A Rocky Road

a Spooks story

by RoadrunnerGER

Disclaimer: I don't own anything Spooks, the BBC and Kudos do.

Summary: They say that no matter how bad something is, it can always get worse. Long years of Russian incarceration taught Lucas as much. The latest abuse he had to endure, though, has him teetering on the brink of an abyss.

A/N: Thank you everyone for your continued support. Enjoy!

Chapter 6 – Tides of time

2003

Lushanka interrogation camp

Darshavin.

The name still rang in Lucas's ears. Judging by what little he had learned about him, he had to be an interrogator. So far, he had not arrived but Lucas already despised him. He could not tell if the man's absence or his impending arrival annoyed Belyakov, but whatever the reason, the senior guard took it out on his prisoner.

One of the things Lucas wondered about was his food. Prison provisions always lacked the fine art of cooking, but what he had been given here so far did not even deserve to be called meals. Slop would be a more appropriate description. Actually he suspected that it was just another means for Belyakov to torment him.

Without touching him.

Very important, Lucas knew that much, because he apparently is not allowed to torture me.

Which did not stop him.

The cold shower had been the first of a series of more or less subtle cruelties. Belyakov's malice probably would know no bounds if he was given free rein. As yet, Lucas could be glad that the guard's means were limited and ranged from making him stand on the same spot for hours to ordering him to do push-ups until he collapsed.

Letting the totally overcooked porridge drop off the spoon into the small bowl, Lucas wrinkled his nose. Given the fact that the Russians still wanted to get information from him, this had to be Belyakov's doing. A dead man did not talk after all, and he soon would be starved to death if they kept up this kind of diet.

So, who's Darshavin?

As annoyed as it made Belyakov, Lucas easily guessed that Darshavin was going to assume a position the senior guard had expected to earn himself. Maybe he had hoped for becoming his interrogator and being in charge of Lucas, and now someone else got that job.

Thankfully. I don't want to know what he would do if he got official permission.

Of course he could not know if Darshavin would not be worse. All he knew so far was that Belyakov took cruel delight in making him miserable and he really hoped that he would not be included in Darshavin's plans.

The sounds of a motor drew Lucas's attention and he got up to look out at the courtyard where a jeep just stopped in front of the warden's barrack. A couple of soldiers got out and quickly went into the house. Only one of them paused, pulling up the collar of his coat against the chilly wind that blew over the marshes. He looked around the camp, taking in the details of his surroundings, and pushed his hands into the coat pockets.

Even from a distance he appeared cold and inapproachable, his features stern and his posture intimidating. His aura said 'I own this place', which made Lucas pretty certain about whom he was watching.

Darshavin.

Straightening, the man turned around and followed the other soldiers inside. His brief appearance had been menacing, though, and Lucas got the unsettling feeling that he had only a brief reprieve.

xXx

His last respite was shorter than expected. All of a sudden the door flew open and guards barged in, grabbing Lucas and putting a sack over his head. Instinct made him resist and plant his feet at first, but when common sense kicked in he went with the men readily if not willingly.

Don't give them any reason for punishment, he told himself. Igor would happily exploit it.

Just for a second he was startled to find himself calling Belyakov by his first name, even in his head. The mere idea that he might ever be on first name terms with the sadistic guard was ridiculous.

They took him down the corridor to another room and made him wait. Standing in what he presumed to be the middle of the room, the hood still covering his head, Lucas felt somewhat on edge.

So this is it. My first meeting with my new interrogator. What's he trying to do, being dramatic? Scaring me?

Yes, he was nervous, but not scared. During four years of incarceration the Russians had done about everything to him that Lucas could think of and some things he never imagined.

On second thought, I probably should be scared as there's still Belyakov. He may have been told not to touch me before my interrogator arrives, but who's to say that he won't be given approval now? And he'd certainly enjoy tormenting me.

Drawing a deep breath that he released slowly, Lucas shifted his position and listened intently. Even though he heard no telltale sounds, he was pretty certain that he was not alone. If the penetrative smell he already knew did not linger, Belyakov was waiting with him. So far, Lucas had not figured out what gave off the disgustingly sweet scent, but he suspected that the guard used it to style his beard. It reminded Lucas of the obtrusive perfumes some women preferred, which he found totally inappropriate for a man like Belyakov. On the other hand it was a dead giveaway of the man's presence so Lucas appreciated the forewarning.

Although he could neither hear nor smell him, Lucas was convinced that Darshavin was there as well. It made sense after all, that he wanted to inspect the prisoner he was going to interrogate. The question was if Darshavin would talk with him now or if he just wanted to get a first impression.

