This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “Proof of Life”.  No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

A Clean Slate

by: MariEllen

©2005

 Part 1 

Chechnya, May 2001

In the pitch dark, her panic grew with her consciousness. Her eyes closed and opened again, finding the same darkness. The only thing she could get her bearing from was the bed she was lying on. Very carefully moving her hand over the surface under her, she felt the rough texture of a blanket. Slowly wriggling her toes, she moved her feet and legs; they seemed okay. Sharp pain throbbed inside her head. Lying on her back, she tried to control her run-away breathing. When she lifted her head, pain shot through it like lightning, knocking her out cold again.  

Amsterdam, January 2001

What a fucking mess! Kath leaned on the desk, her head in her hands. She pressed her thumbs against her temples, slowly circling them in an effort to release the pressure that was building in her head. A newspaper clipping had escaped from the file she had thrown on her desk, its headline shouting at her.

"Stars quit charity in corruption scandal "

In her brain, the first outlines of a plan to control the damage were shaping. Within days, the phones would start ringing. She would have to move fast, have a statement ready and published before questions were asked. Take the wind out of their sails.

She could not allow celebrities to start doubting whether they wanted their names linked with the charity in future. She had to convince companies that their corporate image wouldn’t suffer. She opened her laptop and started writing.

The outline of the problem was clear.

Back in 1996, one of War Child's UK founders accepted a DM 40.000 bribe from contractors for letting them build the Pavarotti music center in Mostar. He offered to share the proceeds with the Mostar center director and co-founder, who refused and notified trustees. Some inquiries had been made at the time and some trustees had turned their back on the charity, but the story had never been made public.

Now, almost five years after the date, the information had found it’s way to the press. Headlines in the Guardian and on prime time at Channel 4 News resulted in the walking out of five major celebrities and the resignations from 11 trustees. Luciano Pavarotti had been the first to leave, meaning sudden death for the "Pavarotti and Friends" project. Not only had War Child UK lost its most successful project, but also about 10 million pounds of Pavarotti’s money. The maestro had personally directed all the money to other charities.

Even though Kath was working for the Dutch War Child office, she knew a scandal of this proportion could damage the charity's image worldwide. It could make her job as a fund-raiser a hell of a lot more difficult.

London, February 2001

Terry ordered another scotch. He had already had a few, but had a long way to go before the numbness he yearned for would set in. He was leaning on the counter and noticed the woman across the bar was still making eyes at him. She'd been trying to catch his attention for the last hour. When it looked as if she had finally gathered enough Dutch courage to come over, he got his coat, placed some banknotes on the counter and left. He wasn't interested, not tonight.

Outside he pulled his coat-collar up high, trying to protect himself against the bitter winter wind. Bloody country. He longed for the sun on his skin. Now what, home? The thought of his empty apartment didn't appeal to him. He entered the first friendly-looking bar that crossed his path and looked for a free seat in a quiet corner. He didn’t feel like socializing tonight. It was warm and cozy inside. He ordered another scotch, sat quietly drinking and smoking, trying hard to block out the thoughts of his last assignment. It had been a bloody disaster. Literally. Colombian police had stumbled across a farmhouse, where his client and four others had been held hostage. Six police officers, 12 terrorists, and 2 hostages were killed, including his client. He had been negotiating his release for almost three months. He closed his eyes. He was so fucking tired. Maybe he was getting too old for this bullshit.

Chechnya, May 2001

The second time she opened her eyes, there was a little light. Some cold, white rays came through a small, blinded window above her head. As her eyes were adjusting to the shimmer, she carefully turned her head to one side, trying to make out the room she was in. It wasn't too big, a small square with the bed in one corner and two doors in the wall opposite the bed. She needed to get up and try the doors.

She carefully shifted her legs to the side of the bed, dropping them to the floor. Without moving her head, she pushed herself into a sitting position. The effort left her soaked in sweat and breathing as if she had just run a marathon. She lifted her hands to her face, gently touching the bruises. No broken skin. There was some dried blood on her forehead and in her hair. Slowly her fingers searched her skull until she found the cut. It wasn't bleeding anymore, which was good.

