Ten days in a hospital and he felt a little stronger. The medical staff had done what they had to but no more, not that he was complaining. Today was the day he was to be transferred to a secure facility. Whether it was prison or some other detention centre they were moving him to was irrelevant. It was going to be somewhere within the German system and that was good enough as far as he was concerned.
He’d spent the entire spell reflecting on life. Memories of those that had fallen saddened him. Their lives had been cut short on the whim of others, by unsavoury people with power at their fingertips. He remembered Rosa’s last moments and this saddened him more. The only way he could think to raise his spirits was to dream of what could have been. He’d tried to imagine what kind of father he might have been. And who knows it might have happened if he hadn’t taken Catherine’s bait and did the responsible thing instead, sit down and have a proper discussion with Gratia. Her face appeared in his mind and sadness returned, the truth of Catherine’s words forever ringing in his ears. If he and Gratia had the discussion today he knew exactly what he had to say to her, but it wasn’t going to happen now.
The first full day of his incarceration in this new block and he found himself being ushered into a small, grey, windowless room completely lacking in furniture. He wondered why he’d been brought to this confined space seemingly in the heart of nowhere, to the bowels, to the very depths of this unforgiving building.
The first blow caught him at the back of the knees and his legs buckled at the impact. The second strike landed flush against his shoulders and he thumped to the cold, heartless floor, his mind desperately trying to rationalise exactly what and why this was happening.
“We will show you what happens to those who choose to kill German troops,” he heard a voice say.
Another blow, then another, rained down in succession and he instinctively curled up into a ball in a desperate attempt to try and protect himself.
“Anywhere but his face and hands,” said the same anger-filled voice. “Nothing must be visible to the eye.”
And the beating continued.
Day Two;
Same time, same place. The first blow thumped into his right arm, just above the elbow, followed by a baton striking at his rear.
Day Three;
The first assault was to the pit of his stomach, doubling him in two, followed by a series of heavy blows to his upper thighs. He heard them say something about a statement …
Day Four;
He adopted the foetal position the moment they bundled him through the door …
Day Nine;
Make it stop. Please make it stop he silently pleaded, knowing there would be no respite …
Day Twelve;
If his body hurt he could no longer feel the pain …
This small, grey room differed from the one normally used for his mandatory daily exercise, as it was ascribed to the public at large. In truth the only ones breaking sweat were the prison guards, who seemed to take a particular callous glee from the daily physical punishment they mercilessly inflicted to every part of his anatomy bar the face and hands. This was to be the second day of the hearing against his extradition, his day to speak and refute the charges against him, but not a reason to expect any temporary respite. A physically weakened witness is one drained of the will to resist thereby almost guaranteeing a subdued defence. And God knows it was how he felt, weak and defenceless. Why was he bothering to resist anyway? The outcome was inevitable, as certain as night follows day. He had no evidence to substantiate his claims and their ‘proof’ of his alleged crime wasn’t so much compelling as irrefutable, the video evidence alone damning in its apparent authenticity. The voice inside his head told him to fight, fight to the bitter end, resist them through whatever means possible. He owed as much to those who had lost their lives to this unequal struggle. But he was tired, so very tired.
“Sich setzen!” demanded the severe voice, telling him to sit down.
His mind failed to compute the instruction in enough time to prevent the hard cane crashing against the heavy bruising already on his back, bringing him to his knees and signaling his brain to register acute pain. He somehow dragged himself up from the floor to slump into the one of the wooden chairs by the desk he hadn’t noticed before, chained wrists tightly clasped together as his captor closed the door.
“You have a visitor,” spat the guard.
“I understood I couldn’t have visitors.”
“She is a lawyer.”
“I thought you said no lawyer would ever represent me if they valued their career.”
“There is always one fool. But you should remember, we will be listening to everything discussed. The consequences of mentioning your time here will be severe.”
Matt understood the threat and nodded wearily as he heard the door open. Head bowed, he spotted the knee-length hem line of a skirt come into view.
“Leave us,” said the woman’s voice.
The door closed and she took the seat directly opposite.
“I don’t want any help,” he said, looking at the desk top.
“I have not spoken yet.”
“You can’t help me.”
“I will be the judge of that.”
“Listen,” he said, trying to muster his angriest glare while in search of eye contact. “I’ve said I don’t want any help from you or anyone else.”
The face took him by surprise; so familiar yet incredibly, unbelievably, youthful.
“Catherine?” he said.
The eyes of the visitor baulked at the name.
“No, my name is Annabelle Strom,” she said, extending her hand towards him.
He was still focussed on the face. Why did she not answer to her name, and how has her complexion retreated in years? It was a mystery. Then he realised. Her hair might have been dyed black, her eye colour concealed by tinted glasses, but he recognised the face.
“I didn’t murder your father,” he said.
The colour tone of her eyes hardened, a partial grimace taking control of the earlier smile.
“My father arranged for me to receive a letter, in the event he should suffer an unnatural death. I know exactly what you have done,” she said.
Conscious of the eavesdropping he held his tongue so as not to give her away.
“My firm, Heldt and Partners, believe no matter how vile the alleged crime all defendants are entitled to professional assistance. I am here to help you present your appeal against extradition to the panel considering your case.”
The company name meant nothing. Why would it when he studiously avoided any form of contact with people from this greedy profession.
“And you can do this in the next fifteen minutes, because that’s when it’s due to start.”
She shifted her position in the uncomfortably hard wooden chair without appearing to take offence.
“I understand you have not spoken to legal representation prior to today. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you have prepared a defence?”
“I made a statement.”
“Yes, but it does not challenge the specific content of your opponent’s application. Was it made available to you?”
