. Since he took my bobby pins, I wouldn’t be able to pick the handcuffs anyway, but I guess he’s not taking any chances. I obediently lie back the way I was. He retrieves my right wrist and pulls it over my head.
He holds my right hand against the headboard and positions my arm with my wrist facing out. He then knots the rough, thin rope around my pinned limb, effectively immobilizing my arm. Clutching another section of cut rope, he leans over me and captures my other hand. He tethers my other wrist to the headboard. I don’t fight him at all.
Walking toward the foot of the bed, he pulls a delicate silver chain from his pocket. It looks like a bracelet or a piece of jewelry.
“Obviously, I should have put this on you earlier,” he mutters, wrapping the silver links around my left ankle.
I know what the anklet is…at least, I think I do. I’m guessing it’s part of a tracking system, most likely a GPS locator. If I do manage to get away, he’ll be able to find me with it. My suspicions are confirmed when he pulls a small handheld device from his pocket. It’s about the size of a cell phone or a digital camera.
I see the light from the device’s screen on his uniform and face. I think he’s checking to confirm my locator is working. Without a word to me, he pockets the device and then retrieves a longer section of rope. Wrapping the rope around both my ankles, he ties my feet together before knotting the rope to the footboard.
“There. I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere now.”
He straightens before looking me up and down. I’m not certain, but he seems to pause for a moment. I’m not sure what exactly he sees. Seemingly embarrassed, he shakes his head slightly and looks away. A muscle tightens in his jaw, as if he’s angry about something.
Well hell, I don’t know what his freakin’ problem is. I’m pretty sure I’m the one having the bad day here!
Genuine fear settles over me. I don’t like being tied down. It reminds me a little too much of certain pictures and rape films my instructors made me watch. I have no idea what he’s going to do to me, but I can take a pretty good guess. I’ve been trained on what to expect in the event of capture. He’ll most likely rape and torture me before dragging me off to my public execution. I don’t mind…seriously, I don’t.
I knew what I got myself into when I agreed to work in intelligence. No one sugar-coated this profession. I was told point-blank what to expect in the event of capture, but that doesn’t stop me from being afraid. That annoying self-preservation instinct is just making this harder than necessary.
With me securely tied down, he turns and simply walks away. His boots thud across the hardwood floor.
Tilting my head, I search for where he went. I hear him moving about the house, but I’m not sure what he’s doing. I swallow hard as his heavy footfalls grow louder. When he walks back into the room, I notice he’s holding a black case that’s roughly the shape and size of a large book. I also see a notebook and a pen. Holding the items in one hand, he picks up the lamp and sets it on the floor. He places the items on the cleared nightstand. Looking at the table, he frowns.
He slides the small table away from the bed and stands between it and me. I think he’s intentionally hiding whatever’s in the mysterious black case. With his back to me, he unzips the rectangular-shaped bag. Since he’s blocking my view, I have no idea what’s in the case.
He turns slightly, and my eyes meet his. He offers me a somewhat chilling smile.
“You think I’m going to torture and rape you, don’t you?”
I’m not sure what he wants to hear, but he’s damn good at figuring out what I’m really thinking, so I go with the truth.
