Chapter 22: Extraordinary Rendition

Memorandum

From: Jo

To: Corinne

Subject: Fifty "Rendition"

Corinne, I don't know what the hell is going on and I want to put on my file my concerns. Whoever these people are, I can't see that they should be able to do this. I'll accept your assurances that this is all being done legally and that it has nothing to do with the suspicions about Fifty's activities here, but I want it to be very clear that myself, and the rest of the other staff are unhappy with this situation. Jo.

Memorandum

From: Corinne

To: Jo, Charlotte & The Team

Subject: Fifty "Rendition"

Jo, Here's a formal response to your concerns.

Yes, Larry and I are just as concerned as you are. It seems astonishing that the American authorities can act as if the UK was just another part of the United States, but we've had legal advice that this is all allowed under US Law and UK treaties. Larry's people are using their contacts in the Government to reach someone who can tell us just what is going on and hopefully help. I will brief the whole team just as soon as I have anything to report.

Corinne.

Jenny's Recollections (Day 40):

I'm absolutely petrified. What on earth is going on? I'm studying stress, and this is terror.

Last night I was put back in my cell as usual after a tough shibari session with Ylena. She had been as good as her word about the Russian flag. Red, white and blue ropes, white making a sort of harness arrangement around my head; a gag and a blindfold. Blue around my body; an intricate karada. Red around my thighs, my knees and ankles. Ylena is pleased with the effect. I have the same sensations as before. I find myself totally caught up in what Ylena is doing to me, completely absorbed in the feeling that every movements is held back by the pressure of the ropes. Ylena declared herself pleased with her slooga and then I was put back in my cell.

The bars locked closed, the shutters came down, the lights went out. I climbed into bed and pulled my blanket over me. There's no point in not trying to sleep and they keep us so busy that I need the rest anyway. Sometimes, I turn over the day's events in my mind trying to make sense of it all for whatever it is that I'm going to write at the end of this. This night though, I fall asleep pretty much straight away.

I wake up. I've no idea what the time is. All I know is that it's still dark. There's some noise coming from outside the cell, voices arguing. The shutter of my cell starts to go up. Light streams underneath it. As the shutter goes up, I see the cause for the noise. There are five men, all smartly dressed, dark suits, white shirts, dark ties, crew cut hair, dark glasses. All of them are solidly built. They all seem to have one earphone, with a curl cord disappearing beneath their collars. One of them, he looks a bit older than the other - his face lined with experience, is waving a sheet of paper at Charlotte, while Jo is standing with her hand on the switch that opens the door to my cell.

"I'm glad you decided to co-operate Ma'am," the man with the paper says, in an American accent with a tone that is both polite and clipped. Charlotte looks as though she's not happy with whatever is going on. Jo looks annoyed, as well.

One of the other men walks across to the bars of my cell and calls in to me. "We're sorry to disturb you at this time, Ma'am. Could you stand up, please?"

He holds up a chunky mobile phone towards me. He looks at the screen and looks at me and then looks at one of the other men.

One of the other men disappears only to come back a few moments later. "Here is the picture modification from Langley, Sir." He hands the first man another mobile. The first man holds it towards me and then nods to another of the group. "That's a confirmation, Sir" he says.

Another man approaches. He holds up an official looking ID card. I can read the words Agent Elmer Black, Department of Justice. "Jennifer Alison McEwan. You are being detained in the custody of the Authorities of the United States."

The American continues, "We have information that you and your associates are involved in activities prejudicial the interests of the Government of the United States and you are being detained for further investigation and questioning. Legal representation will be arranged for you at an appropriate time. I'm afraid that you have to come with us."

"But why? Where? What's going on?" I'm pretty disturbed by all this. I can feel my pulse racing and it gets no slower when I realise that each of these men has a bulge in their jacket that suggests they are carrying guns.

"I can't explain that here, Miss, I'm afraid. You'll be aware that we are at liberty to detain any foreign national suspected of offences against the US legal code. The Agency simply asked that we arrange with the people here for you to be transferred to our facility. I'm sure that it will all be sorted out there. You will appreciate that in matters of electronic espionage and sabotage, counterterrorism and Homeland Security the Western Governments and ourselves collaborate very closely." Charlotte and Jo are looking on, mouths open in surprise.