“I glanced at it.”
“Glanced, that is all? Why?”
Matt separated one of the press studs of his overalls and gently eased the material apart. She baulked in horror at the blackened mass.
“I see,” she said. “So it is your intention to base the appeal on this tale of a conspiracy concocted by powerful industry figures in America to secure access to the mineral deposits of underdeveloped countries by the enforced suppression of their indigenous populations?”
“Yes.”
“And you assert they plan to achieve this by the release of a killer virus for which only they have the cure. And that they would demand commercial access in return for the provision of an effective antidote?”
“Demand is a little strong,” he s
aid. “Provide assistance is the phrase I think they intend to use.”
“Why would they implement such a monstrous measure? Do they enjoy mass murder?”
“Money, they’re doing it for money. Those countries with the mineral deposits don’t like America, and the Russians and Chinese in particular pay more.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Yet you present no evidence to substantiate the story.”
“I don’t have any evidence. Not anymore.”
“I see.”
“You say that a lot.”
He wasn’t sure whether her eyes betrayed the beginnings of a smile or she was trying to conceal pity.
“And that’s why you can’t help me.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“At least you haven’t repeated yourself a third time.”
“It would have been the fourth,” she said, opening a file on the desk.
He looked at the heading, the statement of the defendant, Matt Durham.
“According to this document you provide four names but insist there is a fifth person.”
“Yes. I believe he’s an eminent scientist who also happens to be part of the current US administration.”
“And all five people have been communicating inside a digital vault contained within a cloaked website.”
“That about sums it up.”
“I se … hmm,” she said.
“That would have been the fourth time.”
Her eyes brightened but failed to smile.
“Your story is quite unbelievable, likely to be laughed out of court.”
She was right. He was going to look a fool, be ridiculed both in and out of court.
“For example, the first name you mention is one James Kimber, a world respected American businessman.”
“Correct.”
“The second is one of two brothers, Judd A Jessop?”
“Yes.”
“Charles, recently the US Vice President, was the elder of the two and referred to by family as Chas.”
“You’re making it up,” said Matt.
“It is true, Chas E Jessop.”
“How would you know?” he asked, curiosity drawn by the odd line of enquiry.
“I know a lot of things.”
She looked into his eyes and held her gaze and he guessed her smile was trying to tell him something.
“Finally, you name Elias Andrew Bruckmuller or Bruck as he was affectionately known.”
“You are making this up.”
“No. Elias A Bruck,” she said with a smile.
“Where are you going with this?”
The smile evaporated and she pointed to another passage in his statement.
“Despite the secrecy surrounding this alleged digital vault you were, nonetheless, able to locate it on the web and steal inside to explore its contents all on your own.”
“Yes.”
“Without help?” she asked.
“No-one else was involved.”
“And how did you manage to bypass the system security and penetrate the vault all on your own?”
“I had a back door key.”
“Provided by whom?”
“An anonymous donor,” he said.
“The story becomes ever more incredible.”
“It was just me, alright? No-one else needs to get hurt. The story ends with me.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “We shall not pursue this line of enquiry, though any kind of corroboration would surely be helpful.”
“No!”
The sharpness of response appeared to surprise, judging by the way she leaned back in the chair, eyes widening in shock at the strength of his tone.
“Perhaps the only remaining way to substantiate your story is to show the panel the website in question, take them inside the digital vault.”
“They’ll have closed it by now, the back door. That’s what I’d have done.”
“How can you be sure?”
He couldn’t, he realised.
“They’ll have changed the passwords.”
“Again, how could you be sure?”
“I’d need access to the internet,” he said.
“You are allowed to present your case.”
Another useful insight, he considered. She was leading him down a path.
“It would never work.”
“You won’t know until you try.”
“I will end up making a fool of myself.”
“Have you read through your statement?”
“Yeah,” he said after a pause, somehow finding the energy to smile. “It is pretty ridiculous isn’t it?”
“One can only imagine what the President, John Kennedy Keller, makes of it all,” she said.
“You mean Jack, Jack Keller.”
“Jack is his preferred handle. Allegedly his parents wanted to christen him after their political hero, JFK. Shows a bit of foresight wouldn’t you say.”
“The guy’s nothing like his namesake.”
“Quite so,” she said softly.
He leaned back and looked her in the eye. Matt estimated it had been between three to four years since he’d last met her face to face. She had grown out of all recognition, carrying and conducting herself with an elegant maturity belying her youthful years. The frightened teenage child he had first met had long been consigned to the history books.
“I need you to sign this document.”
She pushed a sheet of paper towards him and pointed to the line requiring his signature.
“What is this for?”
“To confirm we have met and discussed your case. Call it a note of declaration.”
“Are you off your legal trolley?”
The wide mouth broadened to a smile.
“Declarations are important, more important than people might imagine. Please, sign.”
Shaking his head in exasperation he duly obliged.
“So that’s it then?”
“Yes. I feel you have everything you need now to present your case.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
Rising from the chair she slipped her business card to him and turned to leave. The fancy blue writing on the white card reminded him of the West’s propensity for waste.
“Let us hope the panel members are prepared to view this application from both sides,” she said.
The comment encouraged him to turn the card over in his hand. On the other side rested some neatly inked handwriting and he peered at the one lined sentence
The fifth user killed my father. He is the key.
She left the room before he could ask anything further. The adrenalin coursing through his veins to counter the assault that never came started to recede. Two guards entered the room to escort him and he stood up ready to leave. The first blow hit behind the knees and he collapsed to the floor and adopted the foetal position...
Chapter Forty Two
Declaration