Using the wall for support, she cautiously got on her feet. Her head was swimming. With her eyes closed, she waited until the waves of nausea settled down. It took her one careful step after the other to reach the first door. It was locked. Cold fear entered her heart. She moved on to the second. It was open. Her first relief changed into despair when it turned out to be a filthy little bathroom with a hole-in-the-ground type toilet, a sink, and a dented bucket. She shuffled inside and turned on the tap. It gurgled out air and a stream of dirty looking water. She let it run until the water looked fresher. Using her hand as a cup, she drank some.  It tasted like earth, but thank God, there was water!  She returned to the bed and carefully lay down again. Tears were streaming down her cheeks until exhaustion made her fall asleep.

She stirred to the sound of the bolt scraping on her door. A man came in. Not young, hard faced and armed. He didn’t look at her, just placed a bowl with indefinable content on the floor, and walked out again. She jumped to her feet, forgetting the pain in her head and stumbled over to the door. “Please! Wait!” She banged her hands on the door. “Please, talk to me!” There was only the scraping of the bolt closing again and silence. She picked up the bowl. Whatever was in there, it looked disgusting, smelled disgusting too. She wasn’t that hungry. She put it back and stumbled back to the bed. She had to think! Obviously, she was captured. By whom? It could be any number of the so-called Chechnyan liberation groups. Probably for ransom or political demands, or both. Where were the others? It was too quiet; didn’t sound as if there were more people held here. Was she already being missed? She had no notion of time. They had taken her watch, her cameras, and her bags. All she had were the clothes on her back. Thank God, they hadn’t taken her clothes!

Amsterdam, March 2001

"Katharina!" Kath wasn't responding, she was on her way out. "Katharina! You listen to me young lady, don't you dare walk out on us." Her mother's voice reached an uncomfortable shrieking quality. Kath did not intend to listen to her, she had heard enough. Slamming the front door shut behind her, she got in her car and tore away, accelerating hard, knowing how much her mother hated it when the neatly raked gravel was messed up.

Well, this had been another very successful family dinner. Her mother just had to bring up Kath's ex-husband again, had to dis on her work again. Kath promised herself not to turn up for next month’s appointment, knowing that all it would take was her father's sad smile to make her change her mind. Her father had always understood her perfectly. He understood why she had divorced her playboy husband and why she was working free for War Child. It was not as if she needed the money.

Kath had been in an excellent mood before the visit to her parents.  Her hard work had paid-off. The press releases, news letters and articles for the website had all been distributed on time. She had contacted all major donors and supporters personally. A few had walked out, but new contacts resulted in a substantial raise of the charity’s funds and some firm promises from local artists to participate in the Christmas benefit concerts.

She had planned and organized this year’s trip to some projects and that had been what started the argument with her mother. Her parents didn’t like the idea of her going to Chechnya. Kath had tried to explain, again, why it was so important to go. Not only for the reports she would write or the photographs she would take, but also to show support to the volunteers who where there for months at the time, working under very difficult conditions.

Kath failed to see what the fuss was about. She had visited projects before, in Sudan, Afghanistan, and Nigeria, all potentially dangerous places. They were going as a team, protected by bodyguards and traveling under the War Child flag. She would be just fine, as always.

London, April 2001

After three years of almost non-stop negotiations, Terry was finally taking it slow. He had more or less demanded to be taken out of the game for a while. The company, realizing this was not a request, gave him a temporary task as consultant. For the time being, he visited potential and existing customers, explaining all the ins and outs of kidnap threats and insurance. He gave lectures and training to employees of corporations and organizations who operated in high-risk countries. Not very exciting but just what he needed right now.

Dino was on his case constantly, wanting Terry to quit Luthan Risk and go into business with him. It was something he always talked about. Dino was the only man alive Terry would consider working with. The only one he trusted with his life. However, this wasn’t a good time for him. When he’d tried to explain his burnout to his best mate, Dino had just laughed it away. “You worry too much, my friend. Life’s too short.”

Then again, Dino didn’t have an ex-wife who harped on him all the time, or a son who would rather have nothing to do with him. Moreover, he was sure that Dino wasn’t having nightmares, like he’d been having lately. On one of their latest missions, he had shot an Iraqi terrorist between the eyes, to discover that he hadn't been much older than his own son. In his dreams the faces of the Iraqi and his son intertwined, waking him, convinced he’d killed his own flesh and blood.  

