Chain Game

Ankles bound. Wrists cuffed. Small steps ahead of the guard holding the strap of the belt around his waist. A thick leash for a bad dog. Trapped in the motion of the shackle shuffle, Chain wanted to stride and shorten the journey to the infirmary. But not to escape. There was no escape from duty. Breathing slowly to regulate his adrenaline, he tried to savour the slow build-up to release as they moved down empty corridors. Two-tone walls, dirty white above grey. Blue cell doors. White security gates. Cages around the stairwells. Nets overhead to catch the jumpers.

The atmosphere of fear and menace hung like cheap cologne in nightclub stalls. Even at night, the miasma of guilty consciences and ill-intent hummed, fed by men lying awake in their cells or pacing up and down. Like a fire burning somewhere else in the building; raging at the edge of the senses. The cameras stared back blind, the live feed replaced by recorded footage. No witnesses to extrajudicial justice. But still the restraints were in place. The utter commitment to method acting stripped away his dignity, just like a real prisoner.

Is this the one? Thought Chain. The kill job? The one where I go too far. Other agents had killed in lawless foreign prisons. On purpose, and in the course of interrogation. But it was rare. Accidental death was like spilt blood - an occupational hazard. No tears because the victim was always guilty. Always deserving of greater punishment.

Prisons were not islands dotted across society. Each secure building was part of a worldwide ecosystem, a segmented jungle of concrete, steel and barbed wire. Linked by the governance of a single agency. As in the jungle, the fittest and strongest climbed the food chain. Some rose to the attention of DIS, the Department of Internal Sanction; the secret prison intelligence service that ghosted agents into prisons worldwide to monitor networks and cull the worst offenders. Keepers in zoos where every creature could wield a shiv.

Chain had been isolated in HMP Wakefield for two days, the only resident brought in by coffin. The prison was nicknamed ‘Monster Mansion’ because of the beasts caged within. Whisked away from the Military Corrective Training Centre (MCTC) at Colchester, he still had blood on his knuckles when he was planted in the segregation block in the dead of night. No debriefing or fresh instructions. Highly irregular.

After opening the cell door and applying the shackles, the guard held up a slip of paper that said 'GET PASSWORD' - and then swallowed it. Another first. Guards and undercover agents only ever conversed if an emergency was in progress. Control sent instructions by text to burner phones secreted in cells. SIM cards destroyed after each message. New ones appeared like money from the tooth fairy. But not this time. This time he was in the dark.

Outside the infirmary doors, the guard handed Chain a paper clip and a flesh-coloured radio earpiece. Using the paperclip, Chain slipped the cuffs and placed them on the floor. Escapology skills needed practice to stay sharp. Built like a crucifix, he flexed heavy cable muscles warmed by hours of shadowboxing and Tai chi. His hair cropped short to remove a handhold.

The guard stood by as Chain opened the door and slipped inside. The wan yellow room was broad, cold and vacant. Silent except for the buzz of white tube lights. A row of beds lie beneath high barred windows. Chain scanned the area. Blue sheets. Bare surfaces. No potential weapons left unchecked. Every breath brought the taste of disinfectant; stronger than a civilian hospital. He frowned. How did they clear the room without a fire alarm or a 'Code Blue' emergency?

Chain threw his senses out and moved down the corridor to the right. A prisoner lie awake in the second room, propped up on pillows. Abandoned. Innocent as a child staring at a closet door, waiting for the monster to appear. He was south Asian. Thirty-two to thirty-six years old. Unkempt hair and beard. Soft as marshmallow. His skin grey under the dull shine.

The haunted stare gave him away. He was new to prison - a first-timer - Chain was sure of it. A virgin convict in maximum security. What the hell was going on?

Chain noted the catheter protruding from his abdomen. The condition was familiar. Automated Peritoneal Dialysis used a machine that performed multiple exchanges at night while the patient was asleep. The prisoner had kidney failure. The portable machine pumped away, draining dialysate into a sterile bag. There must be some mistake. But Grand Axe was infallible.

Chain quickly checked the rest of the rooms; all empty. He glanced up at the camera in the corridor. The boss always watched the surveillance footage. Sometimes live. The flicker of displeasure on his face was now a matter of record. Chain looked back at the prisoner, visibly concerned about the hard case outside his door. This pathetic lump was no threat to anyone. But he had information that the boss wanted badly. Chain glanced at the entrance. Walking away was still an option; if he wanted to leave the prison in a coffin and not get out.

Prison aliases for DIS agents were carefully constructed. Endorsed by proper authorities and backed by evidence. Birth certificate, passport, criminal record - all expert forgeries. As authentic as the military record that would disappear if he disobeyed the order to interrogate the ashen lump on dialysis. With nothing but forged identity documents on file, the distinction between undercover DIS agent and prisoner would be erased forever. A paranoid delusion? That’s what the psychiatrist would consider if he ever confessed.

