Prologue

The Man Who Didn’t Exist

 

I am writing this as fast as I can. In the passageway outside my cell I hear the sound of boots. They are coming to interrogate me again.

Though I officially died on 17 January, 1991, the body of the man known as Raz Rasmussen continues to breathe air and perform physical and mental functions. One of those functions is to write in this book. Keeping a journal is the only thing that distinguishes me from an insect or a rat.

It is unlikely that anyone except my captors will ever read this journal. It no longer matters to me. The only purpose of writing in the book is that it forces me to think about what I did each day.

I was interrogated yesterday. They wanted to know about the mission control computer of the F/A-18. I told them everything I knew. It is a joke, after this much time. Memory is one of the things I have lost in captivity, like teeth, hair, eyesight. Torture does not refresh memory. It kills it.

They say they are being kind by allowing me to have this journal. And in a way, they are. Of course, they take it away from me every day to see what I have written. It must amuse them to read my notes about life in prison. I learned early in my captivity to be careful what I write. My captors are paranoid. If I write something unflattering, they drag me back to the interrogation room.

If I believed in heaven or hell, I would have to assume that I have been sent to hell. If so, it’s not all that terrifying. Torture is an overrated method for extracting information. The truth is, pain eventually loses its power to terrify. I have learned to detach from my physical self. Since I am already a dead man, they can’t hurt me.

This knowledge gives me an immense advantage over my captors and, for that matter, over everyone else in the world. I have nothing to hope for. Nothing to lose. Nothing to fear.

I hear them coming now. They will ask the same old questions, and I will give the same old answers. They waste their time. I remember nothing of value. The only part of my life I recall with perfect clarity is the night I died.