Pairings/Characters: Jim Donovan
Fandom: Bridge Of Spies (2015)
Genres: Angst, Drama
Spoilers: For Bridge Of Spies (2015)
Summary: Jim Donovan has plenty of time to think when he’s stuck in an East German prison.
Date Of Completion: February 21, 2016
Date Of Posting: March 17, 2016
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DreamWorks Pictures and Amblin Entertainment do, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 801
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Are as old
"Poems On The
Jim Donovan huddled on the cot in the dank cell, wishing he had his old coat.
At least the lightbulb is almost out. Gives me a break there.
He did not feel exactly relaxed. He was in an East German jail! His stomach rumbled.
Wish I’d had a chance to eat that ‘Big American Breakfast’ at the hotel. I could use some bacon, eggs, and sausages right about now. Or a steak smothered in onions and a baked potato covered in sour cream. Even a hamburger and fries!
Jim’s stomach growled this time. Were his future meals all to be thin, watery gruel?
This is crazy! The East Germans are playing a dangerous game. The Russians aren’t going to be happy if the deal to get Rudolf Abel back falls apart.
Jim closed his eyes, trying to ignore the smell coming from the toilet. At least he had one, but he never appreciated his bathroom more back home than he did now.
Of course, my Government won’t be thrilled with this deal going south, either. Still, I had to try and get Frederic Pryor as part of the deal. Poor kid’s been locked up for months in this hellhole.
His thoughts drifted. Boredom was a huge part of prison life. At least Rudolf had drawing materials in Federal prison.
Rudolf’s an interesting guy. Born in England but is so taken by Socialism that he goes to Russia and becomes a spy for them before the war. The Big One, not Korea. Though Korea is sure more part of the Cold War than World War II.
Jim knew that he was rambling. It was his nerves, which considering his current situation, was not surprising. He rubbed his face and mentally kicked himself. Had he made a mistake insisting on Frederic Pryor as part of the deal? Was he trading his freedom for idealism?
Mary’s gonna kill me!
His wife would not be happy if he disappeared behind the Iron Curtain, never to be heard from again.
Not that I would be too thrilled with it myself.
Jim was not sure what he could do except wait. He was no James Bond with lockpicks in his jacket collar or plastic explosives in the heel of his shoe.
You might’ve really stepped in it this time, James. If the East Germans want to play hardball, I might be here for awhile.
Jim clutched his briefcase. He was a lawyer, a duly-appointed officer of the court. He was an American citizen, damnit!
“Maybe I should pound on the door and yell that. Like being an American citizen means anything around here. Guess I’m going stir-crazy. I’m talking to myself.”
Jim lapsed into silence. Should have he done something differently? Not insisted on getting Pryor out? His Government contacts cared nothing about the kid. All they wanted was Powers.
“Maybe allowed to keep my briefcase is a good sign.” Jim’s voice echoed in the cell. “At least I haven’t spotted any rats…yet.”
He daydreamed about the Big American Breakfast: sausages, bacon, eggs, toast, fruit, pancakes and waffles. His stomach growled again.
Time slipped past like sand in an hourglass. He still had his watch. Four hours had elapsed since the cell door had slammed shut behind him. Four hours of time to think. Jim hoped that he would not have months of time to think in an East German-style gulag.
I gotta have faith. He rubbed his thumb over his St. Christopher medal that he wore under his shirt. Holy Mother, ask Your Son to intervene for me. And, Saint Chris, keep this traveler safe. He closed his eyes and said a string of Our Fathers and Hail Marys. I’m not even in the confessional! Father McCready would approve.
He sighed and concentrated on the comfort of prayer, wishing that he had his rosary with him.
The next time Jim checked his watch, it was six hours after incarceration. He was starting to feel panicky.
Maybe I should get my Irish up. He frowned. Now I’m getting mad. I’m going to fight! I’ll scream bloody murder so loud they’ll hear me in Hyannisport!
That he heard something that was sweeter than the sound of a hallelujah chorus: the rattle of a key in the lock of his cell door. He sat up, clutching his briefcase like a shield.
Ten minutes later, he was breathing in deep lungfuls of the damp February air of East Berlin.
Not exactly free air, but I’ll take it!
He quickly walked away from the prison while figuring out his next move. The Big American Breakfast was on the list.