Sorry this took me so long. I've been more busy these days than I had anticipated.

Thanks for your reviews, also for the criticism! Amongst other things it made me realize that I'd better make the timeline clear: the last Charlie-in-that-black-hole-scene (of chapter 31) is set in the morning hours of Thursday. Since Charlie was abducted during the night from Sunday to Monday, that makes a bit more than three days of being in that hole – I know that's a stretch, but I tried to create a scenario that's at least (close to) possible (and well, I do have a tendency to melodrama).

Ah right, those "optimistic" thoughts of Charlie's? Just a momentary flicker of hope. It's gonna be more realistic (=pessimistic) very soon, I can guarantee you that ;)

Hope you're going to continue reading :)

32 – CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO – 1,114³²

At dawn, the team that had additionally been entrusted with the mafia arrested the branch-mafia. Budanov had given away their hiding-place willingly. After initial mistrust it had become evident to the investigators that his behavior was totally logical. His number was up – so he was willing to negotiate to get a reduced sentence. And at the same time he tried to thwart the plans of the competing group. With success.

To help Budanov and the big mafia by their actions went quite against the grain for the FBI. However, in this case they had the same aim: they wanted to eliminate the branch-mafia. And as long as they had the same aim, they would have to fight side by side. And against each other. For it wasn't only Kalinkov's men they were currently questioning, but also Bolshoyov's.

They weren't getting anywhere, though. Since most mobsters were now in custody it was true that they now couldn't get hold of the Janus List and thus the mafia's plans were thwarted and the agency in charge had been warned off – but Charlie still remained as if wiped off the face of the Earth.

Don was again sitting at his desk, running through old witness reports. Maybe it was here somewhere where he could find a clue hinting at a hiding-place used by the mafia? He would clutch at this straw until one of them, Don or the straw, broke. He was tired. And the mental tiredness was even worse than the physical one. He tried not to think about the fact that by now the fourth day of Charlie's abduction had begun. The fourth day of no progress – ignoring for once the arrests of two big criminal organizations. However, this success was nothing in comparison to what they had lost.

Don didn't even manage to reprimand himself for his pessimistic thoughts. He was so tired...

He heard the rain drumming against the window outside. The wind was raging around the FBI building. Through a glass door Don could see outside the window. Although it should have been light by now, the sky was still dark blue and gray. Tousled rags of clouds ran across the sky. It was really been some time since that they'd had such a storm.

And all this just now when Charlie was missing. Don wondered how he was. Was he out in this weather? Or wasn't he even noticing the storm? Maybe he was sitting crouched in the darkest corner of a dark cellar right now, maybe he had heard the thunder's roll in last night, maybe the flashes had filled his prison in sudden attacks with their cold light...

The worse the scenarios Don's tired mind presented him became, the clearer Charlie's face in front of Don's eyes became; its features twisted in agony, the eyes phosphorescent and wide open, emitting silent cries of help which Don could hear as if he stood directly next to him. However, he couldn't locate them, not trace them back, not find them... He would never find him, never, never...

The ringing of the phone pulled him out of his thoughts.

0 – 0 – 0

"You can stare at the phone as long as you want, you won't make it ring."

Alan lifted his head. His sister was again standing in the door frame. His heart was pounding. He hadn't heard her arrival.

"Don't you think it's time for you to go to bed, too?" Alan could tell that she had already been to bed. She looked tired and a bit ruffled. Alan wondered if she had indeed been able to sleep. And if she had really managed, how had she done so?

He shook his head slightly. "Don said he'd call as soon as he has something new."

"Well, he had to stop you somehow from calling him every half hour."

Alan lowered his head.

Susann looked at him with compassion. It hurt her to see her 'big brother' so downcast all the time. Of course she too was worried for her two nephews, but her worry couldn't keep pace with Alan's desperation. "Just take a sleeping pill. Or should I make you a cup of chamomile tea?"

Alan chose the sleeping pill and Susann guessed that he just wanted to be left alone. And indeed she managed to find a few that hadn't expired yet, although Alan's sister wasn't on good terms with pharmaceuticals. A strong body flourished best if you didn't try to push it up with artificial medication.

Then, however, her gaze fell upon Alan, upon the tiredness in his face, upon the bowed posture, upon the slack shoulders. What actually made her think of a strong body?

