Sans titre

He lowered his eyes, almost ashamed, like in this almost puppy way Markus had. You slowly realised that the awful thing the men had spoken about when you were being interrogated were true.

“I didn’t want you to be dragged into this filth. They call us terrorists… and for what? For advocating the right of every country to act freely?” Markus hissed, a twinge of pain crossing his face. He seemed to calm down upon seeing you panic. He grabbed your cheeks delicately, kissed your forehead. “Everything will be alright, darling. Everything will be taken care of. I may have to go to jail for… a long time. I had prepared myself for that eventually.”

He quietened down, checking if any of the men that had taken you were coming. Then, Markus went back to talking.

“I love you so much, my darling. So, so much. I have friends that’ll take care of you when I won’t be there. Do you trust me, darling?” He asked, serious, looking into your eyes.

And despite all the awful and evil things your husband had done, yes, you trusted him. You nodded, feeling a lump in your throat, tears stinging down your eyes. His hands left your cheeks to go down to your stomach, smoothing it over.

“I do.” You whispered.

“You’ll be okay. Our child will be okay. I have money in other accounts, they will be transferred to you once we get you out of here. I struck a deal with them, you’ll be safe from those idiots.” Markus continued, trying to be as reassuring as possible. He kissed you again. “It’s not the life and the future I thought to have, with you. But I will find a way back to you, my darling.”

Heavy footsteps echoed into the tight and narrow hallway leading to your cell. Markus sighed, a little frustrated about the whole ordeal. He didn’t say a word, but kept hugging and kissing you. Your hands fisted on his chest, hoping to anchor his memory to your body.

“The five minutes are up, Hansen.”

“Trust me, my darling: that’s all I ask from you.” Markus whispered one last time before giving you a kiss on the lips.

Then, he was wrenched away from you by the man who wore the skull mask. You watched as he was dragged away, once again in the darkness. You sat down on the cot, a hand rubbing on your belly.

Yes, despite everything, you had forgiven Markus. But at what price? He was probably going to spend his life to jail, or worse. Then, you thought about your situation, about your unborn baby’s situation. Those men who had taken you… Maybe they will not release anytime soon. You’ll spend your life into this miserable four walled prison.

Again, too many hours or days had passed without anyone coming to see you. Your meals were delivered, three times a day, something that was repulsive but you ate anyway, too afraid for your baby and its development. You had cried yourself to sleep three times, you had nightmares about Markus being tortured and killed and hurried some place you didn’t know the name of.

Your due date was approaching. That much was true. You felt the baby in your stomach becoming restless. The fear of giving birth alone in this cell was becoming more and more intense. No doctor or nurse came to check on, unlike the man with the moustache had claimed.

Liars.

You were roused from your sleep by the sounds of the door’s opening. Rubbing your eyes, you sat up slowly. You didn’t know if it was the day or the night, but those soldiers looked extremely peachy. Fear dawned on you, and your hands flew to your stomach: maybe they were here to kill you.

Five men filled the small room. Four were quiet and their faces obstructed by black masks. The apparent leader stepped toward you and spoke in a flawless English.

“Mrs Hansen? We are here to transport you to your new home.”

“No one notified me-“ You spoke weakly. Of course they wouldn’t say a thing to you. You were the wife of a terrorist!

“Please, come with us. Quietly.” The man handed you a large military jacket that you put on. You put on your shoes before standing up.

The base was silent and dark. You would have believed they would have turned on the lights. Only the red ones, blinking along the wall, were visible. The man led you, gently holding you by the elbow. It was not the crushing grip of the men before, this man held you with gentleness and respect. You found that odd.

Outside, the night had fallen. A vehicle waited for you, armored, dark, made for discretion. You sat on the backseat, flanked by two large men. The man who had spoken to you sat in the passenger seat.

No one spoke a word. The car drove, and drove, for how long? You had no idea. Time had become a concept you didn’t fully grasp, especially after those intense weeks of captivity. And you were certain you had fallen asleep, until the leader woke you up.

“The plane is here. Let me help you.” He spoke, grabbing your hand delicately like you were some ladies from the English nobility.

Indeed, a plane was waiting for her. Dark again, as if it could hid itself amongst the darkness of the night and the clouds of the sky. You had trouble climbing the stairs leading to the plane, which looked more like a private jet. But again, you were too exhausted to ask questions.

