What Do I Know That's Worth My Life?

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, August, 1982



She knew she had maybe thirty minutes to live--at most.

These ghouls, whoever they were, would no doubt just keep probing until they got what they wanted. And she knew if she were lucky to not have that, well, she had been told a half hour was about the threshold she should expect, unless they were going for extra credit.

The room wasn’t cold, but it felt clammy, like a dungeon. Other than the stone walls, though, this disconsolate little chamber didn’t possess the grandeur of a dungeon. A single old-fashioned bare light bulb dangling from the center of the irregular ceiling cast a dim and shadowy pall over this small room. In Connecticut, this would be considered a perpetual brown-out, but here it was just ancient wiring, she guessed, and what looked like a hand-blown bulb. Interesting - the bulb was swagged from a round wall outlet to her left - high on the wall, European-style, two parallel single conductor wires each took a single wrap around dark brown twin porcelain insulators periodically - circa turn-of-the-century, she supposed. Crappy building codes!

It had been at least two hours since she had conceded that feeling desperately hopeless was a waste of her remaining moments since her plight seemed inescapable. Instead, she was never so determined to throw all her training at acquiring as much sensory input as possible. Now that’s living, she mused laconically, at least what’s left of it.

She deduced from what she could feel of her bindings that they even have access to the ubiquitous duct tape in this back-country town. An export from the the good ole US of

A, probably. Or do they transport the stuff from elsewhere in-country for a party like this? Funny what you think of when you know your time is petering out. Maybe it’s no more than a calloused operative’s alternative to pee-in-your-pants fear for mere mortals.

Thankfully, her austere nomadic life didn’t flash before her eyes, like in the movies. Nor did it occur to her to dwell on the only loved ones she could conjure - those of her fictitious cover. Maybe she’d have missed the child she never had, or friends she might have developed if she’d stayed in one place long enough. Like that was ever going to happen. Her view: love was a synonym for another four-letter word: trap. So much for flashbacks of one’s life. Who needs it?

At least she was determined to give these pricks their money’s worth, not that what she knew was worth squat. That was the irony, but it didn’t matter.So lets focus on entertainment value.

Now, her quest to deliver a mere ounce or two of retaliation would be her final act of sublime futility. She figured the tape would be viciously ripped off her mouth for the interrogation to make any sort of sense, that is, if it was going to take place here and now. This now seemed increasingly likely, since the time for foreplay had obviously passed. At least there was a nontrivial intelligence objective here, and not just a couple of amateurs looking to get wet and sticky. Small consolation, right?

On to the main event.

First objective. If a finger comes anywhere near her pearly-white choppers, off it comes. Second, if they forced a liquid into her mouth, her first priority would be the nearest face after feinting a reluctant swallow. Of course, an immediate debilitating injection, which was more likely if these characters knew what they were doing, would make these objectives beyond reach.

Now if they decided to move her again, that could present a different set of opportunities. Being a realist, however, this would be the nearly perfect place to close her final chapter. So bleeding-liberal wishful thinking aside, she now yearned for some small measure of meaning in her epilog. Her biggest fear: giving them something they wanted that she didn’t know she had, but what’s to be done about that at this point?

Footsteps. Maybe two pair. The sound of inevitability echoing between rough stone surfaces. One of these soft-soled characters was smaller than the other, but the bigger character seemed lighter on his feet, maybe he enjoyed his work more. Whatever. She wondered if they were friend or foe. Would be a bitch to die in this stink-hole from friendly fire, but sometimes, that’s how it played out, she knew.

The door creaked open to reveal the accuracy of her acute hearing and training. Score one for the home team. One of them carried an old-fashioned leather satchel - the kind that opens at the top, secured by a single heavily-scratched silver-colored buckle in the center -either pot metal or pewter if a cheapo, or stainless, maybe sterling if not. Based on the guy's clothes, probably ex-military, so likely a cheapo. Although, likely an ex-officer of some rank, so maybe not. Clearly a doctor’s bag. Scratch objectives one and two. Time to regroup.

“So what is it, exactly, you pricks want that you think I have?”

Ninety seconds later, without another word spoken as all the professionals in the room went about their work, the lights quickly dimmed, maybe for the last time, as she wondered whether she would unwillingly betray her beloved country, or whether she would just be another floater in some Eastern European cesspool. Checkmate? Whatever.