Chapter Fifteen

THE PRISONER

Michael Kargas was seated on a wooden stool in a small, brightly-lit room. He did not know the time, or even whether it was day or night. He had a black eye, a busted lip, a broken left arm, cracked ribs, and innumerable bruises on his back and legs. He was hungry, thirsty, and dizzy. Despite the beatings and deprivation, though, his keen analytical mind continued to function. He was unimpressed with his interrogators’ overreliance on torture. They seemed more interested in inflicting punishment than in gaining intelligence. Indeed, their few questions were perfunctory, vague, and pointless. His self-discipline had prevented him from breaking, but he knew that everyone had a limit.

Despite the beatings, Kargas’s resistance was threatened less by physical abuse than by despair. His captors had gleefully informed him of Iona’s suicide soon after he arrived at the prison, though they provided no details. While he felt a grudging respect for her decision, he wished she had taken a longer view and surrendered. Her death – assuming it was true – seemed to put an unsuccessful end to his mission. Indeed, the knowledge that he had failed and had nothing left to live for made it somewhat easier to withstand the torture. But as the days passed and Kargas put more thought into the situation, he realized that all was not necessarily lost. After all, the royal family was Alleria’s symbol, not Rael and Iona. King Bartholomew III had been an only child, but his father had had siblings with children still extant. With Rael and Iona out of the picture, the new heir was Theodore Doukoulatis, a middle-aged attorney in Aurora. Once the Rowowan empire collapsed, Doukoulatis could rally and unite Alleria as well as anyone – with the right advisers at his side. Kargas did not know Doukoulatis’s current whereabouts and situation, but he realized that he needed to escape and contact him as soon as possible.

For now, however, all Kargas could do was gather as much information as possible about his captors and the prison and wait for an opportunity to use this knowledge profitably. Although he appeared stoic and unresponsive, Kargas paid close attention to his surroundings. He was therefore immediately aware of the loud muffled voices that emanated from the adjoining room from which his guards kept constant watch on him. It sounded like arguing, but he could not be sure. Whatever it was, it constituted a break in the routine, if not necessarily an opportunity.

Several minutes later the heavy steel door swung open and Horace Oxenstera entered carrying a chair. As the door shut he sat down and looked at Kargas for a long time. He even lifted Kargas’s sleeve to examine his left arm. Finally he leaned back and said, “You’ve seen better days, Mr. Kargas.”

Kargas remained silent and continued to glower at Horace. Horace stared back with his one eye for a minute, then suddenly got up, picked up the chair, knocked on the cell door until it opened, and exited.

Now that Kargas knew it was Horace, it was easier for him to discern the voices that again originated from the next room. He heard Horace yell at someone else in the room, “The protocol of prisoners clearly states that you have to inform the other intelligence agencies of the capture of a high-ranking prisoner within seventy-two hours and give them access to that prisoner a week later! You didn’t do either of these! We had to learn that Kargas was here through our own sources!”

Kargas could not make out the response, but Horace’s angry voice came through loud and clear this time. “I can’t help but believe that you’re reluctant to let me see him because he might implicate you as one of the conspirators in the Allerian plot to undermine the empire. Shall I include my suspicions in my report to the secondary session?” The long silence that followed indicated that Horace had carried the day.

Less than an hour later Kargas received his first hot meal since he was captured. Guards also brought in a cot and blanket and permitted him uninterrupted sleep. When he woke up in what appeared to be morning, he got another solid meal. After that, Horace returned with a doctor who treated his wounds. Kargas remained silent through it all, uttering no thanks and showing no gratitude. Inwardly, though, he was proud that he had bested his captors in this first and, no doubt, most physically grueling round of their contest.

Kargas was unsurprised when Horace appeared next day bearing gifts. He brought some books and a chess set. After setting them on a table the guards had brought in earlier, Horace said, “I hope these things make your stay more comfortable.”

