“Also, you have killed one of our soldiers. His Kameraden waiting outside are very keen to get hold of you. They want to extract revenge. It was only through my intervention that you are actually alive and sitting here in my office.”
The voice took another sip of hot chocolate, and Bradley could hear the sound of smacking lips. He resisted the temptation to point out that they had killed his comrade: Jacko was dead, killed by one of those very men that were standing outside wanting to get to him. He kept quiet.
“So,” the voice carried on, “soon, very soon, I will be asking you some questions. But not just yet. I am in no hurry. I want you to reflect on your situation and come forward willingly with any information that you think may be of use to us.”
Another slurp of hot chocolate.
“Is there anything you would like to inform me of now?”
Bradley went to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again. “24388749, Bradley Reynolds, Sergeant, Royal Corps of Transport,” he finally managed to get out.
“Ah, the classic. Wonderful. We are going to get along just fine, you and I, Herr Bradley.”
Another drink of his chocolate.
“I recognise your cap badge. But I have one slight problem with that statement.” The voice sounded distorted, like he was bent over. Crash. An object was slammed down on the on the hard surface in front, and Bradley not only felt the residue of brackish water splash over him but also smelt it.
“We have some very bright people in our organisation. You have some very bright people in yours. Some of them have willingly passed information on to us. For money, I might add. From the information that we have gathered on the British forces, I know this to be a Clansman PRC, and it is no ordinary radio. A PRC-319, I have been informed. A fifty-watt microprocessor-based radio transceiver. And this,” he said, “would allow you to type a message and send the data at high speed to your masters. It is of a type used by spies and Special Forces. Now, what would a driver want with one of these?”
Bradley knew exactly what it was, the radio, along with the small alphanumeric keyboard; he had pushed into the ditch just before he was captured. “I cannot answer that question.”
The blow from behind came out of the blue, and the shock of it was almost as devastating as the blow itself. Bradley’s ears rang, and the painful swellings on the side of his head felt as if someone had thrust a white-hot poker into them.
“You see, Herr Bradley. You lie to me. Next time we speak, I hope you will be more cooperative. Take him out.”
Bradley’s mind raced. He wasn’t sure what to expect. During his training he had been taken through ‘Resistance to Interrogation’. It wasn’t pleasant. But he had no real idea of what was in store for him now. It was not as if there was a political stalemate to rely on. His boss knowing he was missing. A protest made to the Soviets, their WW2 Allies, to secure his release. A few slapped wrists, and he would be back home in a matter of hours. But that wasn’t going to happen: they were at war.
He was manhandled along what appeared to be a well-lit corridor, a light occasionally passing underneath the folds of his hood. His escort said nothing, and he heard no sound other than the slap of his bare feet and the boots of his captors. The guards stopped suddenly, and he was pushed into a narrow room. The door was slammed in his hooded face. Calling the room narrow would be an understatement. The concrete floor was cold on his feet, and his shoulders touched an equally cold wall either side. In fact, he was trapped. He couldn’t move in any direction, couldn’t sit or lie down. It wasn’t long before the cold started to creep up his body, and he flexed his feet and toes as best he could. He was tired, desperate to close his eyes and fall asleep, but his body was already starting to scream in pain, his well-muscled body suffering at being pinned in this one position. He felt sick, but forced it back down. His mind raced, fear gripping him. Yes, they had driven around for two or three hours. But he now knew that they had travelled only a few miles. He was in the ‘Submarine’, the subterranean cell block run by the DDR’s Ministry of State Security, the Ministerium fur Staatssicherheit, the MfS, the infamous Stasi. He was at Hohenschonhausen, the MfS prison where they held political prisoners and those caught attempting to escape from the DDR. He had driven past it many times in the past, reminding the Stasi that the West was watching. Now, he found himself on the inside.
His legs felt like jelly and, had he been able to, he would have collapsed, but he couldn’t. Fear welled up inside him, gripping his stomach like a vice; the pounding in his head multiplied ten-fold, and tears welled up in his eyes. His thoughts before he passed out were that he was going to die in this place.
After drifting in and out of consciousness for an unknown number of hours, his body was racked with pain on a level he had never experienced before. He was eventually released. He asked his escort where they were taking him to, could he have some food, some water. But they remained silent. His cramped legs protested painfully, his upper thighs burning from the urine he’d had to release while confined, as he was dragged to the cell he was in now, given a reprieve, if that was what you could call it.
His head snapped round as the grey steel door was pulled open, the sudden blinding light from the corridor stabbing his eyes. Pulled to his feet by two of his captors, the hood reapplied, he was taken out of his padded isolation cell and transported painfully elsewhere to the upper part of the prison block, the new four-storey section built in the late 50s. He knew, from reports received by ex-prisoners who had eventually been released and subsequently escaped across the Berlin Wall that the prison had a traffic-light system. This ensured that prisoners never got to meet, ensuring their isolation at all times.
He was thrust into a small room, pushed down on a lightly padded steel chair, and his hood was yanked off. The door was closed behind him as he placed his hands over his eyes to protect them from the bright light. Once accustomed to the glare, he took stock of the room. He was sitting at a small square table, not much wider than the seat of his chair. This was butted up against a steel-legged desk, topped in a light brown with a set of matching drawers attached each side. Sitting behind the desk, on a much more comfortably upholstered chair with wooden arms, sat an MfS officer, his grey uniform with its distinctive piping. A major.
The major said nothing, but continued to make notes in a small notebook. To the right of the MfS officer, there was a tall, green cabinet and behind him a dark cream, cast-iron radiator. A flimsy set of pale green curtains prevented Bradley seeing what was outside. On the desk was a phone and, alongside, a reel-to-reel tape recorder. Did the voice now have a face?
The major finally looked up from his scribbling. “Herr Bradley, I won’t ask after your health as I’m sure you are not at your best. There was a very good reason why I allowed you to spend some time getting acquainted with our special room.” He opened one of the left-hand desk drawers and extracted a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. Taking a plain cigarette from the packet, he lit it and took a slow, satisfying drag. He picked a loose shred of tobacco from his lips as he held up the Zippo lighter. “I love this lighter. It has a picture of a red London bus on it — so quaint. I bought it the last time I visited your country when I had other duties to perform. So, I know a little about you British.” He took another draw, the tip of the cigarette glowing a bright red, before tapping the ash off onto a saucer on the desk. His chair creaked as he leant back, savouring the smoke as he exhaled.
“I want you to fully understand there are no political games to play here. Your government are not coming to your rescue.” He laughed lightly. “In fact, they have no idea where you are, or if indeed you are still alive. They will have no doubt logged your lack of radio transmissions by now.” He made eye contact with Bradley, who shifted on his seat trying to get as comfortable as possible, pain lancing through his cramped muscles. “So, Herr Bradley, let’s not mess about. Just tell me what I want to know, and I can have you medically treated and get some hot food inside you. Eh?”