Chain knew his identity hung by a thread. And slipping handcuffs was nothing compared to escaping from a straitjacket, and antipsychotic meds.

He stepped into the open doorway and the prisoner flinched. He looked like he would crack under a hard stare. But the secret had been preserved even though the information could have been traded for a leaner sentence in a softer cage. Instead, the prisoner was alone in Monster Mansion. Staring death in the face. Chain gritted his teeth. Dialysis was messy; easy to get splashed if the catheter came out during their little chat. But the supporting guards had access to fresh uniforms, and the incinerator.

The medical chart was missing. The name hidden from him. He could ask, and the prisoner would tell, but ignorance was more than bliss. Sometimes, it meant survival. For the first time since he had become operational, there had been no file to study in preparation, no cell spin, and no proper procedure. Nothing to elevate the task ahead above common assault.

The line between sanctioned and illegal was about to be crossed. And not for the first time. But, in this game, collateral damage was the only sin; and there was no-one else to hurt.

He moved over to the bed. Reluctance abandoned by the door like a damp umbrella. The quarry pinned beneath his Reaper’s stare; shrinking back and quailing. He checked all four corners of the room for threats and spotted a photocopy of a child’s drawing taped to the wall. A big dog next to a small man. Big smiles on both. A cartoon sun in the sky. The original had been destroyed in accordance with prison procedure, in case it was soaked in Spice; a synthetic drug soon flushed from the blood stream.

Chain heard a creak in the corridor. Was that an intruder? A doctor or nurse returning? Or just incidental sound? He paused to listen. There was only background noise. His instinct flared but there no time to check. The window of opportunity was closing.

He fixed the prisoner’s gaze and moved to loom over him. Filling his vision. One word was all he needed to hear.

‘Password,’ said Chain.

No further explanation necessary. Give me the information you could have used to spare yourself from Hell. Because the Devil is with you now.

The prisoner shrank further and shook his head. Sweat began to flow and tears formed. The look on his face was familiar; features shaped by both fear and resolve. The hardy belief that the pain of this life won’t follow you into the next. The twitch of the prisoner’s right eye sparked a memory.

Joint Special Operations Command Task Force in Iraq. A 'hunter-killer' team comprised of British and American Special Forces. The best of the best doing the worst of the worst. His unit, Task Force 145, stalked high-value al-Qaeda and Iraqi leadership targets. Sweethearts like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi; a Jordanian jihadist and leader of al-Qaeda in Iraq. Anytime they caught a sniff of Zarqawi, they rounded up detainees and used any means necessary to squeeze information about the leader's whereabouts.

Advanced interrogation techniques. Highly controversial. Prolonged journeys to the threshold of death, and long stays at the brink. He remembered wild screams, incoherent babbling, facial nerves fluttering under extreme duress. Unanswered prayers carried by whispers from filthy cells. The stench of fear allowed to spread like disease, to trigger a heightened response and among the damned and loosen resolve. Prophets relinquished and daughters offered up if only the torment would end.

Eventually, a safe house was identified about 8 km north of Baqubah. Two US Air Force F-16C jets were directed to fly overhead and drop two 500-pound bombs on target; a laser-guided GBU-12 Paveway II followed by a GPS-guided GBU-38. Enough firepower to simulate the wrath of God.

Five others died in the blast. Collateral damage, like the man weeping on the bed before him. Chain gritted his teeth. Either the war had followed him home, or he carried it along.

The prisoner smeared tears with the back of his hand, eyes drawn to the door by blind hope as Chain stood silent. The call bell continued to go unanswered. Blood purged of defiance, escape was impossible with a tube inside his flesh.

Chain cracked his knuckles; a prompt to thoughts of bones snapping under pressure. Then he lowered his arms and clenched his fists tight. The prisoner gulped. Sodium thiopental was sometimes used to weaken tenacity in interrogations, but the use of narcotics was rarely approved. Not when nerve endings were available to agents taught to improvise.

Every hard case had a trigger; a soft spot vulnerable to targeted pressure. But the guy on the bed was soft all over, and Chain paused to see if the threat of violence was enough. A fixed stare could wither in time, but opportunity was more fleeting than a healthy glow on a convict’s cheek. The prisoner maintained his silence as tears, waste fluid and hope were evacuated from his body.

Without warning Chain seized his mouth with one hand and thrust his head back, stifling the scream. Holding his index finger up high he said, 'Password.'

Wide-eyed, the prisoner nodded and he eased the grip to allow him to speak. As soon as the seal was broken, the prisoner inhaled. Before he could scream, Chain clamped his mouth shut and moved his head close to stare into his soul. The prisoner wet himself; a third source of fluid draining from his body.

Chain felt a begrudging admiration; the sheer bloody-mindedness was impressive. But hope was about to shatter. The time to spill the beans was now, and Chain knew just how to drive the point home.

Raising his index finger again, Chain drove it deep into the prisoner's right-hand ear canal. Pain flooded into nerve fibres, making the eyes bulge as the lungs inflated and the cranium jumped a hat size; the skin tight as a balloon. Hot breath trapped against the palm.

