Allan Folsom - The Hadrian Memorandum

“I don’t know what you are referring to,” Marten said calmly. “The father gave me no photographs. And as you can see I am hiding nothing.”

“You are hiding what is in here!” The major suddenly jabbed Marten’s forehead with the tip of a massive finger. “What is in your mind, your head.” Immediately he looked to one of the officers behind him.

In a blink the man stepped forward. Marten could see the swift grin, the glint in his eyes. He knew what was coming and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. Still he did his best to cover himself. It didn’t work. The kick from the man’s combat boot drove into his genitals like a piston. Marten cried out and dropped to one knee, gagging, coughing, retching. His head spun. The pain was excruciating, focused nowhere and everywhere at the same time. For a long while he stayed where he was, his eyes closed, gasping, praying for the agony to go away.

Finally he opened his eyes. When he did he found the major squatted in front of him, his sweating face inches away.

“I want the photographs,” he hissed. “The photographs and the memory card from the camera that was used to take them. Where are they?”

What Marten saw in his eyes was pure hatred. Whether it was because Marten was white or because he was getting no information from him seemed not an issue. The major, like those here and the others from before-the soldiers who had slammed rifle butts into the heads of Father Willy and the two young boys and the ones who had chased him in the rain forest-were not so much soldiers as killers. Human life meant nothing. They wanted what they wanted, nothing less. Right now that was information regarding the whereabouts of Father Willy’s photographs and the memory card from his camera, and those were things he couldn’t give them. First, there was no way for him to know for certain whether copies of the photographs or the memory card itself still existed. Even if they did, he had no idea where they might be. Second, they had no evidence that he had seen the photos and were simply assuming it was true. That meant his continued denials of innocence were crucial because if they had any sense at all that he was lying they would torture him until he broke. Once he did, once he told them the truth of what had happened and what he had seen, they would kill him in an instant.

Marten brought his eyes up to the major’s. “I don’t know about any photographs or any camera or any memory card,” he whispered. At the same time, he thanked God that Father Willy had had the intelligence to burn the photos on the trail instead of giving them to him.

“We shall see.” The major grinned cruelly and stood up.

5:22 P.M.

The major went to the table, picked something off it, and came back. It was a tube, maybe two inches around and two feet long, and except for the twin metal electrodes protruding from one end, it looked like some kind of nightstick. It wasn’t. It was an old-fashioned high-voltage cattle prod.

“Holy shit,” Marten swore under his breath.

Suddenly hands grabbed him and he was flat on the floor on his back with the major standing over him. He brought the prod toward Marten’s face, then pressed a button near the top of the handle. There was a stab of blue light and a loud crackling sound as electricity arced violently from one electrode to the other on the instrument’s tip. The major grinned and slowly moved the prod down between Marten’s legs to just brush his genitals.

“The photographs and the memory card and you go free.”

Go free like hell, Marten thought. They’d find out soon enough that he couldn’t give them what they wanted. Nor could they let him go afterward, no matter his condition, and have him start talking about what happened, so they’d have little choice but to get rid of him. All he could do was try to buy a little time and think of some other way to get out of the situation.

“I don’t know anything about photographs or a memory card,” he whispered. “Nothing.”

“No?”

“No.”

From the corner of his eye Marten saw movement. He turned his head. The goat was right beside him. One soldier had it by the head. A second lifted its tail. The major touched the prod to the animal’s genitals and pressed the button on the handle. The loud snapping sound of high voltage was drowned out by the goat’s scream as its genitals and the muscles around them contracted in wild spasm. The goat shrieked and kicked wildly, trying to free itself from the iron grip the soldier had on its head. It was no good. The man was too strong. The major smiled at Marten, then stuck the prod between the animal’s legs and touched the button again. And then again. The terrified animal yelped and screamed in agony. Then it kicked up violently, knocking the prod from the major’s hand, jerking away from the soldier holding its head. Then, bellowing and dragging its hindquarters, to the laughter of the soldiers, it circled the room desperately looking for an escape. Finally it hid quivering under the relative safety of the wooden table. Whereupon the soldier who had been holding it walked over and knelt down as if to comfort it. Instead he grinned, drew his pistol, and shot it between the eyes.

“Cena,” the major said in Spanish. Supper. He retrieved the prod from where the goat had kicked it and came back toward Marten.

Marten’s eyes followed the prod, then shifted to the major. “If I knew I would tell you,” he said with all the strength he could manage. “I don’t.”

“That is not a satisfactory answer, Mr. Marten. Besides, it’s early yet. Very early. I’m sure it won’t be long before your memory returns.” Slowly he ran the prod between Marten’s legs, letting it come to come rest at the base of his testicles.

Just then the hawk-faced soldier raised his hand. Abruptly the major left Marten and went to him. A brief, muted conversation took place between them. When it was done, the major nodded and came back to Marten.

“Get dressed,” he said.

Marten glanced at the other man, then looked back to the major.

“Get dressed,” he said again.

A storm of relief rushed through Marten, but he dared not show it for fear this was part of the game. Make him think he’d been spared, then start the process all over again. Quietly he stood and then slowly dressed. Undershorts first, then trousers, then his shirt. The whole time he carefully watched the hawk-faced man, wondering what he’d said to the major and what was next.

In the next moment the major looked to one of the young soldiers guarding the front door. Immediately the man picked up Marten’s passport case from the table and delivered it to him.

“There is a ten-o’clock flight to Paris this evening.” The major put Marten’s passport case in his hand. “You will be on it.”

Marten stared at him, then looked around the room, wondering what they were doing, if this was some kind of trick. There was only silence.

“Thank you,” he said finally and as politely as possible, then started for the door. As he reached it the second young soldier flung it open.

Marten should have taken the gift he had been given and left as quickly as he could. Instead he stopped in the doorway and turned to look at the major.

“What happened to the priest?” he said quietly.

“Dead.” The answer was sharp and stabbed across the room.

Marten had expected it to come from the major, but it had come from the hawk-faced soldier. It was the one and only time he had addressed him, and when he did he locked eyes with him.

“There were two boys-”

“Dead,” the man repeated, his voice cold and flat. “Everyone in the priest’s village is dead. It is a tragedy that no one seemed to know where the photographs were. Certainly one of them would have traded his life, or hers, or”-he purposely emphasized the next-“his mother’s… or father’s or… child’s… for them if they had. It would have been a simple thing.”