Kargas remained silent. He recognized Horace’s actions as a ploy to elicit information by engaging him in conversation and gaining his trust. It was an old and unoriginal interrogation trick. Indeed, Kargas was somewhat offended that Horace would even try such a tactic on him.

“Look,” Horace said, “I have to be here every few days for a couple hours or so. You don’t have to say anything, but you could at least play chess with me to pass the time.”

Kargas mulled that over for a few seconds and nodded. He figured that doing so would give him an opportunity to gain information from Horace. And the more intelligence he extracted from the former overlord, the more likely he was to get out of the prison. It would also keep his mind sharp.

Kargas easily beat Horace in that chess match and those that followed. Kargas could not understand how an intelligence officer could perform so poorly. At first he wondered if Horace was deliberately losing for some reason, but he eventually realized that he simply lacked the mental wherewithal to play the game well. On the other hand, Horace’s comings and goings provided Kargas with tidbits of information about prison operations that could prove useful in the future. He learned the names of some of his guards, their basic schedules, their unhappiness with their poor working conditions and salaries, and so forth. That almost compensated for the frustration Kargas felt every time Horace made a stupid move.

For a month Horace regularly visited Kargas in his cell. Each time he brought him several new books before they settled down to a chess match. Although Horace was happy to talk at length about literature, geography, Kirkwell, and especially their mutual acquaintances on the island, he shunned discussion of the social, economic, and political issues that might elicit Kargas useful information about the outside world. Nor was Horace forthcoming about Iona’s suicide. Indeed, Horace saw the war as a painful memory to be suppressed, not as something to review. Kargas eventually gave up his efforts to use Horace as an unwitting intelligence source.

As time went on, Kargas’s comments about Horace’s play grew snider and less subtle. Finally, at the end of one match, he exclaimed, “You are an awful chess player. I cannot understand how someone so idiotic became an officer in the Rowowan army.”

Horace looked startled. “Why do you care about the quality of my play – or lack thereof? Do you have another pressing engagement?”

Kargas sneered. “This is a waste of my time. And yours.”

Horace pushed his chair back from the table. “Again, I don’t understand why – ” He stopped in midsentence, cocked his head to the side, and looked directly at Kargas. “Do you think that this is an interrogation? Do you think I’m trying to establish trust so I can pick up scraps of information…to help Rowowa win a war that ended more than a year ago?

Kargas said nothing.

Horace leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Mr. Kargas, what information do you have that the Rowowan government wants? The name of a contact in Emerald City? A bank account number in Mercia? The location of an anonymous critic in Aurora? Your value to the empire ended the moment Prince Rael splattered on the pavement in Mercia.”

Kargas flinched at the mention of Rael’s fate. “If that were the case,” he said, “then why did your colleagues spend two weeks torturing me? Why are you here so often?”

Horace threw up his hands. “They tortured you because that’s what they do. That’s all they know how to do. As for me, I’m here to complete one last mission before I can go home, and this is as good a place to hide as any while I’m doing it.”

“What is the mission?”

Horace laughed. “Why do you care?”

Kargas was tempted to ask for more information, but did not want to appear the supplicant. He had a difficult time believing Horace’s story, but he admitted to himself that Horace had shown remarkably little interest in his professional life. Perhaps this was simply more evidence that Horace was not particularly good at his job. Whatever the truth was, Kargas saw no reason to terminate his relationship with Horace, aggravating though it often was. Horace brought him books and filled up otherwise tedious afternoons with chess. If he had an agenda, Kargas was sure that he would figure it out soon enough. In the meantime, Kargas directed his energies elsewhere. Because Horace had persuaded the warden to treat him better, he had more opportunities to learn about the prison. Most obviously, he permitted Kargas to interact with other prisoners, most of whom were there for opposing the Rowowan regime and were therefore predisposed to view an adviser sympathetically. He also befriended those Allerians working in the prison as custodians, typists, maintenance personnel, and so forth. His efforts were rewarded when a cook slipped him a newspaper and assured him that there were people in and out of the prison working to free him.

