The weather-beaten van stopped with a jolt, and as the diesel engine stopped ticking, one of the henchmen of Mother Russia stepped out of the dilapidated warehouse to check on the new arrivals.
‘We’re here to shoot, I mean, uh, film,’ said the director from behind the wheel, smiling nervously.
The muscular guard growled something incomprehensible as the chubby director nodded insecurely to the two other occupants of the front seat. They quickly got out of the van and started hauling lighting and film equipment cargo into the warehouse. The director, having apparently overcome his nervousness, started to enthusiastically issue utterly unnecessary instructions as to the positioning of the equipment. His pomposity was utterly ignored. They were there for the money only. Suddenly, a door opened at the far end of the hall, and the bald-headed bruiser strode decisively toward the director, his oversized hand outstretched. Despite the formal welcoming gesture, he did nothing to mask his loathing for the director’s unkempt appearance.
‘Ugh, where is he, the one I’m to film, I mean?’ the director stammered, trying to avoid eye contact with the heavy while awkwardly massaging his fingers after the crushing handshake.
The bald-headed ruffian did not answer but stared coldly at 163him, pointing to the door in the back of the warehouse hall. The director regretted wearing his insecurity on the outside and headed hesitantly towards the door. Slowly, he pushed it open and shivered at the sight that met him as the light from the hall cut through the darkness of the room beyond. Kaare lay half naked and bruised on the floor, chained to a rusty pipe. He had not registered that the door had opened but felt the cold draught rush into the room. He strained to listen, but his pride prevented him from turning. The shaven-headed thug reached into the room and found the switch; instantly, a sharp white light from the fluorescent lamp blinded the director, forcing him to squint his eyes and turn his head away. Kaare braced himself for more beatings, tensing his muscles. Fear bolted through him like electricity as he felt them close in on him. But the abuse did not come. Slowly, he started to relax when a voice broke the silence:
‘Nice stallion, but skinny,’ the director said. He continued:
‘We’ll use a chart-topper from Denmark as background music.’
The intimidating ruffian just uttered a grunt, and the director forced a laugh to hide the fact that he was getting on his nerves. The director shook off his discomfort and ordered the thug to move Kaare into the warehouse hall.
As he was dragged out of the boiler room, Kaare rubbed his face against his shoulders to remove the blindfold. But to no avail. What he was hearing gave him no clue as to what was about to unfold. For the first time ever, he understood what it might be like to be blind. Confused by sounds and totally helpless. It was terrifying. He knew that something was going to happen and that he would be the centre of attention for something that was far from aimed at helping him. But there was no indication that it 164would be physically unpleasant. The way he was being moved was far too gentle to imply that. The question is merely what is it they have in store for me?
Had he not been blindfolded, he would have seen the director was busy checking the camera, the lighting and the white balance while testing camera angles by placing his hands in front of his face like frames. His assistants had placed a table and chair in the middle of the room, and as Kaare was led towards the chair, he could sense that they were about ready. The many noises fell silent, and an almost tangible expectation filled the room. Soon, I’m going to be the main attraction of something. A powerful sound broke the silence and made him flinch as if he had been slapped. It took him several seconds to realise it was not white noise, intended to stress him. Bobby McFerrin’s ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ pounded out in the room. The shaven-headed brute satisfied himself that the director was ready and then pulled his T-shirt from his colossal torso and covered his head with a leather mask. The director had regained his confidence, possibly because the Hulk had been reduced to a porn star – with whom he was more than familiar. He signalled for his assistant to turn down the music and place Kaare in the single chair facing the camera. The director zoomed in on Kaare then nodded at the masked man, who removed the blindfold. The music stopped and a taped script started:
‘Ladies and gentlemen in the government of Denmark. The Danish press is provocative, and that is your responsibility. Denmark’s relationship with Russia is compromised, and Russia is entitled to react when our rights to respect and red lines are disregarded. We have one of your country’s soldiers in our custody. Unfortunately, he has Russian blood on his hands, so our 165hospitality is limited. Our honour has been violated, and we expect you to accept our demands without hesitation. They are simple: we demand an official apology and the sum of thirty-seven million US dollars transferred to an account designated by us. Then, we will release the Danish soldier. Your representatives in St Petersburg will receive further details in the coming days; we expect a swift reply. This recording is proof of the strength of our negotiating hand. If we haven’t heard from you within five days, this recording will be made available to Danish and International press. And the sequel to this video is not one you want to see. The responsibility is yours,’ chanted a voice in heavily accented English from a Dictaphone on the floor.
Once the Dictaphone went quiet, the bald-headed heavy yanked Kaare from the chair and, with lightning speed, pulled off his underpants and delivered two cracks of a riding whip to his unprotected genitals. Kaare was not mentally prepared for further violence and folded like a rag doll as the white-hot pain seared through his body like a bushfire.
‘I recommend that you co-operate. You don’t want to see what happens next,’ the brute said to camera in a rattling voice.
The director signalled for the spotlights to be turned off and gestured to the thug with his thumb and index finger to indicate that the take had been perfect. The muscular Hulk ignored the enthusiasm, returned the blindfold to Kaare and dragged him back toward the boiler room.
Chained to the rusty pipe again, Kaare felt the strength ooze out of him slowly, like blood seeping from a dead animal. Faintly, his consciousness registered the sound of the door being closed. Even though the blindfold isolated him from further sensory 166input, the darkness no longer gave him a feeling of security. All he wanted was to surrender to sleep’s supreme, peaceful embrace. But his mind refused to leave him in tranquillity. Images swirled around his head – Ulla, his colleagues in the Jaeger Corps, Afghanistan, that fateful night in the compound, and the one in Jomfru Ane Gade. Confusing images, helter-skelter, without any rhyme or reason. Like a film that runs off the spool at its end. He had to mobilise his last ounce of energy to struggle free of the frustrating maze of his thoughts and into the sanctuary of darkness offered by sleep.