I'm confused. "What do you mean, counter terrorism?" I'm thinking 'Agency'? What is this, the CIA, or something?

"You have links with Russia and certain individuals suspected of involvement with electronic sabotage."

"No." I say "No, I don't."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, our information is that you are married to a Joseph McEwan, who was engaged in projects around the Sea of Azov prior to his current activities in Cambodia."

"Well, yes."

"And, you don't think that constitutes 'links with Russia'?"

"Well, no. But well, maybe, I suppose..."

"Don't worry, ma'am. I'm sure we can sort this all out." He turns to Jo. "Open the cell doors, please," he says. Jo shrugs and does as he asks. "Thank you Ma'am." He beckons to me. "If you could walk this way, Ma'am." I look at Jo. She shrugs again. There doesn't seem to be anything else for me to do. "That's very helpful Ma'am," the older man says.

The men all surge in. Two of the silent heavies grab one of my arms each. Someone else passes and fastens wide belt round my waist and my wrists are clipped to each side of the belt. It only takes moments. Someone else again pulls a leather helmet over my head and laces it firmly, the laces at the back. I am blind and dumb and helpless.

I hear Charlotte say, "Is that absolutely necessary?"

"We don't tell you how to run your operation, Ma'am. I'm sure you'll agree we're best able to assess our own security procedures and approach. We carry out a strict risk assessment for every transfer."

They're holding me tightly, but not viciously, although it's perfectly obvious that if I try to make a sudden move there is no chance I'll be allowed to go anywhere. I can just hear the American speaking to Jo, "The Department of Justice is very grateful for your cooperation, Ma'am. I'm sure I do not need to remind you that these events should remain confidential.

The man continues, "and this is, of course, covered by the provisions of your own Government's Official Secrets Act."

I am marched out of my cell, one of the heavies on each side, up to the ground floor and outside. There is the sensation of cold air on my naked flesh as we go outside and I'm lifted into some sort of van. My hands are re-cuffed to one of the seats, doors slam and the car sets off. The whole incident has taken hardly any time at all.

I've no idea how long we drive for. It's hot and stuffy with the hood still over my head. Neither of the men touch me at all, but I'm wedged between them.

Now, we're going quite fast, at a steady speed and on a relatively smooth road. It must be a motorway or a dual carriageway; we don't slow down or turn sharply for quite a while. Then, we're on to stopping, starting, turning and bumping again. And then, we stop.

There's the slamming of car doors. I'm expecting to be pulled out of wherever I am but nothing happens for quite a while. They've forgotten me! Of course it's a ridiculous thought, but then, it's a crazy situation. Then there's a clunk, cold air on my flesh again and my hands are released from the seat, clipped once more to the belt and I am out of the van still with the hood over my head.

"Mind your feet, Ma'am," a voice says. "There's gravel here for few yards till we get to the Facility." The gravel is sharp under my feet, but it's only a few steps until I'm on stone and then through a door inside somewhere and there's wood or some warm surface beneath my feet.

I'm gripped by the arms again and hustled along again for a way, still with the hood over my head. Eventually, two sets of hands take me and I'm put down on the floor. Except, it's not the floor, I'm kneeling on cold metal bars. They push me forward from behind. There's a clang and a click. I try to move. My back and head bang against bars above me. I try to twist around and my shoulder hits against metal as well. My wrists are dragged behind my back and fastened together. My ankles cuffs are fastened too. The hood is unlaced, unstrapped and pulled off my head. I can see that I've been pushed into a tiny cage, not high enough for me to sit up in, not wide enough to let me turn around. There's a heavy padlock on the door. Even if I can get my wrists free from my cuffs, I couldn't get out of the cage. I'm in a dimly lit room. Two of the dark suited men that took me from Inward Bound, (or I suppose two other identically dressed men, how can I tell?) are standing looking down at me. One of them lifts his hand and gives a circling wave. I feel the cage start to move. In no time, it's ten or twelve feet off the ground, spinning slowly on a chain somewhere above my head. As the cage spins, I watch the men leave and I see that there are four other cages hanging from the ceiling of the room. What have I got in to?

I'm in the cage for what seems like a lifetime. The bars are cutting into my knees, I cannot really get my feet into a position where they can help support me. I am cramped and cannot straighten out without banging into the bars. If I do try to move, the cage starts to swing.