Beneath the hood, Lucas rolled his eyes. Waiting had never been one of his favourite ways to pass the time. When needed he could be patient, but he preferred a direct approach if possible. Of course he knew that they used waiting to demoralize him.

Maybe that's why Belyakov told me about Darshavin, even though he was still several days due to arrive. Speculations are futile. I'll find out soon enough.

Hearing footsteps, Lucas braced himself. With a single pull that also tugged on his hair, someone removed the hood. Lucas blinked as he adjusted to the brightness. Then he got the first good look at the new man in charge of him.

As Lucas now stared straight into the other's dark brown eyes, they clearly were of the same height. The interrogator's hair was a very dark brown and combed back with what appeared to be styling gel. For a second, Lucas thought of pomade, but then he wondered if the hair simply was greasy. Looking sternly at his prisoner the man's full eyebrows were drawn together over his prominent nose, and long stubble shadowed his cheeks.

Belyakov stood diagonally behind Darshavin, glowering at Lucas and daring him to reveal anything about the mistreatments.

I won't do you that favour.

Slowly but surely the waiting became annoying. Lucas felt the urge to break the silence, which probably was what Darshavin was waiting for. Would he answer or punish Lucas for speaking up? There was only one way to know.

"So, you must be tovarisch Darshavin," Lucas said, using the outdated word for comrade in order to appear unaware of how to form a proper Russian address. Sure, he could have learned it during his imprisonment, but he wanted to see the new man's response.

He did not know what reaction he was expecting, but it was certainly not the one he got. The interrogator's face became a sudden mask of rage and he moved so suddenly Lucas instinctively cringed away from the blow.

Which struck Belyakov squarely in the mouth.

"Svoloch!" Darshavin seethed. "My orders were to keep the prisoner in complete isolation until I got here."

"We did as you instructed, Oleg Mikhailovich," Belyakov whimpered in shock as he blotted his bleeding lip with the back of his hand. "He was never among the other prisoners!"

Lucas had to work hard to keep the smirk from his face. This was sweet revenge, no matter that he would likely pay for it later. In addition he was provided with further information about the new interrogator. According to the usual way of address, his full name was Oleg Darshavin, Mikhailovich being the patronymic derived from his father's first name. And another fact became apparent: He had no qualms about dealing out brutal punishments.

"You useless durak!" Darshavin roared. "He was still among you, else how would he already know my name?"

Lucas decided to stay out of this. Putting on a mask of indifference, he watched furtively like the good spook that he was, pretending to be totally unfazed while he secretly enjoyed seeing Belyakov subdued.

"I… don't know how that could happen," Belyakov defended himself. "He… must have overheard us."

His pronunciation had become somewhat slurred, which made Lucas suspect that the blow he had received damaged more than just his lip.

"Proklyati blin!" Darshavin thundered. "Get out of my sight!"

Belyakov toddled off with his tail between his legs, which left Lucas on his own with the interrogator. All of a sudden, his anxiety intensified, seeing himself as the other's sole focus.

Darshavin stepped up right in front of him again, staring straight into his eyes. For a long minute they just stood like that before the interrogator asked, "Was it like he claimed?"

Lucas just shrugged and Darshavin's features darkened.

"I see… You know better than to contradict him." A dark growl from deep inside his chest rolled off Darshavin. Leaning forward into Lucas's personal space, he commanded, "You stay right here."

Lucas did not do as much as turn his head when Darshavin strode past him and out of the room, the sounds of his heavy boots soon fading away. Once more forced to wait, he contemplated his first impressions. The interrogator sure looked as menacing up close as he did from a distance. A hint of disgust constricted Lucas's insides at the idea that the grease in his hair actually was natural and not some styling product. As he spoke, Darshavin also revealed two gaps right in the middle between his front teeth, the one on the bottom being more pronounced.

A good soldier, Lucas deduced, but one whose family could not afford the dentist. I guess he worked his way up the ranks until he was rewarded with this position. His family must be proud of him. Chief interrogator in a torture camp.

Lucas tried to see the person behind the man's position, but with as little information as he had that was hard to do. All he could do was wait and see how things developed. What really gave Lucas the creeps, though, was the adamant look in those dark chocolate coloured eyes.

How long he had to wait, Lucas did not care. As soon as he heard footsteps again, he tensed up anyway. Now he would learn more. Expectantly he listened to the movement behind him.

Still the kick against the hollow of his knees came out of the blue. It made him cry out and fall forward, landing on his fours.

