The Russian was desperate on the sixth day.
“Damn you, Paul! Damn you, Chardy, the codes! The codes, damn you. The frequencies.”
Chardy hung on the rope. Before him, the wall. He could hear the wheel of the cart as they brought the heavy acetylene torch in. He had never seen it, but he’d heard it bang against the walls, heard the squeak as its metal wheels rolled across the stone floor. He had no idea who was working the torch, who actually applied it, but for certain, whatever happened, happened at Speshnev’s direction.
He could hear them now adjusting the nozzle, could hear the soft turning of valves as the gas and oxygen mixed. He smelt the gas, as he always did, and he began to gag reflexively, to choke and twist on his ropes, to retch up food that wasn’t there.
“It’s here, Paul. The torch. It is once again the hour of the torch. Are you ready, Paul? The torch is here; he’s got it lit. Its flame is blue, Paul. Its pain is indescribable. He’s going to wait a second, adjust the flame.”
Chardy’s head lolled idiotlike on his chest. Drool played across his chin. Very little was real to him except the torch, whose approach he could feel all the way to his inmost cells. The rope cut into his hands. His fingers looked like blue sausages. Blood ran down his arms. He hung in his own waste.
“Paul, don’t make me debase you again! Don’t!”
Chardy fought them with his last weapon. It was his game. He tried to think of basketball. He tried to keep the game at the front of his brain. He tried to remember what he loved most about it: the pebbly feel of the ball as it came up to his hand on the dribble; the exultation that fired through his veins when a long one went in, especially late in the last period in a close game; the sheer fury, the physical ferocity of the struggle under the boards. He saw himself in a vast dark gym. He could not tell if there were fans in the seats or not, for he could not see. He could not make out the people he was playing against either: they seemed to be shadows, swatting at him, throwing their bodies at him. But he could see the hoop, the only spot of light in this great arena, an orange circle, crisp and perfect, its white net hanging beneath it. And he could not miss. He kept putting it in. He kept firing that ball up there and it kept going through. He could smell his own foul sweat, and exhaustion clouded his vision. His legs didn’t work and fatigue blurred the precision of his moves. He could get it in, though. He thought he could get it in.
“Paul, it’s working now. The torch is working now. We are ready. They tell me you screamed all night, Paul. You’re feverish, you’re in great pain. You’ve fought so hard. But you’re not going to make it. You are not going to make it, Paul. I’ve won. You knew I would. Paul, it’s a matter of time. It’s only a matter of time. The torch is ready.”
Chardy could hear two grunting men shove the thing over, hear the squeak of the wheels.
“Paul?”
“Please,” Chardy said. “Please don’t.”
“Are you ready, Paul?”
“Please. Help me. Don’t hurt me. I’m begging, oh, Jesus, I’m begging you. Don’t hurt me. Please. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”
“Burn him.”
“No.
“You’ll talk then?”
Chardy hung on his ropes. He tried to pray. Dear God, spare me. Spare me, please, dear God. I pray to you, dear God, help me. Please, help me.
“Paul. Your answer?”
Chardy whispered.
“What? Louder, Paul. Louder.”
Chardy tried to find the words. His tongue caught in his throat. He could hardly see. He was so scared. He could feel his heart thumping.
“Yes, Paul? Yes?”
Chardy croaked, “I said, fuck you, cocksucker.”
They burned the sixth hole in his back.
Chardy lay in the ropes. How much time had passed? Pain-time or real time? Pain-time is different: longer. In pain-time, years, decades. In real time, maybe three hours. It was just night. He stared at the crumbling stone. He heard rats in the darker corners of the cell. He knew that tomorrow he would crack. It would be tomorrow. He was not even sure he could last the night.
He heard the cell door open. Off schedule. Were they going to give him his seventh day’s dosage now, and cheat him of the pleasures of brooding upon it? But he couldn’t turn to see. His neck barely worked.
Rough hands cut him down. He fell limbless to the straw. He was dragged toward light. They lifted him up.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
“His back, watch his back, you fool.”
“Yes,
He seemed to sit.
“Get him some water.”
It was presented in an earthenware cup, held for him because his gray hands would not work. He felt the rough texture of the vessel with lips and tongue as the water sweetly entered him.
“Enough.”
The water was taken away. “Paul? Can you hear me?”
Chardy could not focus. He squinted and recognized the voice. He could almost see the face and then it swam into clarity. The Russian peered at him intently.
Chardy smiled stupidly, feeling the skin of his lips crack and split. A tooth fell out. His head lolled forward; he raised it again. He shook his head.
“Paul, listen to me. We’ve captured another Kurd from Ulu Beg’s group. A deserter. We broke him with the torch just minutes ago.”
Chardy thought about it. He almost passed out. More water was poured into his mouth, until he almost choked.
“I–I — I’m the only one who knows the fre — fre —
“Frequency, Paul. Frequency.”
“Frequency.”
“Paul, he didn’t have to tell us about the frequency or the codes. He told us enough. He told us about the woman.”
Chardy stared groggily at the man. His back fired off on him, curling him in a spasm of pain.
“Jo — Jo — Jo —?” he began weakly.
“Yes. Listen carefully. Here it is, a one-time-only offer. I’m not going to give you much time. You’ve got about thirty-seconds. Paul, either give us the information or I swear to you, I’ll bring you her head. If you talk, maybe we can get her out. We can try, at any rate. She’s beyond anybody else’s help. The Agency can’t help her. The Iranians can’t. She’s with his group and we’re closing in and we’ll have them in a matter of days, a week at the most. Only one man can help her, Paul. You, Paul. You decide, Paul. Does the woman live or die? You tell me, Paul, or I swear that within the week, in this very chamber, I will hand you her head. I’ll take it from her myself.”
Chary had begun to cry. He found the strength to lift his hands to his eyes to shield his shame. Fat tears fell onto his filthy body and ran into the straw. He choked on them.
“Paul. Ten seconds.” Speshnev stood.
Chardy fought for his strength as he watched the Russian go toward the light. He felt himself slipping into the straw. He watched the others join Speshnev at the door and begin to file out. Speshnev pulled the heavy door closed behind him.
“There, there, Paul,” he heard the Russian crooning, as he lifted Chardy’s head gently from the straw. “It’s going to be all right. You’re being reasonable at last.”
They cleaned him quickly after he told them, and shot him full of pain-killer. The rest he remembered poorly.
