Warlord: Dervish (6 page)

“Yes.” Jason said it and then repeated the word because he was not sure he had said it.

“…you were not an English teacher, but you have
heard
of Dostoyevsky, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Dostoyevsky was quite a—how shall we say?
Dissident
in his youth. Were you aware of this?”

“Nah—no.”

“It is true. But then again, Czarist Russia of the mid-nineteenth century—we might imagine—fairly invited dissent.”

Kaku took the revolver back up.

“By the late 1840s, Dostoyevsky was a member of not one but
two
discussion circles…” As Jason watched, Kaku cracked the cylinder again. “…Durov’s circle ran a printing press and Dostoyevsky took an active part in publishing and distributing materials, materials deemed subversive of the government.” Kaku plucked a round from the table and slid it into an empty chamber. “But it was Petrashevsky’s circle that the Russian police infiltrated. And when they made their arrests…” Kaku inserted a second and third round “…twenty-one of the Petrashevtsi—including Dostoyevsky—were condemned to death.

“Now, Tsar Nicholas I remitted the death sentence,” Kaku pressed the cylinder into position with the flat of his hand, “but the prisoners were purposefully
not
told of his decision. Can you imagine?

“The day of their planned execution arrived.” Kaku closed one eye and sighted down the barrel of the revolver. “The prisoners were marched outside.” He straightened his arm, the barrel of the revolver centered on Jason’s chest. Jason struggled against the ropes binding him.

“They were tied to posts…” Kaku raised the revolver, pointing it at Jason’s head “…to face the firing squad.” Jason struggled futilely against his fetters. “And then,” Kaku lowered the weapon to Jason’s chest again, “at that moment…” he cocked the hammer “…a messenger burst in bearing the Tsar’s reprieve.” Kaku squeezed the trigger, the hammer falling on an empty chamber.

Click
.

“Dostoyevsky spent the next five years in a Siberian labor camp…” Jason sweat profusely in the chilled room “…but that part of his story is not germane to our endeavors here.

“I wonder…” Kaku placed the revolver down once more “…what are you feeling? You did not know your father. Dostoyevsky’s father was a tyrant, given to violent, drunken rages. You know, Jason, there are rumors that the man’s own serfs killed him—held him down and poured vodka down his throat until he drowned. Dostoyevsky’s mother succumbed to tuberculosis when he was sixteen. Do you have a favorite memory from childhood, Jason?”

Despite the situation, a scene materialized in Jason’s mind. He quickly banished it, having no intention of sharing it with this sadist.

“Yes?” Kaku had read Jason’s face. “Good. Another word of advice, if you would humor me, Jason. Sometimes,” the doctor extended the fingers and thumb of one hand and circled them in the air, “sometimes in the whorl—the cacophony of life—one must focus, center oneself. We must ignore the extraneous data and concentrate on this one thing. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“For example, this watch.”

Kaku dangled a watch by its band. Jason hadn’t seen it on the table or in the man’s hand until he had mentioned it.

What’s wrong with me
?

He was perspiring madly.

“Do you recognize it?”

Jason took his eyes from the man’s mouth and stared at the timepiece. It was
his
watch. The one his students had given him.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course I do.”

Kaku placed the watch face-up on the table, gently, respectfully.

Jason’s head swam.

“I see where you are, Jason, and I want you to listen to me very carefully…”

Gripping the revolver by its barrel, Kaku hammered the watch to pieces with the butt of the firearm.

“…I want you to forget everything you think you know about time, Jason.”

Jason wondered if he should cry or scream.
That was my watch
. Should he be angry? A shadow was crossing the room to his side.

“…our time together will be short…”

Something in his neck.

“…but I trust it will be fruitful.”

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was in a cell. It was cool and airy. His hand automatically went up to his throat, touching tentatively, searching, but everything felt as it should. He stood and walked to the bars, staring out onto a rock-walled passage. Jason strained to see as far as he could in either direction, his face pressed to the iron, the rock stretching unabated from floor to ceiling as far as his limited line of sight allowed.

The passageway was silent, as if deserted.

He considered his cell. It was cramped, no more than six by eight feet, crowded with a cot, toilet and sink.

Glancing again into the passageway, Jason took note of the camera mounted on the rock wall. He held himself against the bars, studying it. A green light above the lens flashed rapidly.

“
hey
…” His voice sounded weak, weaker than he wanted it to. He shook off his lethargy and mustered his strength. They didn’t have him tied down now. Even if the giant came for him, he could put up a fight. “Hey!”

The camera stared back, green light blinking.

“Hey!”

“They can hear you well enough,” a clipped English accent answered. Female.

Jason backed away from the bars, somewhat startled. The reply had not come from the camera or an intercom, but from some place in the passageway, somewhere close by.

“W-What?” he stammered.

“You don’t have to yell, love. They can hear you well enough.”

“Where are you?”

“In the cell next to yours I gather.”

“Who are you?”

“It looks like I’m to be your neighbor for the time being. And you are?”

“What do you mean
for the time being
?”

“And you are, dear?” she persisted.

“My name is Jason. And you can drop the condescending tone.”

“Good day, Jason. And I’m not condescending. I’m British.”

“Hello.” He didn’t think to ask her name. “Where are we?”

“Geographically—if I had to guess…” there was a melodic lilt to her English-inflection “…I’d guess they’ve got us somewhere in Eastern Europe.”