Chechnya, June 2001

The man would come in every day and leave her some food. She had given up trying to talk to him. He never listened, didn’t understand her, not in English, German or even Dutch. Blocking his way hadn’t been a success, he had hit her hard with the end of his rifle, and she never tried it again. She started to eat. The first time the horrible fat food made her so nauseous that she threw it all up again. Blocking her mind against the taste and smell made her cope. She had established some sort of daily routine. Each morning she would go into the bathroom, strip, and use the hole in the ground. She had never found a satisfactory way to use these things with her pants on. Her ripped-up shirt serviced as a washing cloth. She had taken the cords out of her jacket and pants, making a drying line. She tried to exercise a couple of times a day. Doing crunches, push-ups, and knee bends; there wasn’t much room for anything else. She thought up all kinds of mind games. Day after excruciatingly lonely day she would keep this up in an effort to stay sane.

It had taken her all day to wriggle a nail out of the wall. She used it to make little scratches on the wall above her bed, one scratch for each day, enabling her to keep track of the time.

When she got her period it had all been too much. She had begged the man for some bandages, a towel, anything. No reaction. She had ripped her thermo-shirt to pieces, using them for sanitary towels, soaking them in the bucket in a feeble attempt to keep some standard of personal hygiene.

After 25 scratches, he had come in with two men. They had taped her voice, making her read the message from a slip of paper. They had beaten her, but she had been grateful that nothing worse had happened. The recording had lifted her spirits. At least now, there would be word to the outside. Her parents would know that she was still alive and maybe it would mean the end of her predicament.

London, July 2001

The envelope that Dino had dropped on the table before he left seemed to be calling out to Terry. Dino had been in high spirits, all fired up about a new assignment he had accepted. Terry stopped him cold, knowing too well what this would mean. He didn’t want this now.  He wanted to be left alone. Dino had been disappointed and angry, had flung the envelope on the table and stomped out.

Terry gave up his attempts to get some sleep. He went into the living room, poured himself a scotch, and sat down at the table. With a sigh, he pulled the envelope over and shook out its contents.

The first thing he saw was a big color picture of a girl; a strikingly beautiful girl. Her long, dark hair in disorderly curls around her face. Her green eyes laughing merrily into the camera and her sensuous mouth curled into a warm smile. She had a gorgeous smile. He put the picture aside and started reading the file.

Name: Katharina Margareta Heerema. Dutch citizen. Age: 32.

32? She looked a lot younger in the picture; he would have given her 25 at the most.

Working as a volunteer for War Child in the Netherlands, she had been visiting projects in Ingushetia and Chechnya. The convoy she had traveled in was ambushed. Of the sixteen people in the jeeps, three were killed in the explosion. The three bodyguards had been shot on the spot. Six local volunteers were left with the vehicles. The kidnappers had only taken the four foreigners; Katharina was one of them.

Apparently, there were some problems with the insurance. It seemed the team had been covered for Ingushetia, but not for Chechnya. The insurance company had seen a way out and took it.

The girl’s father, a very rich entrepreneur, had raised hell. He had been willing to pay the ransom himself, but the insurance company had bailed out. Desperate, Mr. Heerema had sent out word that he wanted his daughter found, freed, and was willing to pay a pretty sum. Dino had contacted him.

Dino’s team had already taken care of all the preliminaries. Using local contacts, they had located the girl. It had been a difficult road. Starting from the place of the ambush, his contacts had tried everything from bribes to violence to get people to open up to them. Finally, they had found an informer who was willing to talk, but only after his whole family had been safely brought out of the country. It had cost the girl’s father a small fortune. Now that they knew where she was being held, Dino wanted Terry to come with him to get her out.

He picked up her photo again and sat there looking at her happy green eyes for a long time, realizing that after three months, there wouldn’t be much left of that beautiful smile.

Chechnya, July 2001

She was slowly losing hope. Seventy-four scratches on her wall and still nothing happened. She didn’t understand. Her father was a very rich man; surely, he would pay the ransom? She started to doubt everything. Maybe the message had never reached them. Maybe they were convinced that she was dead already.

When she got her period the third time, it caused her to break down completely, crying for days and losing the courage to get on with her exercises. She just stayed on the bed, only got up to use the bathroom and eat.

After 85 scratches on the wall, she stopped making them. Completely withdrawn into her own world, she didn’t care whether she lived or died.

A terrible racket outside forced her out of limbo. There was gunfire and shouting. A loud explosion followed by terrible silence. Totally freaking out, she crawled into a corner. The door was kicked in. She screamed in terror as three heavily armed men entered the room. They were dressed in camouflage outfits and their faces were covered with black woolen masks. Voices were talking to her in English, trying to calm her down. Strong arms picked her up and carried her outside.

Part Two

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