Chapter XXI

PRITCHETT FELT HIS LEGS go numb after sitting chained to a metal bench in a transport truck for more than two hours. The only thing illuminating the back of the vehicle was a pair of thin slits near the top of the roof on each sidewall. With pale light trickling inside, Pritchett guessed it was either early morning or late evening, though he couldn’t be sure. Since he was captured in Barcelona, he had endured hours of interrogation along with regular sleep deprivation. He lost his sense of time since being taken. He closed his eyes for just a moment only to get slapped in the face by a nearby guard.

“No sleep during transport,” the man said, grabbing Pritchett by the chin and forcing his head against the wall.

Pritchett looked down at the bucket a few feet away that contained his hook along with his eye patch. He could only imagine how hideous he looked to the guard.

But Pritchett was more concerned with the mystery of how he was nabbed by a KGB operative. With the possibility that the mole could leak the plan, Pritchett made sure that the only people who knew about the mission were those involved. However, given his current situation, he could only assume that either one of the people who knew was the mole or that one of them wasn’t careful with the details of the operation. The goal of apprehending Andersson succeeded, but not without a hefty price, one Pritchett was paying personally. Ultimately, the end result was a disaster. Andersson managed to elude further detainment thanks to the Spanish authorities, and the KGB caught the Bonn station chief.

When the overhead light flickered on, Pritchett saw his reflection in the stainless steel wall opposite of him. Though not the sharpest image, he could tell his face was covered with stubble, his hair disheveled. He concluded that solitary confinement would be a dream as he would be content to be placed anywhere alone. No more flashing lights. No more yelling and screaming. No more threats. Just a dark box and silence. Seconds after stepping out of the truck, Pritchett realized that was never going to happen.

Two men snatched him before he could take more than a few steps, whisking him away to an interrogation chamber. They secured Pritchett in a chair, cinching his arms down with leather straps. He smiled as the guards were befuddled over how to handle the extra wrist belt. Pritchett shrugged when they looked at him as they tried to decide what to do. They eventually chose to just leave it alone before exiting the room.

A single light bulb hung above him, swaying gently when the door swung open.

“Mr. Charles Pritchett,” said the man striding into the room. He spoke in English with a heavy eastern European accent. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you for quite some time now.”

“Perhaps if the circumstances were different, I might feel the same way,” Pritchett said. “Who you are again?”

The man chuckled. “I supposed introductions are in order since we’ve never met. Though I won’t be able to shake your hand like a proper gentleman.”

“I don’t think we need to pretend that we’re proper gentleman, do we? I think we both know we’re far beyond pretending to be anything other than what we are.”

“And what are we, Mr.—?”

“Goran Jankovic,” he said. “And we are spies. There is very little that is gentlemanly about what we do.”

Pritchett shrugged. “Maybe that’s just you. I always try to conduct myself as a gentleman. I’ve found it serves me well, even in situations like this.”

“So, this isn’t your first time being tethered to a chair and interrogated, no?”

“I’ve survived my share of interrogations, though not always as intact as when I entered.”

Jankovic glanced down at Pritchett’s hand. “I bet they still didn’t get what they wanted, did they?”

Pritchett shook his head. “And neither will you, which is why you should let me go so we can discuss things like gentlemen instead of savages.”

“Are you suggesting that I am a savage?”

“No, but I have seen perfectly reasonable men turn into them after not getting what they wanted.”

“And why do you think I won’t get what I want out of you?” Jankovic asked.

“I’m not certain about anything in this business. Guess it depends on what you’re looking for.”

“We’re looking for John Hambrick and thought you might know where he’s hiding.”

Pritchett’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “John Hambrick—now that’s a name I haven’t heard in quite some time.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I didn’t know you had asked one.”

Jankovic looked down at the bucket containing Pritchett’s hook and eye patch. Grabbing the patch, Jankovic hustled over to Pritchett and put it in place.

“I can’t stand to look at you for a second longer with that eye. What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t want to talk about much of anything, do you?” Jankovic said with a sneer. “Fortunately, this chair is designed to make people tell secrets they swear they won’t tell.”

Pritchett watched Jankovic untie a bundled-up tool set and begin to sift through it.

“I don’t know where John Hambrick is.”

“Likely answer,” Jankovic said, pausing from arranging the tools as he glanced at Pritchett. “It might be a while before I’m completely satisfied with it.”

“Pulling my teeth won’t help me magically conjure up Hambrick’s location. I haven’t heard from him in quite a while. And from what I last heard, we’re not sure what side he’s truly working for.”

“Do you think I’m that big of a fool?” Jankovic asked as he inspected the blade of a scaffold. “We definitely don’t believe the Americans woke up one morning with a solution for how to successfully launch a satellite into space. Someone gave you our secrets.”

“And John Hambrick is the only person who could’ve sold your secrets to us?” Pritchett asked, huffing a laugh through his nose. “And yet you think I’m the delusional one. What a pity.”

“Do not mock me. We both know the truth, only you’re not quite willing to admit it. But don’t worry. By the time I’m finished with you, you will tell me anything I want to know just to make the pain stop. Now open up and say ah.”

Pritchett remained tightlipped, refusing to banter with Jankovic. Pritchett’s fear of getting something shoved into his mouth trumped his desire to fire back. Watching the blade get nearer made him contemplate fabricating a story, anything to prevent the inevitable pain.

A knock at the door interrupted Jankovic’s assault. He turned and looked over his shoulder.

“Come in,” he shouted in Serbian.

A guard hustled across the room and whispered something in Jankovic’s ear before exiting the room.

Jankovic replaced his tools on the table and took off his gloves. “We will continue this later. I have some more pressing business to attend to. Don’t go anywhere.”

Pritchett glared at Jankovic and tugged on the leather straps. They didn’t budge.

A pair of guards entered the room and looked at Pritchett closely for a moment before glancing down at the bucket near the table.

“Looking for this?” one of the men asked before breaking into laughter.

“I wouldn’t play with that thing if I were you,” Pritchett said. “You might live to regret it.”

The guard waved dismissively at him before working to untie Pritchett. They picked him up and ushered him toward the door, but Pritchett wasn’t in the mood to make things easy on them. Instead, he fell limp and the two men were forced to drag him down the hallway to his cell.

With a violent heave, they shoved Pritchett inside and he stumbled as he went, stopping by skidding across the dirty cobblestone floor. He watched as the door clanged shut and heard the two guards laughing as they walked down the hallway.

He didn’t know how much time he would have before his next encounter with Jankovic, but Pritchett could only hope it was long enough to come up with a plausible story that would keep him alive for an attempted escape or an extraction. No matter what, he needed to get out as soon as possible.