“Why Eastern Europe?”

“This is where they take people.”

“Where do they take people? Who?”

“Black sites, Jason. Extraordinary rendition. You have heard?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Jason scanned the interior of his inhospitable cell. “I don’t…I don’t like it here.”

“Very pithy, and very true. You voice a sentiment I share.”

“They can hear every word we say…” Jason stared at the camera, “…can’t they?”

“And they watch our every move as well.”

“Where are we?” Jason asked the unseen woman again.

“This is not a happy place, Jason.”

Images of Dr. Kaku and his ham-fisted companion bearing needles flashed through Jason’s mind. “No, it’s not.”

“Imagine a happy place.”

“What’s that?” He wasn’t sure he had heard her right.

“Imagine a happy place, Jason. When it gets to be too much, that is.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Imagine a happy place? Yes.”

“Does it work?”

“Sometimes. He can’t get into your happy place, try as he might. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Yet Jason wasn’t certain he did. “He told me a story. About Dostoyevsky, the writer.”

“I know who Dostoyevsky was. No need to condescend.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I’m kidding with you Jason.” She paused for a moment. “He told us about Lenin.”

“
Us
?”

“Yes. I was here with a man. A photographer. My friend, Per.”

“He told me about Dostoyevsky.”

“Yes, you’d mentioned that. And what did he tell you about Dostoyevsky?”

“How he was lined up against a wall, almost shot.”

“A mock execution.”

“Yeah.”

“And, let me guess, the whole time he was playing with a revolver?”

“Yes! Loading it and unloading it. And then he pointed it at me.”

“And then?”

“And then,
click
.”

“
Click
.” The woman sounded reflective.

She was quiet for some time, until Jason asked, “What’d he tell you about Lenin?”

“That Lenin’s brother was executed by the Czarist state. I’d known that already, of course.”

“Did he point the gun at you too?”

“No. When he got to the point where Lenin’s brother is shot, he aimed his revolver at Per and pulled the trigger.”

“He killed your friend?”

“Right in front of me, yes.”

“Oh my god.” Jason was at a loss for words. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“I am too. And I think I’m done talking for now, Jason. Be a love and give a girl some privacy, yes?”

“Wait—wait!” Jason tried to push himself through the bars, straining for a glance of the cell next to his and the woman in it. “What do I call you?”

The silence of the passageway was the only response.

Imagine a happy place

Her accent made him think of another.

A happy place

He’d met her at the beach the summer of his senior year in college. He remembered the songs of that summer as if it were yesterday. Blind Melon was crooning
No Rain
. They’d released the album a year earlier, but the video with the little girl dressed up as a tap-dancing bee came out the summer Jason and his buddy, Jack, drove down to South Carolina. They’d listened to it on the way down. It was on all the radio stations. The song held a peculiar, elegiac quality for Jason.

Aspen was at the beach with her girlfriend, Courtney. Courtney’s parents had a condo in the same complex as Jack’s parents. Jack had hooked up with Courtney. She’d mentioned something about Aspen having a boyfriend back home in North Carolina. Jason steered clear. He knew himself, knew he was simultaneously attracted and repelled by her beauty, intimidated. They’d engaged in a series of conversations to kill time, while Jack and Courtney made out under the stars. Like
that
wasn’t uncomfortable.

But it wasn’t. Jason found he could talk to this girl, the conversations were not strained. She was eighteen, about to turn nineteen. She had an older sister, and a mother who’d divorced but was finding happiness with another man. She was going to start junior college in the fall. She was beautiful, and when she spoke the southern twang to her voice was the most exquisite Jason had ever heard. He did his best to ignore her, skipping small rocks over the ocean surface.

If he looked at her too long he felt something stir deep inside himself, decided it was best not to go there.

By the following night they were inseparable, arm in arm. He didn’t try to kiss her. She made vague references to the boyfriend back home, how things weren’t working out so well between the two of them. Jason was just happy to be there under the clear skies with her. No rain. They sat in a lawn chair next to the pool at the condo complex. Aspen rested between his legs, her back against his torso. He was young and strong and lean. His muscular arms were crossed over her torso, under her bikini-top, her breasts resting on his forearm, which she stroked, her touch electric. He pressed his nose to the back of her head and inhaled her.

I have this feeling, she told him on their final night together that summer.

They were standing on the beach where they’d met. Jack and Courtney were some distance off, clasping each other so tightly that the two appeared one. A wave crashed in the dark and the ocean cascaded across their ankles.

I have this feeling that if I don’t kiss you, she had told him, that I’m going to regret it.

Jason looked deep into her eyes and pulled her close to him. He kissed her gently on the mouth, and when he felt her respond he kissed her harder.

Beneath them the surf raced across the beach and pummeled their legs, their feet sinking into the sand, into the earth, as if the whole world was shifting beneath them.

A torrent of water came between them, tearing Aspen away, filling Jason’s nostrils and mouth. He shook his head, frenziedly, but there was no escaping the aquatic depths. The weight of the ocean—the weight of
all
oceans, past, present and future—bore down on him, threatening to seal him in oblivion.

“Bring him up.”

Jason gasped and retched as the cellophane was removed from his face. The board he was strapped to had righted and his head was once again higher than his feet. He vomited, the water spewing out of him.

“Jason.”

The voice had a peculiar intonation, but it wasn’t hers, and it wasn’t a woman’s.

“You can hear me, yes?”