After five and a half hours Alan was already stirring. The pills had fulfilled their purpose; he had fallen asleep without seeing some horrible image of one of his sons when he had closed his eyes. The images hadn't left him alone for long, though. They'd followed him into his dreams, images some of which he would probably never forget, also some of Don, but mostly of Charlie. Charlie with his eyes wide open, Don with his face tired, desperate, Charlie in a dark cellar, Don fighting against mobsters, Charlie with his face pale and lifeless, Don telling him that they hadn't been able to save him anymore...

Alan had awoken at once, but not fast enough to be able to forget the image. Now he was sitting on his bed and dialed Don's number with trembling fingers. It couldn't be later than six a.m. In L.A., but Alan hoped that his eldest maybe was still or at least again in his office, that he was still searching for his brother, that he hadn't given up on him yet...

"Eppes."

The amount of relief that swept over Alan at the sound of Don's voice felt a bit inappropriate and exaggerated. However, he had neither the time nor the nerves to think about that. "Have you found him?"

"Dad." Don's voice was calm, nearly indifferent if it hadn't sounded so lifelessly.

He had intended to go on talking, but Alan's tense voice cut him off. "Have you?"

So there it was, the hope. The hope that had remained despite all the suffering and despite all the setbacks. That what he would now have to destroy again. "No, Dad." Don closed his eyes waiting for the expected reaction. It failed to appear. He continued, "We managed to arrest the mobsters, though, at least the higher ranking ones. The two groups have been destroyed."

Alan inhaled deeply. He trembled. "And Charlie?" he asked and despite everything there was still a tiny spark of hope in his voice that hadn't been extinguished by now.

Don swallowed. "Nothing." The two short syllables seemed to have burned his throat and trachea. Nothing. They had nothing, not the slightest clue, apart from some dozens of stoically silent mafia-members.

The silence lengthened, but Alan's answer was even worse than the silence. "I'll come back."

All at once Don sat up straight and stiff in his office chair. "What?"

"I'll fly back to L.A., Donnie, as soon as possible, and –"

"Have you taken a leave of your senses?"

"Donnie, you don't know what it's like here! I want to be with you, I want to be there when you find Charlie! And now those mafia groups are harmless, aren't they?"

Don shook his head. "No, Dad –" He swallowed hard. He couldn't think of anything how to convince his father to stay put; his mind was empty.

"I'll come back, Don," Alan confirmed his decision. "Now that those mafia groups are shattered there's no danger anymore, right?"

Alan seemed to have achieved the exact opposite of what he had intended. "No Dad, on the contrary. Right now there are still scattered mobsters out there who are desperate enough to get their buddies free again. And if –"

"So why are you staying there?" Alan cut him off, and with every syllable he verbalized his voice filled itself every with more reproach and volume.

"Because I have to find Charlie!" Don as good as shouted his desperation into Alan's face, as if he wasn't aware of the receiver in his hand and the distance between them. "And now don't pretend as if that weren't more important to you than anything else!"

"Donnie, I want both of you to be fine! And it's getting to the point that I don't know anymore for which of you I should worry more!"

Don ran his hand over his exhausted face. "Dad, just stay where you are. I'll call you if there's anything new." Without another word he put the receiver down and immediately regretted his last words. The question vibrated uneasily in his mind; when and especially with what kind of news would he talk to his father the next time?

0 – 0 – 0

There wasn't anything more to do.

Their task was over, the mafia groups were caught, and for what regarded the rest of it, they weren't getting anywhere. They were going round in circles, around their own axes. Maybe that was why he felt so dizzy.

Or was it the world that turned around them? Of course it was both. That meant that maybe they just had to look a bit harder, to wait for the right moment, and then the solution of the most important problem would just come along...

It wasn't that easy, however. This problem wasn't one he could abstract that easily. The world of science, the world of mathematics, was too elegant for the lower spheres of human weaknesses. You couldn't just solve any human problem with maths.

Not normal people. But Charles.

With a trace of desperation Larry shook his head. He had seen Charlie grow up and been allowed to watch as the mind of this still so young genius had found a direction, a way, had been allowed to see thoughts being created that, up to a certain point, had changed the world. Charles had been his pupil, his responsibility. The young man had been given into his care, almost as if he was his own son.

