A Season in Hell. Jack Higgins

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       1

      Just after four, as first light started to seep through the bamboo slats above his head, it rained again, slowly at first, developing into a solid drenching downpour from which there was no escape.

      Sean Egan crouched in a corner, arms folded, hands tucked into his armpits to conserve as much body heat as possible, not that there was much left after four days. The pit was four feet square so that it was impossible to lie down even if he’d have wanted to. He remembered reading somewhere that gorillas were the only animals who lay in their own ordure and didn’t mind. He hadn’t reached that stage yet although he’d long since got used to the stench.

      His feet were bare, but they’d left him with his camouflage jump jacket and pants. A khaki-green sweatband was wound around his head like a turban, desert style. Beneath it, the face was gaunt, skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones. The eyes were china blue and without expression as he waited, rain drifting down through the bamboo slats twelve feet above. The clay walls were wet with it and, occasionally, clods of earth broke free from the sides and fell into the bottom water, already three or four inches deep.

      He waited, indifferent to all this, and finally heard the sound of footsteps, someone whistling flatly through the rain. The man above wore a camouflage uniform similar to his own, but slightly different, the Afghanistan pattern developed by the Russian Army for use during the occupation of that country. A sergeant according to the rank badges on his collar tabs. Above the peak of his cap was the red star of the Soviet Army and the insignia of the 81st Regiment of Assault Paratroops.

      Egan recognized all these things because it was his business to. He looked up and waited in silence. The sergeant carried an AK assault rifle in one hand, an army ration can in the other, a length of twine tied to it.

      ‘Still with us?’ he called cheerfully in English, resting the AK beside him. ‘It must be wet down there?’ Egan said nothing. He simply sat, waiting. ‘And still not talking? Ah, well, you will, my friend. They always do in the end.’ The sergeant lowered the ration can through the slats. ‘Breakfast. Only coffee this morning, but then we don’t want to build up your strength.’

      Egan took the can and opened it. It was coffee, steaming in the damp air, surprisingly hot. He fought the wave of nausea – even the smell of coffee made him feel sick. To drink it was an impossibility, as his captors well knew.

      The sergeant laughed. ‘But of course, you only drink tea. What a pity.’ He unbuttoned his pants and urinated down through the slats. ‘What about a change?’

      There was no way to avoid it. Egan stayed there, squatting in the corner, staring up, still not speaking.

      The sergeant СКАЧАТЬ