The next development gives me no comfort, either. Suddenly, the room is filled with light as lamps set into the ceiling inches above my head come on. It's dazzling; they're hot. At the far end of the room the door opens and in strides the most daunting looking woman. My first sight of her makes me catch my breath. She's dressed as conservatively as the men, dark suit, white blouse, sunglasses. I can see that she's black, darker even than the picture of Diallo Ramatoulaye that Gerry had, or so it seems in the harsh light. She strides down the room getting closer to me all the time. Predatory. In charge.

The woman approaches my cage, takes off her shades and peers up at me. She turns and clicks her fingers. I feel my cage start to lower, going down until she is looking me straight in the eye. She smiles, but I don't sense any warmth. Her teeth are as white as her blouse. She reaches out and prods the cage, watching as I spin in front of her.

"Hmmm. Interesting," she's says, peering at me. "We're going to have a real interesting talk about you and how your friends in Russia are these days and what they are up to."

I have no idea who she is or what she is talking about. "I don't know anything about this," I say, "I've never been to Russia. I've got no Russian friends. Sure, my husband worked out there for a while, but he hasn't got anything to do with the Russians beyond that. He was just part of trying to fix some of their water problems. That's the only thing he has to do with the Russians."

"No, of course. We know that. This isn't about him."

"Oh," I say, "but your people said..."

She shakes her head. "No, it's not about him. It's about you."

I'm about to say something, but she carries straight on. "Now, don't interrupt Connie," she says. It's the closest she gets to introducing herself. She takes a final look at me. "We'll meet again soon. Don't worry, we'll have a long talk," she says. I'm worried. And scared.

Connie turns on her heels and strides back towards the door, her heels tapping their way across the room. The lights go off. This time, it's pitch black.

By the time they come on again, hours have passed and this time the dark suited men come back. My cage is lowered onto a trolley. They disconnect it from the chain that has held me aloft and I'm wheeled off, still in my cage. I'm rolled into a small room, one of the men unfastens the padlock on the door of my cage, the other helps pull me out. I'm so stiff that I sprawl on the floor at their feet.

"You'll get used to it, kid," one of the men says.

"No, she won't," says the other, with a laugh.

I start to get some feeling back in my limbs, but all I can do is to stretch out on the floor. I'm groaning with discomfort, but my distress doesn't seem to disturb them. I'm worried that they think I'm going to be here long enough to actually get used to it and I still don't understand why I'm here.

I get the chance to learn more when Connie comes in. She's wearing black trousers, a white shirt and a tight black waistcoat that fits under her bust. All I can do is stare up at her as she strides into the room. Her whole presence radiates power. She turns to one of the men. "Can she stand?"

He shrugs, reaches down and unfastens my ankle cuffs. He steps back without helping me further. It's pretty obvious I'm going to have to do it on my own. I wriggle round and manage to get onto my knees. My thighs and calves are aching, stiff from being confined in the cage. My knees are grazed from the bars of the cage and my shoulders are bruised and scraped, too. Connie watches as I carry on trying to get up. It's not easy at the best of times with your hands locked behind your back, but I manage it. I'm not too steady on my feet and lurch over against the wall.

Connie seems impressed. "Not bad," she says. She takes a good look at me, turning me this way and that. "All right. She's not in too bad shape. Get her showered, clean up those grazes and scrapes. I want an assessment on my desk by the end of the morning. OK?"

"Sure," says the taller of the two men quietly. Connie is obviously in charge here.

"Any difficulties with the collection?" Connie says.

"No. The people there were perfectly cooperative. They were quite happy with the paper work..."

Connie nods and goes, leaving me with the two men. One of them helps me to straighten up, warning me to keep quiet. I try to ask them why I've been brought here, what is to happen to me. They ignore my questions, telling me to shut up if I don't want my mouth strapped shut again. I take their advice.

They hustle me away to a shower block and then to see a medic who looks me over, dabs my cuts and grazes with antiseptic and then declares me fit. She gives me a sort of orange robe, a bit like a hospital theatre gown. It has a badge saying "Detainee". I put it on feeling strange, it's the first clothing I've worn for a long time. It all feels a bit like when I first arrived at the Inward Bound Centre, but this time it's all more brutal, more matter-of-fact, like I'm on some sort of production line!