Son. Friend. Brother.

Maybe a brother in spirit. In any case the term 'colleagues' had never been enough to describe the complex structures that connected them, that had bound them to one another. After Megan, it was Charles who meant to him more than any other person on this planet – no, 'after' was not the right word; the two relationships just weren't comparable.

He hadn't let it show, however. And it had worked. He had buried himself in the work, quietly and grimly, not quite unlike Amita. He had had to do something. Not only in order to rescue his charge, also as a clean, egoistic protection of himself. And he couldn't even summon up the strength anymore to become hysterical or to lose his nerves. No, on the outside Larry was cool and composed.

Inside him raged hell.

It had already become apparent when Alan had left. Larry hadn't known the whole story at that time, but at least he hadn't missed the first abduction and he had suspected what was going on there. Amita and he had wanted to help Charles; they had been worried. Charles however, had distanced himself from them, had all of a sudden been thrown out of his orbit and had left their surroundings at a tremendous speed.

How could they have let that happen?

Though with that only the preconditions had been created. The actual betrayal had begun only later, when he had gone to that congress in Washington. And however much theory told him about Einstein's term of simultaneity. Larry was aware that everything would have happened differently if that one day, the day of the kidnapping, he had stood next to Charles and helped him with his calculations in his office. Instead he had provided the place of the crime without even thinking. He only kept hoping that his mistakes wouldn't have consequences.

Every action is accompanied by a reaction of the same magnitude – one of the most elementary principles of physics. It wasn't possible that these his deeds (or rather his omitted deeds) remained without consequences. And he could not hope that these consequences would have positive effects.

But within which limits would these effects be? A reaction of the same magnitude... but how large had the action been? How grave was the omitted help he hadn't given to Charles?

No matter which way this whole tragedy would end – it was certain that Larry would never forgive himself his conduct.

0 – 0 – 0

It restarted much too soon.

It announced itself first with a threatening rustle. Loud. Charlie wished most ardently to be able to have a bit more rest; just a few more minutes to summon up strength.

They were denied to him.

The water plunged down on him again with all its unopposed force. This was the seventh flood. He had already lived through six of them, had fought his way through them. His reserves were running low, an exponential decay, and the floods had grown in severity. It was an unequal fight; at that a fight for his life.

The water was up to his knees when a wave of determination shot through him. He wasn't going to die in here. He wouldn't die in here without having seen the important people of his life once more. He had already set firmly decided that, he had already sorted it out with himself that he had to fight, that he owed it to them. He wasn't going to betray their faith in him. He'd be strong for them.

The water was up to his throat when his confidence, having reached its peak, collapsed at high speed. What should he fight for after all? For the people who loved him? Why? They wouldn't get to see him anymore anyway, they would never know anything about all this! And would they want him to struggle so hard, for them?

The water was higher than his head and he was forced to keep himself afloat when in the complete darkness around him the images of them lit up. He tried again to support himself against the walls, desperate, in order to somehow remain above the water. He had to survive this, he didn't merely want those images, he wanted the real people. This life here wasn't worth fighting for, that was true, but life with them was worth it. And for them. He wouldn't make them all unhappy just because he'd given up.

He knew that they were looking for him. And he needed this knowledge, he needed it to find some strength from somewhere, to live also through this flood as well. And the next one. And the one after that. As many as would be necessary.

0 – 0 – 0

They tried Ivanov once more. It wasn't that they had much hope of making him talk, but together with Chrushtchov he was still their best chance.

"If you tell us now where the hostage is you'll get off lightly," David tempted him. And provided that Charlie was still alive when they found him, his promise wouldn't be that far away from the truth.

Ivanov however only laughed at him. "Tell me another. Nothing's changed. I'll lead you to him as soon as you set me free."

Colby remained silent and David remained hard. "Forget it. You'd better decide if you prefer to be sentenced for murder or for abduction."

Ivanov didn't answer. His grin lost a bit of its arrogance although he maintained the facade. After all he knew that it might be too late by now. Maybe his hostage was already dead.

