During the daytime, faint slivers of light made their way through two tiny vents at the joint of the back wall with the stained ceiling, making their lives a little more endurable. Those vents were the only source of fresh air and light they had. At nighttime though, no shred of light made it in.
Their cell was about ten by ten feet, and the ceiling was quite high; he could sense an echo when they spoke. The two vents cut in the concrete wall were the only openings; there were no windows, and the massive, green, bolted metal door was always closed. It had stayed closed since they were brought there, despite sustained, repeated banging and yelling, in their attempts to get someone’s attention. Anyone.
Daylight, fading into darkness, and back into light again had helped them keep track of the days going by. Growling, aching stomachs and parchment-dry throats kept track of time with equal accuracy. They’d been in that hellhole for three days, living off moldy, musty bread and stale water from a rusty pot, now empty.
“You know what I appreciate about this place?” A woman’s voice, with a strong French accent, and a husky, guttural pitch asked, resonating strangely in the thick darkness.
That was Marie-Elise Chevalier, Dr. Chevalier to be precise, professor, researcher, and thought leader in the field of molecular neuroscience and neuroanatomy. Since they’d been sharing a cell, they all had time to become properly acquainted. Although in the past their paths had crossed, at medical conferences and scientific events, they had never spoken to one another before their detention.
“You actually like something about this place?” The British accent of Dr. Declan Mallory spiced up the dialogue. “I know a good therapist, he might be able to help you,” he added, a trace of cynical humor in his voice.
Dr. Mallory specialized in ADHD and neurodevelopmental disorders. A great guy: calm, focused, supportive, yet sometimes moody. Great scientist and partner to be abducted and incarcerated with, Gary Davis couldn’t help thinking, a grim sense of amusement tinting his otherwise clinically dry judgment.
“Oui, absolument,” Dr. Chevalier replied. “But can you guess what?”
Gary chuckled quietly. This exercise of theirs had kept them sane for a while, and it was probably bound to continue to keep them sane for a little while longer, but not more. They had played word games, engaged whatever remnant of their sense of humor they could muster, and counseled one another. Cried on other’s shoulders, and told stories of their families. Shared hope and hopelessness, both equally volatile in the hell they’d been confined to.
“I give up,” an almost morose Dr. Mallory said. “I cannot fathom what you could possibly like about this place. You win.”
“Bugs,” an almost cheerful Dr. Chevalier said. “There are no bugs here. Oui?”
“Right,” Gary agreed. “Roaches could have made this sejour much worse.”
“Or rats,” Dr. Mallory added.
A moment of silence followed, interrupted immediately by Chevalier.
“Oh-la-la… rats are worse,” she said, thoughtfully. Then she changed her mind. “Mais non, bugs are worse!”
“Let’s put this to a vote,” Mallory quipped.
“Shh…” Gary whispered, “I hear something. Footsteps.”
They all fell silent, holding their breaths. They could hear footsteps approaching; two, maybe three men, closer, louder.
The sound of the door latch being pulled startled them, and the light that burst inside blinded them, making them squint as their eyes tried to adjust to the brutal invasion of powerful fluorescent light.
“Yebat, move it!” One of the men, a six-foot tall, heavily tattooed goon, dressed in mismatching uniform parts, stepped inside their cell and prodded him with the barrel of an AK47. The sleeves of his uniform were rolled up, showing muscle fibers knotted under his grimy skin, and making the inked king cobra curled on his right forearm seem alive.
“All right, all right,” Gary replied, holding up his arms in a pacifying gesture, and stepping out of the cell. Drs. Chevalier and Mallory followed closely, still squinting badly from the intense light.
They walked behind King Cobra on an endless, slightly curved corridor, while the two other armed men ended their procession. After a few hundred feet, they came to a stop in front of another green, massive metallic door. King Cobra unlatched that one, and immediately prodded the occupants to step outside.
Four more squinting, wobbly prisoners stepped out of that cell. Dr. Gary Davis recognized two of the speakers from the conference they had all attended what seemed like years ago. Dr. Theodore Adenauer, a top-notch researcher from Germany, had presented his thesis on molecular psychopharmacology in his typical arrogant manner. Yet not even his irritating arrogance was able to diminish the value of the work presented. Arrogant or not, the man was scintillating, and his work had been recognized as foundational research for recent advances in drug research, leading to significant progress in antidepressants, SSRIs, and the overall understanding of synapse chemistry.
Dr. Howard Bukowsky, a kind and easy-going Canadian, had shown no trace of arrogance when he’d spoken to a jaw-dropped audience about the results of a newly introduced therapy regimen, a combination of sensory-motor therapy and minimal drug support, engaged together in the treatment of PTSD. Dr. Bukowsky was the only clinician on the speakers’ list, and the only practitioner Gary would have chosen as his personal therapist.
Right behind Howard Bukowsky followed a young woman, her face stained and smudged from tears and makeup. She blinked repeatedly, trying to adjust to the blinding light, while straightening her clothing. She’d obviously been sleeping on the concrete floor, like the rest of them, curled up in the dirty blankets their captors had thrown in their cells before slamming the doors shut. She seemed familiar, although she was too young to have been in medical research. Then she put on her jacket, bearing the Universal Air logo, the “X” with a curvy, extended left arm, and Gary immediately remembered her. She was one of the flight attendants, most likely the one servicing first class, if he remembered correctly.
The fourth to come out of the cell was a woman in her mid-fifties, needing some assistance to walk, which Dr. Bukowsky immediately offered, calling her “Dr. Crawford.” She looked pale and sick, too weak to walk.
One of the goons prodded her to move faster, and she groaned in pain.
“Hey,” Dr. Bukowsky said, holding her and helping her walk. “Take it easy, will ya’? She can’t move any faster, can’t you see?”
King Cobra resumed walking farther on the endless corridor, while the two Russians at the end of their procession talked angrily among themselves, gesturing toward the prisoners. Gary Davis didn’t understand a word they were saying. For the first time in his life, he regretted not studying Russian as an elective in school. He’d chosen French; not very useful under the circumstances.
“Where are you taking us?” Dr. Adenauer’s strong German accent echoed in the hallway. “I demand to know.”
The two Russians looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Vy yebat! You fuck! You demand to know? This is all you need to know,” the Russian continued, slamming the stock of his weapon in Adenauer’s back, making him keel over with a loud groan. Mallory picked him up quickly, in the roars of laughter sprinkled with expletives coming from the two Russians.