Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [108]
And she would know. Only a few people would share the secret and comprehend the magnitude of what he had achieved: he was glad she would be one of them.
He hoped Masud had been captured, rather than killed. If he had been captured, the Russians could put him on trial, so that all the rebels would know for sure he was finished. Death was almost as good, provided they had the body. If there were no body, or an unrecognizable corpse, the rebels’ propagandists in Peshawar would put out press releases claiming that Masud was still alive. Of course, it would become clear in the end that he was dead, but the impact would be softened a little. Jean-Pierre hoped they had the body.
He heard footsteps in the corridor. Would it be Anatoly, or Jane—or both? It sounded like a masculine tread. He opened the door and saw two rather large Russian soldiers and a third, smaller man in an officer’s uniform. No doubt they had come to take him to wherever Anatoly and Jane were. He was disappointed. He looked inquiringly at the officer, who made a gesture with his hand. The two soldiers stepped through the door rudely. Jean-Pierre went back a pace, a protest rising to his lips, but before he could speak, the nearer of the two grabbed him by the shirt and smashed a huge fist into his face.
Jean-Pierre let out a howl of pain and fear. The other soldier kicked him in the groin with a heavy boot. The pain was excruciating, and Jean-Pierre sank to his knees, knowing that the most terrible moment of his life had arrived.
The two soldiers pulled him upright and held him standing, one at each arm, and the officer came in. Through a haze of tears Jean-Pierre saw a short, thickset young man with some kind of deformity which made one side of his face appear flushed and swollen and gave him a permanent sneer. He carried a truncheon in his gloved hand.
For the next five minutes the two soldiers held Jean-Pierre’s squirming, shuddering body while the officer smashed the wooden truncheon repeatedly into his face, his shoulders, his knees, his shins, his belly and his groin—always his groin. Every blow was carefully placed and viciously delivered, and there was always a pause between blows, so that the agony of the last could fade just enough to allow Jean-Pierre to dread the next for a second before it came. Every blow made him scream in pain, and every pause made him scream in anticipation of the next blow. At last there was a longer pause, and Jean-Pierre began to babble, not knowing whether they could understand him or not: “Oh, please, don’t hit me, please, don’t hit me again, sir, I’ll do anything, what is it you want, please don’t hit me no don’t hit me—”
“Enough!” said a voice in French.
Jean-Pierre opened his eyes and tried to peer through the blood streaming down his face at this savior who had said Enough. It was Anatoly.
The two soldiers slowly let Jean-Pierre sink to the ground. His body felt as if it was on fire. Every move was agony. Every bone felt broken, his balls felt crushed, his face seemed to have swollen enormously. He opened his mouth, and blood came out. He swallowed, and spoke through smashed lips. “Why . . . why have they done this?”
“You know why,” said Anatoly.
Jean-Pierre shook his head from side to side slowly and tried to keep from descending into utter madness. “I risked my life for you . . . I gave everything . . . why?”
“You set a trap,” Anatoly said. “Eighty-one men died today because of you.”
The raid must have gone wrong, Jean-Pierre realized, and somehow he was being blamed. “No,” he said, “not I—”
“You expected to be miles away when the trap was sprung,” Anatoly went on. “But I surprised you by making you get into the helicopter and come with me. So you are here to take your punishment—which will be painful and very, very prolonged.” He turned away.
“No,” said Jean-Pierre. “Wait!”
Anatoly turned back.
Jean-Pierre fought to think despite the pain. “I came here . . . I risked my life . . . I gave you