0 – 0 – 0

With alarming steadiness, Charlie's panic became something he couldn't control anymore. At least the adrenaline helped him to hold out, but he lacked the calmness in order to capitalise on it. His sensations were a mirror to the forces of nature outside his stony prison: stormy, agitated, restless.

At least there was no water coming through anymore by now; it was high time. He had lost the ground beneath his feet a long time ago. The past minutes had been pure mortal fear. He had already come to terms with the fact that his life could be over and was not sure if he really should renounce this decision already.

Yet no water was filling his cell anymore, but the rustling above him had hardly lost anything of its intensity. Charlie could imagine only too well how things were looking outside. The sea, lashed by the storm, the white spray, the deeply gray sky where dark blue and black cloud rags were chasing one another...

This seventh flood had so far been the worst until now; the water had been higher than during the past floods, the rustling louder, the waves more violent, the fear more immense. And he just couldn't think anymore of anything to do. His mind was empty, all thoughts extinguished by the water and the panic. He didn't know how things were supposed to continue, with further floods, with further suffering. And he hadn't even lived through this one. There was still about thirty minutes to pass until he was going to be able to stand on the ground again.

The temptation to give in became stronger with every passing second. He couldn't do this anymore, he was at the end of his tether, had used all his reserves, and still there was no end in sight. It looked as if things were going to end for him down here after all. He had lived through seven floods. He couldn't hope for more.

It had to be Thursday. That meant... Yeah. If he wasn't mistaken, then this was the 12,109th day of his life. Twelve thousand one-hundred and nine. A prime number. Could he wish for more than having had a prime number of days at his disposal?

Maybe a higher prime number... to live more in these days...

He had almost forgotten the resolution he had made after the last flood. However, deep down in his subconsciousness there was still this bastion of love and hope that would never give in. He had to hold out...

He just didn't know how.

0 – 0 – 0

They continued to question the mobsters, separately, they threatened them, they did things on the verge of legality, they tried every single one of the techniques that were known to them – but it remained a status quo. The mafia-men wanted to be rewarded for their statements, and this reward was their release. Charlie's life in exchange for their freedom.

Don would probably have hardly hesitated for a second and would have agreed to the deal, no matter whether merely pretending or not. He wasn't in charge anymore, however. And O'Connagh wasn't budging from his point of view.

"But they've got Charlie!" Don reminded his colleague, although unnecessarily. "And we don't know for how long he can stay alive! If Ivanov is telling us the truth –"

"That's exactly the point, Don," O'Connagh cut him off. "We can't be sure if he's telling us lies or not. Maybe he doesn't even know where Charlie is?" Mercifully O'Connagh didn't mention the possibility that Charlie might as well be dead by now. He knew that Don too was also aware of that, and there was no need to remind his co-worker of it.

"And even if Ivanov is telling the truth," he continued insistently, "we still can't do it, Don. Those men are criminals. We can't just let them go. If the mafia gets away with it this time, they're going to kidnap our people non-stop in order to get what they want."

"Are you saying you just wanna wait? Do nothing and hope that Charlie survives?"

O'Connagh could hear that his colleague was at breaking point. And if they didn't find Charlie anytime soon he would more than likely cross that point. "Don... Did you listen to their conditions? Their mere demands even before we arrested the others... Picture it. They're released, they make sure they aren't being followed and do then release Charlie – Don, you do realize that they will never stick to that deal. As soon as we release them they'll take off for Mexico or Paraguay."

Don was silent, his gaze lowered.

"Don... it's just not possible. And you know that."

"Of course I know!" Don retorted violently, though became calm again almost instantly. O'Connagh sensed that his co-worker wanted to add something, but it took a while before Don finally found the necessary strength to do so. And even now he needed several attempts for his weak protest: "But... but we can't just... do nothing."

"I'm sorry, Don," O'Connagh answered, and for Don it was as if his friend had thereby just signed Charlie's death sentence.

0 – 0 – 0

Finally, the water had retreated. Fortunately in time because Charlie couldn't do it anymore.

He sank to the floor on to his side. Again the stinging in his knee, it just wouldn't stop... But he couldn't get up, he couldn't move, he couldn't get himself into a more comfortable position. He was too weak, much too weak...

But the stinging became unsupportable. With his eyes closed by exhaustion, and in a dragging struggle, he got free of his jacket and wrapped it around his knee joint. This way the fracture lay at least on a softer ground.