The inside was… strangely luxurious. With dark leather, a bar, flowers even, the space was well furnished. It looked like you had been picked by a famous person instead of a military officer. A air hostess smiled at you warmly, speaking to you in what you assumed was Russian, bowing her head a little. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Sitting down on a leather chair, the hostess brought a thick blanket, vitamin supplements, and a water bottle. You felt the plane going off, your hands instinctively moving to grasp your stomach. Flying while pregnant was dangerous, and you were close to your terms.

“Do not worry, Mrs Hansen. I have a doctor on board.”

The voice was thick, serious, and had a thick accent to it, Russian, you guessed. Footsteps once again, and the same man that had escorted you appeared, standing besides the chair opposite of you. Another man sat in it, dressed in a suit, extending a hand toward you. Dazed, you shook it.

“Vladimir Makarov. Me and your husband know each other. He made me promise to take care of you if harm had fallen upon him.”

The name rang a bell… of course! This man- this man was the infamous terrorist, from Russia. Your breath quickened, opening your mouth to say something.

“As I was saying Mrs. Hansen, you have nothing to worry about. Your husband was a dear friend of mine. We had to take you from this awful jail to bring you to the place where you’ll be staying at. Hansen had picked it himself, with you in mind. We will regret his arrest, and the end of our relationship.”

“You’re speaking as if he was dead.” You murmured.

“With those Englishmen who submit to their own twisted sense of justice, perhaps he is. I do not want to get your hopes up, Mrs. Hansen.” The man continued, as if speaking to you like you were old friends.

He smiled then, raising his glass.

“Mark, you here?” You called up, your hands flailing in front of you as you exited the bathtub clumsily. You reached for a towel that you wrapped around your body. “Markus?” You called again, your voice becoming concerned with time and with the feeling of being watched.

You wandered into the hallway, decorated of pictures of both your families and vacations. Your phone was in the bedroom, which you tried to access because of course, you didn’t have a flashlight.

“This isn’t funny, Markus.” Your voice grew impatient and stronger as you spoke into the darkness of a flat.

Then- a hand reached your waist, and another was clamped on your mouth. Naturally, you began to scream and fight against this assailant that was clearly more trained than you were.

Light was shoved into your face, as you were dumped into the corner of your bedroom. Multiple men, armed, face hidden mostly, holding guns and riffles, weapons of destruction, all pointed at your body, as you curled into your face and had tears running down your face.

“Markus Hansen? Where is he?” A man asked, with a moustache, serious, neutral.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Liar.” The skull masked one spoke and he didn’t hesitate to backhand you, bringing more tears and panic to your mind and body. Another man wearing a cap with the Union Jack made a sound, a grunt that signified he didn’t seem okay with that manhandling.

“Where is Markus Hansen?” The other older man repeated, his tone harder.

“I don’t know!” You hysterically cried out, clutching your towel. “Pl-please, don’t- I am pregnant. Please.” You begged, more tears flowing down your face.

“Search the flat. He might have been careless.” The older man instructed to the group. The announcement of your pregnancy didn’t seem to faze him or put him into a pitying mood. “Quick.”

“What about the woman?”

“We take her for interrogation.”

The room was empty, save for a table, a chair where you sat with your hands handcuffed to by heavy cuffs. You hadn’t stop crying since you came here, since those men dragged you from your flat bound, half naked, with your towel askew. A single bulb was hanging from the ceiling, the light aggressive but small.

You were being treated like the lowest criminal, and you had no idea why.

Finally, the door opened. The same man with the moustache came in, followed by the same masked man. The view of him made you shiver and flinch instantly. He didn’t sit down. The other older man instead did.

He pulled some papers, showing first a picture of Markus.

“This is your husband?”

“Y-yes.” You managed to reply, your throat constricted.

“Your husband is accused of terrorism. He is accused of complicity with the terrorist Makarov and the Ultranationalist movement.” The man spoke then, while the other leant against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “There was an attack in the London subways a few months ago. Your husband was an active member in elaborating the plan.”

What the man was stating didn’t make sense. Your mouth opened and closed, trying to intercept, to interject, to argue back. But he didn’t leave you a time to speak.

“The proof was at your home. Burner phones. A laptop hidden beneath the planks of your bedroom.” He continued, calmly. “Frankly, Mrs Hansen, it’s looking very grim for you.”

