CHAPTER SEVEN

Athos woke slowly.

Lying on his back, he listened to an uneven hum above him.

His lips were dry and he hissed when he felt them split as he opened his mouth. The resultant grimace made it worse.

His tongue was nowhere to be found; stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He flexed his fingers and felt metal bite into his wrist. His right arm was hoisted above his head, and was numb, the blood drained by the unnatural position.

Ah.

He was not sure where his other arm was.

Or the rest of his body.

He would have to wait to discover that.

He vaguely remembered the sharp shock of the needle, stabbed in his thigh.

Drugged.

He cracked open an eye, and saw a ceiling fan, moving sluggishly above him. Not doing its job apparently, as the air was heavy and warm. Next to him on his right, a bare plaster wall stretched above him; the yellowing plaster cracked in some places, missing altogether in others.

His head would not turn; too heavy.

Again, he would have to wait.

He closed his eyes.

Sometime later, someone was there, towering vaguely above him, shaking the manacle that held him. It was doing its job, it seemed.

His eyes would not open now.

He found his voice but did not recognise it.

"Am I to die here?"

"Perhaps."

He sighed, and attempted to lick his dry lips.

It did not go well.

"Food I can take or leave, but water would be nice," he murmured.

He heard the man move away and the sound of distant running water.

He drifted off, but then his hair was grabbed and his head yanked up, bringing him sharply back to awareness.

A rough cup was put to his lips and he felt tepid water run down his throat. And down his face; the man was unconcerned. No matter, it felt good.

His head was dropped roughly back down onto a flat, hard pillow.

A door slammed, two bolts shot back in place, and he was alone once more with the hum of the ineffective fan above him.

He briefly assessed his situation; flat on his back, one arm hoisted in the air, his back and shoulder aching from the unnatural position.

He decided it was time to leave, and he slowly went into self-hypnosis – drifting to his safe place; his room with the panoramic view of Mount Rushmore.

oOo

Porthos had never learned hypnosis. Athos had put him in trance a few times, mainly for pain control; once after he broke his elbow teaching rugby to the kids in the project. By the time the ambulance arrived, (a precaution as he had also cut his head), he was floating peacefully, his arm was numb, and he was praising an amused Athos wholeheartedly.

So he wished Athos was with him now with the pain he was feeling. But Athos had been taken; and he had watched helplessly, half-blinded by the blood flowing down his face.

He had fought back. That had probably been his undoing. They would surely have taken both of them; and now Athos was alone. Stupid, stupid.

Pulling himself up on the dusty road, he managed to pull open the driver's door; his grip on the handle the only thing keeping him upright. He groaned as he reached in and picked up Athos's sunglasses; the sight of them making his friend's absence suddenly real. He clambered into their car, his head pounding and his stomach rolling as the heat of its interior hit him. The key was still in the ignition after their sudden assault, and he struggled briefly to adjust the seat from Athos' driving position. Feeling the thick trail of blood blurring his eye, he swiped at it with his hand and turned the key, relieved to hear the engine fire into life. The wheels spun wildly as he yanked the steering wheel, baked hot from the sun, and began to drive back to the villa, hoping he would stay conscious long enough to get there.

He did not actually remember arriving; only painfully waking up in one of the bedrooms, with an unusually grim-looking Aramis stitching a four inch cut in his hairline. And then, nothing more.

oOo

Once Porthos was coherent, they went back to the last village they had been to, before they were taken. They went to the bar they had arranged to meet Polat in, but they were late by two days of course, while Porthos recovered. No-one had heard of Polat Hamdi. They went then to The Blue Oasis, but the barman was new. He had not heard of him either.

When next d'Artagnan called, it was Porthos who answered.

"d'Artagnan, they've got Athos. We don't know where he is."

"But we know who's got 'im," he added gravely.

He heard a crash at the other end of the line, as if something had been thrown against a wall and smashed.

Then d'Artagnan said four words,

"Don't wait for me."

The line went dead.

oOo

Athos opened his eyes to see, from the two very small windows in the top of the wall, that it was still daylight. Beyond that he did not know what day it was, or the time.

He was lying on his front this time, with his face buried in the flat, hard pillow. One arm, his right, was raised above his head still, but thankfully lower now; resting heavily on the pillow. His other arm was underneath his body, by his side; tight against the wall. As if he had been thrown down, he thought; which he probably had been - he could not remember.