Now, however, he was completely done in. Despite the cold and the wetness his skin glowed. Still he felt cold. Shudders flashed in sudden fits through his body and didn't release him for several seconds until he finally lay still again, weary.

He had difficulties in breathing. His lungs weren't able to fill properly with the valuable oxygen he needed. But he needed air, he needed it to live, he didn't want to die...

He just wanted all of this to end.

Another shudder shot through Charlie and he realized what he had just thought there. He wanted it to end. And he cared less and less in which way. Just let him die – at least the suffering would end then.

0 – 0 – 0

It just didn't make any sense anymore. The longer they questioned the mobsters, the less they knew. They went in circles and gradually didn't know anymore whether they were coming or going or where they where heading to.

By now, they had questioned all mobsters at least once, some of them even three or four times. And they hadn't made any progress. There just wasn't anything, no trail they could follow, no clue, nothing. The members of the two mafia groups weren't making any mistakes; they were self-assured and weren't saying anything. Most of them really didn't seem to know anything. And those who did know something didn't help them either.

Ivanov's and Chrushtchov's statements didn't coincide. In the details such as the amount of water they allegedly had provided their hostage with, their answers differed, and it was apparent that they were lying. The only thing was that the investigators didn't know what the truth was.

Millie might have enjoyed it. It was like poker. The two of them bluffed; they speculated. If they said their hostage hadn't received any water at all, they, with all probability, wouldn't have any bargaining power. If they admitted to giving more water then the law enforcers could hope that there would be enough for them to find Charlie without having to climb into bed with criminals. It was a game. Maybe the two bastards even liked it.

Don hated it.

He hated the helplessness, the feeling of not being able to do anything. He had already hated it at the beginning of the whole case, but now it had grown in intensity. They were simply at an impasse, they weren't getting anywhere... and Charlie had to pay for their inadequacy.

Don's throat grew tight. If they didn't find him soon... He didn't know how Charlie was, but he knew that he couldn't be well. In occasional moments he had noticed signs of nervousness in Ivanov and Chrushtchov and also Megan had been forced to agree with him at this point. And for Don there was only one rational explanation why the two of them could become nervous: because they were afraid that their hostage might have become worthless...

Don bit his lip. The critical time frame of forty-eight hours had been exceeded long time ago. And all around him the people were growing more and more passive. The hectic effort was fading. They didn't have much to do anymore; they only had their useless witnesses; and behind Don's back the suspicion insidiously increased that they wouldn't be able to find Charlie alive...

Don's hands clenched into fists. Yet it was no gesture to show his fighting spirit, it was an expression of desperation. He knew what the others were thinking. And also in him the strength to go on fighting, to continue believing that they might make it despite everything was gradually evaporating in him. He wouldn't give in, no, never, and even if if he had to look for his brother until the end of his life.

He wouldn't turn away from him. He wouldn't run away. However, he also wouldn't be able to go on hoping.

0 – 0 – 0

Charlie coughed. His lungs tried to compensate for this irregularity in his breathing by increased power, but you needed to work for power and energy for work. And Charlie didn't have any more energy left.

Motionless and feeble, he lay on the cold stony floor in his dark hole. He knew that he had a fever, and he could feel that it was high. He was aware that he wasn't going to last for long anymore.

It was only a matter of hours until the next flood. And Charlie had little doubt that he was going to lose his next fight against the water. He even doubted that he would merely be able to pull himself up to a fight.

If he was lucky, they would find him sometime, and maybe that would make it easier for his family and his friends. And although he was terrified of the idea that the beloved persons of his former life would have to identify him on an autopsy table, still the thought of coming back home held something tremendously comforting for him.

A knot grew in his throat while he brought every detail of their faces in front of his mind's eye, one last time. With cold skin, but a warm heart he thought of the hours they had spent together. Trembling and coughing, but with them in his thoughts, he curled himself up in his clammy and dark and silent hole and waited for the end.

Okay, I know that Charlie's still in that hole and I do realize that I'm stalling. I enjoyed that when I wrote the story (2 years ago?), but now even I think that it's a bit exaggerated. And I promise that there'll happen something besides waiting for the rescue in the next chapter.

Hope you'll be in at it.