“How- how so?”

“You’re the wife of a terrorist.” The masked man answered back, casually. He approached the table with the energy of a predator, which made you scramble from him. “You’re maybe his complice as well.”

“What a fun activity.” The older man smiled cruelly. He pulled more pictures from the files, showing destruction, showing death. It made you retch. “Helping your husband do all of this, while pregnant.”

“I-I- I didn’t-“

“Come on, lady. We know everything. You’ll be facing a very long sentence. Poor fella in your belly gonna be a terrorist’s child, orphaned, alone.”

You gasped for air, the room spinning. They were talking as if you had done this. As if you helped Markus. But Markus- it couldn’t be him! He was charming, and smart, the perfect man! Working in an international company, travelling across the world, and desperately, you began to shake your head.

“No- no you’re all wrong.”

“Are we now?” The masked man growled, aggressive, stepping behind her and gripping her shoulders. He forced you to look at one picture of a man with a strange haircut, eyes blue and opened in horror, a hole in the side of the head. “Look at your husband helped do to our friend. And now, he’s dead.”

“As we stated, you’ll be facing life sentence. Perhaps even in another country.” The older man hummed, like it was an everyday conversation.

“I am not a terrorist!” You yelled, desperate, not understanding why those men didn’t seem to trust you. You were simply a wife, a soon to be mother, working as a receptionist. “Please- please, I don’t know anything-“

“Oh and look- a picture of your husband and Vladimir Makarov, taken several years ago. Before your wedding, right? But you were together at that time. Have you met him, Mrs Hansen?” The man continued without caring for your tears, showing a picture of a younger Markus and another darker haired man.

“No- no- I am not a terrorist-“ You repeated, shaking your head.

“We would like to trust your words. Really. But don’t you understand the severity of the situation?” The masked man asked, his voice smooth as he gripped harshly your shoulders, making you whimper in pain and fright.

“Perhaps, a show of good faith could help us see clear through that mess. Perhaps you’re just as wronged as we are.” The older man suggested, with a paternal tone, and a kind look in his eyes. “You don’t seem like a dangerous terrorist, Mrs Hansen. You’re expecting: you’re not a foolish woman. You like Britain, right?”

“Of course, sir.” You found yourself answering, even it didn’t make sense when you were dragged from your home in the middle of the evening almost naked.

“Did Markus ever mention a place? Somewhere he likes to go?”

“No- we spend our time together we are not working.” You replied, dazed and terrorised. Your mind worked hard to find something worth to talk, to reveal. “Wait- he- he goes to this bar, in the south of France, in Marseille.” You stammered.

“The bar’s name? You know it? Yes or no?” The masked man holding you asked roughly, shaking you a little.

“It’s the Verre Vert.” You mumbled, the name of the bar had once made you laugh or giggle but now, it sounded hollow. It was a matter of survival.

The older man hummed and nodded, gathering the documents and putting them back neatly in the folders. The masked man finally released your shoulders, his combat boots echoing in the small room.

You had a feeling this wasn’t over. You didn’t know if you had done the right choice. But- if they said your husband was a terrorist, then it was your duty to help him, right? On the other hand, you were a faithful and loyal wife, you had made the promise on the altar to protect each other, even in the worst moments.

The snap of a phone taking a picture broke your mind from your thoughts. You looked up, surprised, that the masked man had snapped a picture of you. You didn’t see his face but you knew he was smiling.

“A little something for your husband. See if that motivates him.” He explained when he saw the look she was giving him.

“From now on, Mrs Hansen, you’ll be escorted to a cell. It’s not a hotel, that much you have realised. We do this because you are still accused of complicity in several cases of terrorism. And also, for your own safety, of course.” The older man told her as he stood up from his chair. He looked professional, polished, like he had sealed a well made deal. His eyes seemed to soften for a second when he looked at her. “We’ll provide clothes, food, and necessities. As well as a regular check up for your child. You’ll be allowed to a superb walk three hours a day, use this time well.”

You didn’t nod, you kept staring at the wall, at some point in the air, completely shell shocked from this situation. You were just a normal woman, with a normal job, a normal life. A husband. A baby. A project that involved a bigger home, a house with a garden, a pet… And that lovely dream just evaporated the evening you took a bath while waiting for your husband to come back from his third business travel this year.