Pulling his left arm up from under him, he sluggishly pushed himself up onto his knees. The room spun wildly and he almost fell forward back into the pillow. Becoming a little more stable, he looked down at his curled fists on the mattress, supporting him; still on his knees. On his right wrist there was a wide metal cuff, attached to which was a thick length of chain. His eyes followed the chain; not an inconsiderable length, up to a large ring buried in the wall. Taking hold of it with both hands, he pulled. It stayed firm. He was anchored very firmly to the wall.

Sitting back on his heels, his left hand on the wall, he pushed his right leg over the side of the iron bed and placed his foot on the floor. The movement made him feel nauseous and his head swam viciously; black spots seeping into his vision. Taking a deep breath he leaned forward again, supporting himself on both hands, the chain clanking against the iron bedstead. After a few moments of deep breathing he turned his head to the opposite wall and followed it along so he was looking behind him.

He was in some kind of basement. The only light came from the small square windows set high in the ceiling; obviously level with the ground outside, but all he could see was sparse weeds, which had grown in front of the grimy glass.

There was only one door and it looked solid. An old wooden table and one chair were set against the opposite wall; the floor was bare concrete that had not seen a broom in a while.

Next to the bed there was a bucket.

Charming.

Looking down at his arms again, he saw the marks of a needle; he had obviously been injected with something, and more than once. Now, seeing that, he groaned. He had no idea of the time frame. He remembered he had been taken in the afternoon, on the road from a village bar, after speaking to that little man with Porthos.

Porthos.

He suddenly remembered pressing the sat phone on him in the car so that he would be able to take d'Artagnan's next call.

Then on the road; his attempt to still his angry friend - only to see him bludgeoned to the ground. Being shoved into the back of a car, which had taken off at high speed.

Leaving Porthos behind.

He remembered nothing more.

He said a silent prayer, hoping Porthos was alive.

After what must have been minutes, but felt like hours, he managed to stand on his two feet, but swayed alarmingly. Walking was difficult.

He noted, with not inconsiderable annoyance, that he was barefoot.

Holding his arms parallel to his body, he figured the room was some twelve feet wide and maybe fifteen feet long; it had obviously not been used for some time, judging by the layer of dust on the table and the bed frame.

Standing on a dirty floor on bare feet was not the most pleasant of experiences and so reluctantly, he sat back down on the bed, drawing his legs up; resting his forehead on his knees. He would have to await the arrival of whoever had him in their grip.

Feeling exhausted and nauseous from his brief exertions, he closed his eyes and considered the stages of incarceration:

Planning: looking for possibilities of escape.

Pacing: exercising to use up unwanted energy.

Resting and sleeping.

Boredom.

Ultimately; maintaining calm.

Not necessarily in that order.

But always coming back to - looking for possibilities of escape.

In a very brief time he determined that, given the substantial metalwork he was attached to; escape was probably unlikely, if not impossible.

oOo

d'Artagnan had watched as Bulut Yilmaz and his men dispersed, listened as their vehicle moved away; leaving his dead comrade hanging where they left him.

He had climbed down and jumped carefully onto the floor, making certain he was alone now. Steeling himself, he had crept toward the mutilated body of the man he knew so well and silently wept as he cut him down. He desperately tried not to remember their last conversation, as they approached the Turkish border; but of course, that was impossible. They had been a tight crew; they had each other's backs.

But not this time.

Both his men were dead now but he did not know where his other comrade's body had been discarded; as it surely must have been. He wanted to do right by this one, now lying at his feet.

He didn't know how to carry him; where to hold. He was a soldier, but he wanted to scream with the inhumanity of it.

In the end, he settled for wrapping him in a tarpaulin he found slung over some crates, and then dragged his sad cargo out through double doors into a walled space, where he managed to dig a shallow grave with a discarded broad metal pipe.

They all knew that one day, they may rest in an unmarked grave in some forlorn corner of the globe, but it didn't make it any easier. He did not feel as if he comrade was resting.

He was not a religious man, but as he knelt beside the grave and placed his hand on the earth he whispered;

"Pass not unseen."

And then, he too melted away.

To be continued...

oOo

A/N "Pass not unseen" is the motto of the 41 Wing of the Australian Air Force. I thought it was appropriate and hope that is alright. It reminded me of Aramis's short eulogy for Bonnaire's wife in Commodities.