Chain withdrew his finger and the prisoner gasped. Then he seized his jaw and said, 'Password. Now.'

His brain scorched by pain, the prisoner needed a moment. So Chain thrust the finger back into his ear. The skull re-inflated and sweat oozed. Desperate hands scrabbled for relief, scratching at hand and arm, tugging at the wire in his abdomen. Chain ignored the petty assault and drove the finger in further, intensifying the heat of the stifled scream and hard-boiling the whites of the eyes. The whole head trembling within his alligator grip.

Half-expecting fissures to open on the scalp, Chain removed his finger. Long harsh breaths died in whimpers as the prisoner’s whole torso heaved. Chain’s wiped his palm, slick with mucus, on his trouser leg to preserve the integrity of the seal. Then he slapped the prisoner hard and raised his finger again. There was blood on the nail.

The prisoner grabbed at his hand and shook his head. An anguished voice broke through the sobs. 'No no no no no no, please don't, please! I'll tell you anything, anything-'

Chain grabbed the prisoner's throat, ready to stop the air supply. 'Speak slow and clear.'

Then he leaned in and turned his head to position the earpiece close to the mouth. Hot, moist breath stained his cheek.

The prisoner’s voice wavered with emotion as he spoke. Two beeps in the ear told Chain that the long sequence of numbers and letters had been accepted; the password had granted access to something.

Chain raised his finger again and the prisoner shook. Then he pressed it to his lips and the sick man sagged and nodded weakly. Chain withdrew from the bed and sanitised his hands. The smell of urine had mixed with sweat to form a noxious odour. The prisoner would struggle to explain his sorry state in the morning.

The mother and father of all bad dreams perhaps? The kind of nightmare that just seemed so real.

Chain looked at the results of his handiwork; one newbie stripped of his Get out of Jail Free card. Blubbing like a bullied school boy. What kind of picture would the child draw if he could see the man now?

Every DIS agent on long undercover assignments lost sight of the distinction between the scumbags and themselves. Tonight, Chain had been no better than a gang enforcer. The worst part was what it revealed about him. For the first time he had to acknowledge that torture was fun if the bad guy was worth breaking. Or, if the crime they committed was severe enough. An uncomfortable thought. Except for the wife beaters, rapists and paedos that got extra punishment; targeted attacks overlooked by Grand Axe that often incapacitated them for life. Rehabilitation be damned.

Research had been his main occupation inside. The execution of well-laid plans his chief diversion. The subtle observation of targets. Mapping patterns of movement based on the surveillance of cell traffic. Sometimes for weeks on end as he waited for the go order. And then the thrill of the hunt. Lightning strike assaults at night, or during power outages or camera ‘faults’. Silent raids to corner prisoners, spirit them to isolated areas, or trap them in their bunks; their cell mates rendered unconscious somehow.

The dance of wills in psychological combat came next; subtle aggression versus bridled resistance. And the victory, the sweet victory over the broken man. Broken monster, in some cases. The bigger the brute, the more vicious; the bigger the victory.

The challenge was to coerce without causing cognitive damage, verbal impairment, or death. Effective communication required a degree of lucidity and diction to persist as other parts of the body succumbed to abuse. That’s why the head was a no-go area. If a prisoner died during interrogation, you lost both the game and a source of valuable intelligence. That’s why men with heart conditions and secrets had to be squeezed by blackmail instead. Bribery, and other inducements, were used only as a means of last resort.

Dialysis man the lone exception to the vulnerability rule.

But recently, the thrill of hunt and fight had been fleeting. And tonight it was non-existent. Whatever dialysis man had done, the taint of innocence clung to him like dirty glue. And breaking the innocent was no sport at all.

The nurse who tended to the prisoner would receive instructions to clean under his finger nails, to remove the skin cells gleaned by scratching Chain. Though brutal, the torture had left no visible mark on the body, and the attacker's description, warped by fear, fit too many profiles of the inmate population. With no witnesses or physical evidence, any talk of assault and conspiracy could be dismissed as delusion; a symptom of psychological toll under stressful conditions. If the prisoner was dumb enough to talk.

However, dialysis man had lost a lot of water during the interview. By the time of his discovery, his dehydration level would be chronic, and symptoms might include ramblings about a spectre in the night. But the severity of the condition would also discredit such claims.

Chain ignored the camera on his way to the exit. He was looking forward to solitary confinement; his sole sanctuary from sin. As far as anyone knew, he was there right now; locked in for eighteen hours straight.

Movement grazed the corner of his eye and he tensed. Turning his head he saw a guard walking towards him at a distance. Barrel chested and shiny bald. Except he wasn't a guard. The uniform was prison issue, but the roll of the stroll was corrupt. The gait of a man wearing stolen, ill-fitting clothes. Shirt and trousers one size too big.

An immediate assessment suggested a prison break was in progress!