"Stay upright," Darshavin commanded, grabbing his hair to yank him back.

Kneeling at his captor's feet, Lucas groaned.

"Tell me what Belyakov did to you," Darshavin ordered.

No way.

"Answer me," Darshavin snarled.

"Nothing," Lucas lied through gritted teeth. "He did nothing."

"I see," Darshavin grunted. "Now why don't I believe you?"

I have no idea, Lucas thought wryly. He felt the interrogator shift his stance. A moment later, rope wrapped around his neck. No!

"Lie down!" Darshavin commanded, pushing him forward.

Lucas came to lie prone with a grunt and Darshavin pulled his arms together behind his back, tying his wrists.

"I have no idea why you're lying for the bastard, but we can talk about another subject," Darshavin jovially said, taking hold of Lucas's left ankle and bending his leg. "Tell me about your assets in Moscow."

Keep dreaming, Lucas stubbornly thought, even as he felt rope being tied around his ankle as well. Only when Darshavin let go and his muscles automatically relaxed did he realize that it was the rope around his neck. Gasping with shock, he lifted his leg again.

"Something wrong?" Darshavin sweetly asked. "You sure you don't want to talk with me?"

Really sure.

Actually his resolve began to crumble. When his muscles tired, the rope tautened, choking him. With his hands bound as they were, he could not reach the rope and he was utterly incapable of shifting his position at all. As soon as the rope pressed on his neck, he fought to bend his leg. Fear made him successfully do it for a short while, then it began anew. Gradually the pressure increased until the full load of his leg weighed on the rope, cutting off his air supply.

Help me!

Lucas would have called out with desperation if he could have voiced anything at all. Obviously Darshavin knew about his distress, though, as he untied him…

…only to bind his right leg instead.

Stop!

Lucas's silent scream remained unheard. Right now, he could hold up his leg with ease, which gave him some respite, but that would not last forever. Soon his muscles would tire and he would fight for air again. It happened sooner than he had thought. Weakened from earlier suffocation, he could not muster the strength and he felt the rope tighten more and more.

No! Bend! I can…

Even his thoughts derailed as he battled against loss of consciousness. His vision already blurred and he would not be able to struggle much longer.

All of a sudden the tension was gone. Darshavin had cut the rope and turned Lucas on his side.

Gasping and retching, Lucas fought for air.

"You really don't want to tell me what Belyakov did?"

"No," Lucas croaked. "You already know, or you wouldn't be so annoyed."

Darshavin laughed.

"I was afraid already that you were defending the durak," he chuckled. Clicking his fingers he gestured at two guards. "Take him to his cell."

Unceremoniously they picked him up from the floor and dragged him away. Lucas was too beat to notice that they did not return to his previous cell. Only when they stopped to untie his hands he looked at his new surroundings.

Tiled walls.

That was new, as well as the simple cot and the bucket beside it. Stunned, Lucas realized that there was no window, which was the last thing he saw before the door fell shut and the light went out.

*svoloch = bastard

durak = fool/moron

proklyati blin = (roughly) damned thicko

xXx

Miserable was what described Lucas's condition best. Belyakov's treatment had been bad enough, but Darshavin easily outmatched him.

Hugging his knees to his chest, Lucas lay on his cot and wished for everything to be over, a mercy that remained denied to him. Whenever he heard someone approach his cell, his whole body tensed with fear, his stomach rolling unpleasantly. The food had become marginally better, but it could not balance out what Lucas had to endure.

Why can't they just kill me?

Over and over it echoed in his mind. He never knew how much a human being was able to suffer without breaking. He was not even sure if it was his willpower that made him survive or if it was pure instinct, and even though he wished for a bullet to relieve him from his misery, he curiously realized that he was still far from taking his own life.

Hearing the door being unlocked, Lucas tensed up. His stomach and his muscles hurt already and he knew it would only become worse.

Four guards came in that yanked him off the cot and to his feet. One pulled on his sweater and once he had removed it, two others bound his wrists with rope. Then they led him outside. They chose another direction this time and entered what appeared to be a workshop. Purposefully the men steered him over to the workbench.

What now?

His question was answered by the men taking hold of his limbs, and before Lucas even comprehended their action, they hoisted him up onto the bench. A yell of shock escaped him. Struggling fiercely, he broke out of their hold and managed to kick at one of them. Before he could use his small advantage, though, another man yanked on the rope that tied his wrist, unbalancing him. Face first Lucas smashed onto the wooden surface, jarring his teeth and driving the air out of his lungs. Gasping for breath, he had no answer to the guard's pull. They stretched his arms out in front of him and tied the rope to the bench. While one of the guards leaned on his back, weighing him down, the others spread his legs, binding them to the respective legs of the workbench.