Two months after he arrived at the prison, a guard woke Kargas up early in the morning and ordered him to get dressed and gather his things. After Kargas did so, the guard led him to a small windowless anteroom and told him to wait. Kargas stood there for a few minutes and tried to figure out what was happening. Suddenly the door opened and one of the Allerian custodians who Kargas had befriended entered carrying a heavy winter coat. Because Kargas’s hands were full, the custodian helped put on the coat. As he did so, he said in a low voice, “There’s a loaded revolver in the inside left pocket.”

Shortly thereafter, the original guard returned and escorted Kargas to the prison gate. A small crowd that included the warden was on hand. Dawn was just breaking, and the early morning chill forced everyone to stomp their feet and blow on their hands. Although Kargas did not know why he was there, he relished standing outside of the prison gates and getting an unobstructed view of nature. After fifteen minutes, a car came into view and drove up to the gate. Horace emerged, nodded at the warden, and opened the passenger side.

“Get in,” he said to Kargas.

“Where are you taking me?” Kargas asked.

“What do you care?” Horace responded. “You’re getting out of this place.”

Kargas could not argue with Horace’s logic. He slid awkwardly into his seat and looked at the warden as Horace got behind the steering wheel and started the engine. As the car headed down the long road to the prison, Kargas realized that if he was going to escape, he had to do so soon. He watched the odometer out of the corner of his eye while Horace rattled on about Alleria’s infrastructure. About a dozen miles away from the prison, when the car slowed at a curve in the road, he made his move. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew the revolver. Unfortunately for him, at that very moment Horace turned his head to say something. Seeing the gun, Horace instinctively slammed the car’s breaks, propelling both men forward. Kargas let go of the pistol as his head hit the dashboard, and it fell between the seats. Despite his injury, Kargas lunged for the weapon. As he did so, Horace hit him hard on his still-mending left arm while the car rolled forward. Kargas screamed in pain and recoiled into his seat. At the same time, Horace pressed the breaks again, throwing Kargas back onto the dashboard.

Horace put the vehicle in park so it was idling in the middle of the road. He reached toward the back seat and grabbed the pistol. He then turned to Kargas, who was breathing heavily and partially wedged underneath the dashboard.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

Kargas remained silent and fought to overcome the waves of pain emanating from his left arm.

Horace tried again. “What the hell is wrong with you? I should just kill you right now, you son-of-a-bitch.”

He instead emptied the bullets out of the gun, threw them out the window, and put the car in drive. When he noticed Kargas’s pain, he said, “Serves you right.”

The two men drove in silence for another fifteen minutes until they reached a town called Mollyfield. Horace turned into an Allerian restaurant on the main road across from the train station and parked the car. He stomped out of his side of the vehicle, opened up the passenger door, and yanked Kargas out. Gesturing toward the restaurant door, he said sarcastically, “I thought you might appreciate a bona fide Allerian breakfast. You’re welcome.”

Although the hostess looked at them oddly, she did not ask any questions as she seated them. Horace ignored Kargas’s obvious discomfort and ordered a traditional Allerian breakfast for both of them: porridge, toast, and hot tea. As he observed the customers come and go, his temper gradually cooled. In fact, by the time their waitress served them their meal, he was ready to get to the business at hand.

Horace watched Kargas greedily consume his porridge for a moment before he started his monologue. “The people who seized you in Mercia were from post office intelligence. They brought you to that prison. Fortunately for you, they failed to inform the other intelligence agencies of their actions within seventy-two hours of apprehending you. This violated interagency rules. Similarly, the rules forbid torturing prisoners who might be of interest to other agencies. When my boss learned where the post office was holding you, he sent me to look into the matter. I used their transgressions to strongarm them into giving me access to you.”

