Part 5: Rex Tremendae
July 1983
A van stopped at a tall gate topped by barbed wire; the guard spoke briefly to the driver, and the gates rumbled open. Once they'd closed behind the van, the doors opened; armed guards pushed out a man in shackles.
Jack Bristow looked around at the barren landscape. Siberia, he'd been told. A prison camp. Because the KGB apparently felt that ruining his life once hadn't been enough.
When prodded, he walked toward the large, nearly windowless brick building that was to be his home for the foreseeable future. The thought inspired little emotion; it really didn't matter what they did to him any more.
Half an hour later, after being stripped, searched, and showered, he found himself in a small room containing nothing but a toilet, a sink, and a narrow bunk with a thin pad for a mattress. It was better than he'd expected: a small window up by the ceiling, running water, and the cell was dirty but not filthy.
He sat down on the bunk and tried not to think about the last six weeks, but his mind betrayed him. He'd been leading a CIA mission in Poland that had turned out to be a set-up by the KGB. They'd killed all the other agents and captured him. He'd endured three weeks of brutal interrogation, but had told them nothing; he didn't even have answers to most of the questions they asked. He'd wanted to shout, "Didn't my wife steal enough information for you?" But he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of sharing his identity.
Three weeks in, though, his main interrogator, a man named Khasinau, had shown him that he knew exactly who Jack was when he placed a copy of the LA Times in front of him. The headline was "8-year-old girl missing". Jack's heart sank when he saw the picture of his daughter.
"Cooperate and we'll let you go home to look for her," Khasinau had said, but Jack knew that was a lie. He suspected that the KGB had either abducted or killed Sydney; there was nothing for him to go home to.
More newspapers had followed over the next two weeks, detailing how the authorities were shifting from a search for a living child to a search for a body. Finally, eight days ago, Khasinau had given him a newspaper that told of a body dredged from the bottom of the lake where Sydney had disappeared; it had been followed a day later with a report that the teeth of the body matched the dental records of Sydney Bristow.
The KGB was correct in their assumption that learning of Sydney's death would demoralize Jack; it was true that he now had nothing left to live for. He had known from the beginning, of course, that the KGB would eventually break him if he didn't talk, so at that point he'd begun answering some of their questions, giving them information that wouldn't really be important now that so much time had passed. He did his best to appear broken, and could only hope that they'd kill him when they were finished with him. He suspected Khasinau had seen through his act, though, because the fate he'd finally imposed upon Jack had been far worse than death: solitary confinement at a prison in Siberia for the rest of his life. He wouldn't even have hard labor to take his mind off the complete destruction of his family, of his life.
Jack buried his head in his hands. He had nothing; even his memories of happier times were tainted by the KGB. It was just as well that the CIA believed him dead; his life was over.
July 1983
A van stopped at a tall gate topped by barbed wire; the guard spoke briefly to the driver, and the gates rumbled open. Once they'd closed behind the van, the doors opened; armed guards pushed out a man in shackles.
Jack Bristow looked around at the barren landscape. Siberia, he'd been told. A prison camp. Because the KGB apparently felt that ruining his life once hadn't been enough.
When prodded, he walked toward the large, nearly windowless brick building that was to be his home for the foreseeable future. The thought inspired little emotion; it really didn't matter what they did to him any more.
Half an hour later, after being stripped, searched, and showered, he found himself in a small room containing nothing but a toilet, a sink, and a narrow bunk with a thin pad for a mattress. It was better than he'd expected: a small window up by the ceiling, running water, and the cell was dirty but not filthy.
He sat down on the bunk and tried not to think about the last six weeks, but his mind betrayed him. He'd been leading a CIA mission in Poland that had turned out to be a set-up by the KGB. They'd killed all the other agents and captured him. He'd endured three weeks of brutal interrogation, but had told them nothing; he didn't even have answers to most of the questions they asked. He'd wanted to shout, "Didn't my wife steal enough information for you?" But he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of sharing his identity.
Three weeks in, though, his main interrogator, a man named Khasinau, had shown him that he knew exactly who Jack was when he placed a copy of the LA Times in front of him. The headline was "8-year-old girl missing". Jack's heart sank when he saw the picture of his daughter.
"Cooperate and we'll let you go home to look for her," Khasinau had said, but Jack knew that was a lie. He suspected that the KGB had either abducted or killed Sydney; there was nothing for him to go home to.
More newspapers had followed over the next two weeks, detailing how the authorities were shifting from a search for a living child to a search for a body. Finally, eight days ago, Khasinau had given him a newspaper that told of a body dredged from the bottom of the lake where Sydney had disappeared; it had been followed a day later with a report that the teeth of the body matched the dental records of Sydney Bristow.
The KGB was correct in their assumption that learning of Sydney's death would demoralize Jack; it was true that he now had nothing left to live for. He had known from the beginning, of course, that the KGB would eventually break him if he didn't talk, so at that point he'd begun answering some of their questions, giving them information that wouldn't really be important now that so much time had passed. He did his best to appear broken, and could only hope that they'd kill him when they were finished with him. He suspected Khasinau had seen through his act, though, because the fate he'd finally imposed upon Jack had been far worse than death: solitary confinement at a prison in Siberia for the rest of his life. He wouldn't even have hard labor to take his mind off the complete destruction of his family, of his life.
Jack buried his head in his hands. He had nothing; even his memories of happier times were tainted by the KGB. It was just as well that the CIA believed him dead; his life was over.