A sob painfully caught in his chest. Unable to do more than blink, Lucas lay prone on the wooden bench, fighting tears of desperation.

What's going on? What are you going to do? Tell me! Please!

Fear made him shiver in his bonds. In his current position he felt exposed and vulnerable. So far, he had no idea of what lay ahead of him, but he trusted Darshavin to be inventive. The guards were gone now, which granted Lucas a short respite. Consciously he tried to relax his muscles, but he still strained against the ropes holding him.

Just what is he up to this time?

Hearing steps approach, he knew that his time was running out. Craning his neck, he saw Darshavin enter, accompanied by a man whom he had never seen before. The second man carried a case that Lucas eyed with suspicion. When he put it on another table and opened it, Lucas reared in his ties.

"Easy," Darshavin impassively said, putting his hand on the back of his captive's neck.

With his face pushed down between his outstretched arms, Lucas could not follow the preparations.

What's going on?

A whimper escaped him as he once more strained against his bonds.

"Shhh," Darshavin said, his grip tightening.

All Lucas could do was listen. Fast, shallow breaths hardly supplied him with enough oxygen and his body shuddered on its own accord.

"Hold still," Darshavin hissed close to his ear. "Or it'll hurt even more."

"What?" Lucas croaked.

"Your present," the interrogator chirped.

Present? Now Lucas was confused.

"You've put so much care into your body art, Lucas," Darshavin mused aloud. "I thought I'd do you a favour."

Oh, really? In what way?

A second later Lucas's question was answered by action and he could not help but groan with pain when the sharp prick of the tattoo needle repeatedly pierced his back. In vain he fought a last time against his bonds before he gave up.

"Another dome," Darshavin laughed and wished with delight, "Happy fourth anniversary."

xXx

April 2007

Lushanka interrogation camp

Several days had passed since Lucas was last interrogated. Except that his interrogator did not ask a single question. His time out of his cell dissolved in episodes of agony and anguish. When he was dumped back into the tiled hole, Lucas was ready to beg for a word of recognition if not compassion, but he was deprived of any solace.

Lucas's heart skipped a beat when the door to his cell swung open, smashing into the wall, and four guards barged in. Fear grabbed him when they put a hood over his head and jerked him to his feet. Leaving him in uncertainty was part of the tactic and it worked. Lucas was close to panicking as he was dragged along the hallway. They pressed through a door and shoved him down on a chair.

There he sat and concentrated on his breathing. As they did not bother to remove the sack, he still depended on his other senses. He could hear footsteps fade away but was sure that not all of the guards left. At least one of them would stay at the door, watching him. Carefully he felt the space in front of him and touched wood.

A table. So maybe no torture session this time?

He could not be sure about that, which made sitting and waiting trying. When he finally heard steps approach, he could tell that the sounds did not come from the heavy boots the guards were wearing but from fine leather shoes. Lucas knew only one man who would come to Lushanka and wear such shoes.

Carefully the sack was tugged off and he blinked a few times to adjust. When he finally looked ahead, he saw the other man sitting down on the other side of the table.

"Hello, Lucas," Arkady Kachimov said. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," Lucas lied, knowing that the truth could not be overlooked. At the same time he noticed that Kachimov appeared a bit sturdier than the last time he had seen him. "How are things in Moscow?"

"Same old, same old," Kachimov shrugged, eyeing Lucas intently.

Lucas did the same, trying to judge his situation. He was actually glad that he had been taken to see Kachimov. The FSB officer from Moskow did not come as often as he used to do when Lucas still was at Lefortovo. His visits did not bring pain, though, but distraction. Where his other interrogators were brutally trying to force any information out of him, Kachimov engaged in conversation, using elaborate techniques in order to elicit intel from Lucas. Compared to the other sessions that had him screaming, reducing him to a sobbing wreck in the end, Kachimov's interviews were civilized.

Somewhat sheepishly, Lucas caught himself looking forward to their conversation. So far nothing happened, though, and he began to wonder if something was wrong. After a few minutes, the waiting threatened to become unnerving until a guard came in, delivering a plate with freshly prepared meat and vegetables and placing it in front of Kachimov who did not even acknowledge him. When the guard was gone again, Kachimov finally stopped looking at Lucas and shoved the plate over to the prisoner.

Lucas stared at the food with widening eyes. The smells alone made his mouth water, but he did not dare to touch the meal.