Horace paused as the waitress came by to refill their teacups. “Yet another rule states that an agency has sixty days to interrogate a prisoner before it has to give him up to another interested agency. The post office’s problem was that it didn’t really want any information from you because you have no real value to them. And once I showed up, its thugs couldn’t torture you. Their sixty days just ended, so they had to hand you over to an army intelligence representative – me – so we could have an opportunity to question you. I assume that whoever gave you the gun was working for post office intelligence. I also assume that he did so in the hope that you would either embarrass me by escaping – or just kill me. And then someone would kill you too.”

Horace suddenly changed the subject. “What do you know about me?”

Kargas took a big sip of tea. “Not much. Why should I?”

“It seems odd that a man of your intellectual caliber didn’t bother to investigate my background when I arrived in Kirkwell,” said Horace.

Kargas did not want to give Horace the satisfaction of confirming his value. “I saw no point in doing so.”

“At any rate,” continued Horace. “I’m from Ippolacia in west central Rowowa.”

“I have never been there,” responded Kargas.

Horace missed the sarcasm and nodded. “As I’m sure you know, Rowowa conquered Ippolacia forty years ago after a two-year war. My grandfather fought in it. He and his buddies spent the rest of their lives conspiring against Rowowa. He took his son, my dad, to secret meetings where they wove intricate plots. At first it was sabotage and assassination, then pamphlets and tracts, and finally boycotts and ostracizing. Nothing ever came of all this talk. These guys wasted years fighting a war that had long since ended. My grandfather hoped that my dad would follow in his footsteps. My dad refused. He said he preferred to live in the here and now, with all its flaws, than in the past. He opened up a bicycle shop and prospered.”

Kargas smiled. “You are a damn fool if you expect me to just accept the Rowowan conquest of my kingdom.”

“Oh, I know,” Horace replied. “But there are other ways to serve your people than trying to incite a rebellion that they can’t win.”

“Maybe for you,” said Kargas.

Horace withdrew two sealed envelopes from his coat’s inside pocket. “I asked our people at army intelligence to create a new identity card and put it in this envelope. Except for the person who made it, no one knows the name on it. Not even me. I put some money in the other envelope, enough to start a new life. They’re yours if you want them.”

“To do what?” asked Kargas.

“To start over.”

“What is the catch?”

“Well,” said Horace. “As long as you obey the law and stick to your new identity, no one will hassle you – not army intelligence, post office intelligence, not anyone. They won’t because they won’t know who you are. On the other hand, if you try to foment rebellion, Rowowan intelligence will hunt you down and execute you. I promise you that.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then we will drive to an army intelligence facility after our breakfast. You will probably spend years in prison.”

Kargas disagreed with almost everything Horace said. Even so, it was an offer he could not refuse. It promised freedom and a second chance. Indeed, Kargas wondered if it was a trap. Except for a vague threat if he did not cooperate, Kargas did not see an obvious downside.

“When can I leave?”

Horace shrugged. “Whenever you want. The train station is across the street. I don’t think that post office intelligence has followed us, but you should probably take the proper precautions.”

Kargas opened the envelopes. As Horace stated, they contained an identity card and money. Horace might be lying about the identity card, but Kargas figured he could always buy a new one somewhere – perhaps with the money in the other envelope.

Although Kargas was still in pain, he decided to leave while he had the chance. He got out of the chair and extended his hand to Horace. “Goodbye, Mr. Oxenstera. I wish you all the best.”

Horace noticed that Kargas did not thank him, but expected as much. Nor was he surprised that Kargas did not want to wait until the end of breakfast. “Goodbye, Mr. Kargas. Remember what I said about staying out of trouble.”

Kargas walked out of the restaurant, crossed the street, and entered the train station. There he bought a ticket to Emerald City. Although no one appeared to be following him, he could not be sure. He knew that there was little chance of escaping detection in this small town, but once the train got to Emerald City, he figured he could easily elude anyone tailing him. He savored his freedom by strolling along the platform, buying a book to read, and sitting at a table. He watched people enter and exit the station, enjoying its ordinariness. He concluded that as long as he was alive, so was the dream of Allerian independence.