Chapter 4
Bradley slowly woke up, his senses reeling, nearly causing him to black out again. With pulsing temples and a pounding headache, the black bag over his head and face was stifling. He was curled up on the floor, his knees up, arms cradling them, almost foetal-like. He wriggled his fingers, and then flexed his hands: they were free of restraint. He slowly stretched out his legs, yelping with pain where soldiers wearing heavy military boots had repeatedly kicked him. The sound uttered from his cracked lips was swallowed up instantly and, for a moment, he wasn’t actually sure he’d made a sound. He shifted his body again, spitting a piece of the bag out of his mouth after sucking it in when taking a deep breath. He could feel something behind him and used its soft surface to gain traction and lever his body into a sitting position. This made him feel nauseous and he heaved, retching, his head pounding even harder, white flashes of light, like shooting stars racing away from his eyes. He stopped moving, resting his back against the padded wall.
Once his stomach had settled and he had swallowed back the bitter taste of bile, he reached up to remove the hood, wanting a view of his surroundings. With the coarse material removed, the dark was replaced by yet more darkness: a blackness that ordinary eyesight couldn’t possibly penetrate; a blackness that was suffocating in itself. Bradley’s fingers explored his body, assessing his injuries. They didn’t have to move far before they discovered egg-shaped lumps on various parts of his anatomy, and a particularly large swelling on the side of his head.
He attempted to stand, slapping his hand against the thick, black, ribbed sides of the isolation cell. Beneath his hands were rubber-coated walls, thick soundproof insulation that completely encapsulated the cell, top to bottom, in a waterproof and soundproof shield. He eventually pushed himself upright, his legs trembling as his stomach suddenly heaved again, vile-tasting stomach acids burning his throat and tongue. He retched again. Only greenish brown bile left his mouth and stomach as he slumped back to the floor.
He suddenly had a raging thirst and called out, “I need some water… hello.”
He could barely hear his own voice as he tried to shout louder, the sounds dampened and going nowhere.
“I need water,” he almost whispered.
He ran the last twenty-four hours through his mind. At least, he thought it had been twenty-four hours, or thereabouts.
Once caught, he had been beaten and dragged to one of the trucks on the Autobahn and thrown in the back with two guards and one of their dogs. He was curled up at the front end, next to the cab, coming to terms with his condition and, more importantly, his circumstances. The flap at the rear was pulled down and secured, and what little light there was was now blocked out. The dog and his handler took great delight in tormenting Bradley further. The dog’s sharp teeth gripped his boot, not quite piercing it, but the grip was so firm that it crushed his toes. Then the war-dog would yank at it, twisting its head and shoulders violently in order to drag Bradley closer and rend his foot from his leg.
It eventually stopped as the commotion was annoying the guards, who lit up a cigarette and discussed the war that was in progress. Bradley’s German was fair and he got the gist that the war had well and truly kicked off, and NATO were not holding their ground. He wasn’t sure what to believe. Are the guards continuing to taunt me in a different manner? He thought. But they sounded fairly nonchalant, now disinterested in their captive, looking forward to getting back to barracks and catching up with some sleep.
Bradley attempted to register distances, speed, sound, and taking note of when the vehicle turned; more as a distraction than through any expectation of an escape. Within only fifteen minutes, he started to lose track, and his concentration waned. After what he perceived to be an hour, he gave up completely. The journey progressed for what must have been two to three hours. He just lay there numbed. Unknown to Bradley, the route of their journey was deliberate, literally driving round in circles at times, the intention to disorientate their captive.
On arrival at his destination, he was hooded and dragged off the lorry, duck-walked until inside a building and thrown into a small brick or concrete-lined cell, remaining there with a guard for no more than five minutes. Picked up again, he was taken along a corridor before turning left where he was placed on a seat in what felt like, from the confined sounds reflected off the walls, a smallish room, the edge of something hard touching his knee. He couldn’t hear anyone else there, but could sense he was not alone. He was sure someone was standing behind him, and perhaps another of his captors was sitting across from him on the other side of what could be a desk or table.
“Well, Mr Spy.”
Bradley jumped at the sound of a man’s voice coming from the other side of the object in between them. The accent was clearly German, but his English sounded near perfect.
“I shall start by explaining to you how life is going to be for you, going forward. But, first, I need you to fully understand the position in which you now find yourself.”
The voice picked up an object, followed by the sound of a liquid being sipped and swallowed.
“Either you, or your comrade, have killed a member of the National Volksarmee: a soldier of the German Democratic Republic who was just doing his duty for his country. A family man, I might add; a good man, protecting his country from intruders such as yourself. He is now dead and leaves a wife and two young children to fend for themselves. No, that is not strictly true: their country will take care of them. So, Mr Spy, you will eventually be charged with murder.”
Bradley could pick out the sound of shuffling papers through the throbbing in his temples. The splitting headache returned and it felt like his skull wanted to burst open.
“You are, at the moment,” continued the voice, “in the custody of the MfS, the Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit. You have been caught spying on the German Democratic Republic at a time of war. Because, Mr Spy, we are at war with your country, so you come under my control now. But, I have a dilemma.”
Bradley heard the rasp of material and caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke. “And,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “I hope you can help me out with this. You are in uniform, I can see that. But, I don’t believe you are a soldier. I think you are one of those spies that hide away in the bowels of the British Government buildings in the occupied portion of our city of Berlin. When ordered, you leave your nests to spread your filth across decent nations like ourselves. So, you see, in my mind you are here, disguised as a soldier, in order to pass back information on our forces and operations to your masters back in the West.”
A door opened behind him and Bradley felt something brush against him; then heard a cup being placed on a hard surface. He could sense a warm vapour, then the smell of hot chocolate assailed his nostrils through the hood. The voice took a sip and made a sound of satisfaction.