"Go ahead, Lucas," Kachimov encouraged. "You look like you would appreciate it."

What an understatement!

Hesitantly, Lucas took the cutlery and started with some carrots. They were wonderful and he had to withstand the urge to wolf the meal down. Consciously taking small bites and forcing himself to chew thoroughly, he tried to avoid getting sick. As he took quite a while eating that way, he worried that Kachimov would become annoyed and take the food away, but the other man waited patiently.

It's not his style anyway. He can be patient as a saint. Still, there's a first time for everything… I wonder if the others are watching.

Furtively, he searched the windowless room for a hidden camera or another means of surveillance but could not find one. They seemed to be completely on their own. With regret, he shoved the plate away in the end, leaving some of the potatoes behind. He simply could not eat more.

Feeling the urge to fill the void between them, he said, "Thank you."

Kachimov offered him a lopsided smile. "I am sorry that the kitchen cannot provide a dish like this regularly."

Oh, yeah, really sorry, Lucas inwardly snorted, taking care not to give his scorn away.

"It is the budget," Kachimov begged for understanding with a small shrug and in his characteristic lilt. "I would like to improve your conditions, Lucas… which would be easier if you were a bit more cooperative."

"Cooperative?" Lucas echoed.

"Yes, of course," Kachimov insisted. "You do not have to just waste away here, you know? You could be a valuable asset."

At that Lucas smirked wryly. Of course he knew what the FSB officer was getting at: Give us the information we want and you can get regular meals and a mattress. Thank you, but no.

"Who knows," Kachimov went on as if he would not see Lucas's sceptical expression. "Given the right circumstances you might even be allowed to go home."

Home!

After his long imprisonment Lucas was not sure what home felt like anymore. It was a distant memory and a dream that kept him from losing his faith and his mind. A few months ago, Lucas could not really estimate the exact time, he had been told that he observed his seventh anniversary. Seven years in prison. Without a trial, without a sentence.

He took a deep breath.

Too long, Lucas stated. Maybe I should accept his proposition. Just so I could get home. I could somehow turn the tables on Arkady and return to my proper position in Section D.

It seemed a good plan and he tried not to look too interested as he asked, "What… circumstances?"

Kachimov did not try to hide his surprise.

"After all of this time, why do you entertain the possibility now?" the other spy wanted to know before answering.

Lucas shrugged.

"Let's be honest, Arkady. Seven years have come and gone. If they haven't rescued me from Lushanka by now, why would they bother in the future? You and I both know that, as fast as the world is changing, or at least as fast as it was changing last time I was out in it, it's highly unlikely that I know anything that's still of value," he said, determined not to believe it. "So, hypothetically, if I could get home to the UK, show them they can't just write me off like a bad debt or a business expense, why not?"

"A very sensible attitude, hypothetically," Kachimov nodded. "Do you understand why I am a bit sceptical that you have come to your senses so suddenly?"

Lucas had to put himself into a very dark place to avoid seeming smug. Fortunately, it was not that hard to do.

"Actually, I was toying with the idea of coming over to the dark side for a while now, but when you were here the last time the subject didn't come up."

A pleasant smile cracked Kachimov's features.

"I am pleased to see that we are finally thinking alike, Lucas."

"Well, then, before I let you get my hopes up, I need to know, can you really make this happen or have your superiors given up on me?"

"Oh, Lucas," Kachimov chuckled. "I have been around a long time. Like an old lion in the zoo, I am indulged, coddled, allowed certain liberties. They will look on you as one of my hobbies and never expect anything to come of it."

"And for how long would I be obligated to you?" Lucas asked.

Kachimov shrugged. "For as long as you are useful." he said. "Until you are found out or would retire from MI-5."

"But I would be home, in London?" Lucas sought to confirm.

"As long as that is where your government chooses to have you stationed," Kachimov assured him.

"How long do I have to decide?"

"I was under the impression that you were already decided," Kachimov challenged.

"That was when it was just a possibility," Lucas admitted. Suddenly he had doubts, feeling as if he had been bought with a meal and some amenities. Would accepting an offer like this take the last seven years that he had sacrificed ad absurdum?

Kachimov nodded. "I can give you twenty-four hours."

For a second, Lucas was relieved that he did not have to decide right away. As soon as he agreed to the deal, he would be a traitor, betraying everything he believed in. His service, his country… Harry Pearce… But will a day's time change my decision? Actually he did not think so.

"You know what?" Lucas said. "To hell with it. I don't need twenty-four hours. I'll do it, Arkady. Take me home."

tbc…