“Nonsense. This sort of thing goes on all the time.”
“Well.” The fat man shrugged. “I don’t make policy. Those are my orders.”
“Of course,” Brook said reflectively, “you see the hole in it.”
“What’s that?”
“I have to talk for your scheme to work. They used to call me Gabby before I started to shave, but that was before I started to shave. I’ve learned to be awfully tongue-tied.”
“We’ll see.” Stark smiled sweetly. “And that, I suppose, brings us to what Jazz here has been tapping her little tippy-toes about all this time. Truth is, she’ll enjoy it more than I will. Her favorite author is de Sade.”
“Toby,” Jasmine said icily, “you are a fat fool.”
Stark ignored her. “You all primed for it, old boy?” he asked Brook.
Brook hoped that his sneer was convincing. “Fire away, Gridley. I can take anything you’ve got.”
And that’s a lot of horseballs, he thought as he tried to prepare himself. That night in Belgrade, when they were working on his testicles, he had been as ready to fall as a tree-ripened apricot if they’d only had the sense to let up. But they had kept going, and he had kept screaming, unable to get out the words they were torturing him for. And then he had passed out, and their opportunity was gone. Maybe he had been lucky then to fall into the hands of a bungling crew. His stomach and groin were telling him that Jasmine, at least, was no bungler in these matters.
“Maybe you can,” Stark said, “and maybe you can’t. It’s been my experience, chappie, that there’s no such thing as holding out. Whoever you are. Of course, a well-thought-out torture takes time — the Chinese are awfully good at it, as I suppose you know — but time is what we have little of. So we’ll have to do it the crude way, Brook. Or you can be sensible about this and answer my questions and save yourself a lot of grief.”
Brook shook his head. “You know I can’t, Stark. Noblesse oblige, and all that. I could never look myself in the face again.”
“You’re an idiot,” the fat man said, almost with surprise. “Well, then. Can you judge where I’m pointing this pistol, Brook?”
Brook said, “About eight inches below the belt.” Here we go again, he thought. Somebody must be trying to tell me something. They consistently go for my posterity.
“That is correct, Brook,” Stark said. “Now I’m very good with a pistol, you understand. I can put a slug into a two-inch circle in that area ten times out of ten from this distance, and at just the right angle. Quite surgical with this thing, I am. You understand, of course, that you would then be rendered the promptest medical care to keep you alive. That’s the dirty part of the trick, Brook — being left alive after a thing like that.”
Brook was shaking his head. “That’s bad psychology, Stark. I’m too well trained to talk before the shot, and after it I’d walk through six shots to get my hands on you for what you’d have done to me. This is no way to make me talk.”
“What do you take me for?” the Australian said. “This isn’t to make you talk. It’s to make you wag your tail like a nice little doggie till Jazz here can do her part of the job. Listen carefully, Brook. Jazz is going to step near you. She’ll be within your reach for a few seconds. I’m advising you what I’ll do if you make the slightest twitch toward her. The slightest bloody twitch of a fingertip.”
“Oh,” Brook said, and fell silent.
Jasmine was stalking him with a hypodermic syringe.
“You will roll up your sleeve, Brook,” said Stark. “I don’t have to tell you how.” The Luger never wavered.
She stepped to one side and out of reach while Brook rolled up his sleeve. He did it with considerable care. I wonder what the ineffable Bond would do in a jam like this, he thought. Probably leap like a tiger to use her as a shield while the fat man’s shot obligingly went wild.
“Very nicely done, old chap,” Stark said. “I’m happy at your good sense. Now hands down and under your buttocks. Sit on ’em; that’s it. Gives me the split-second advantage, you see, in case you’ve got rash ideas. Now hold very still. That’s a good chap.”
She did it with admirable efficiency. He had barely time to feel the sting of the needle when the contents of the syringe were in his arm and she was out of reach again.
Brook glanced down at his arm. “Scopolamine?” He had been hoping it was sodium pentothal. Once Holloway had put all his agents through a practice in resisting the effects of the so-called truth drug; it could be done, the Director had insisted, if a man’s will was strong enough. But he knew it was not the truth drug. Sodium pentothal worked with great speed, and he still had his senses.
Stark shook his ponderous head; Brook could see the wag quite clearly. “A homologue of succinyl choline chloride. Something new. Developed here in Japan.”
“S.C.C.? Isn’t that the stuff that slows everything down and makes a man seem dead?”
“This is a related compound. The effect’s a little different, Brook. I see you’re beginning to feel it.”
Yes. The outlines of the fat face were blurring and the high-walled room was rocking like a cradle. He was conscious of a buzzing that seemed to be able to approach and recede simultaneously. Then the whole room rose and spiraled away from him. His body began to turn upside down counterclockwise. It continued to revolve in gentle circles.
Length. Breadth. Depth. But no time. Interesting. The present belonged to the moment past and the moment to come. He was still revolving. Or maybe it was the room. Toby Stark had become an elongated oval, featureless. There was a slimmer oval that must be Jasmine.
Toby Stark was striking him. Toby was powerful and his arm landed like a house-wrecker’s ball. The echoes bounced around in his skull whenever he was struck. Toby was kicking him, too. Not kicking him, kneeing him. So he hadn’t escaped that after all. But pleasantly, no pain. And no anger. He did not mind Toby’s beating and kneeing him, nor Jasmine’s leaning forward to watch. Time had stopped and with it all feeling.
Except love.
How right. He felt love. Adoration. For Toby. Or fear? Love and fear. In a curious mixture he had never felt before. Toby, Toby, you’re my master, I love you, I’m afraid of you, father, boss, CO., Holloway. Dear Australian. Dear fink. Dear bastard. I will do as you say. I must. Elephants must. Elephants go into must — musth? — and they never forget. They are loyal. Royal. Toby, you royal son of a bitch.
The house-wrecker’s ball crashed against his cheek. Again, dear Toby. Do it again. I love-hate you.
“Who’s working with you, Brook? This Benny you called. Benny what? What’s his cover name?”
“Wilfred Jennings Schnickelburger,” Brook said. Hilarious. To make a discovery like that at a time like this. The stranger who looked just like him had stepped out of him and now stood well-planted beside him, not revolving at all, answering in old Brookie’s voice. Of course the look-alike was lying his head off. Benny’s name wasn’t Wilfred Jennings Schnickelburger. That was the look-alike’s name. Didn’t Toby — dear old Toby — see that?
Crash-bang. One-two. Button your shoe, up the flue.
“When is the meet with Krylov? Where?”
“In the meet shop. He’s bringing his wife and kidneys.”
Wham. “Answer my question, damn you!”
“I love you.”
The lesser blob that was Toby’s head was turning toward the other blob. “I can’t make this out, Jazz. Too big a dose?”
“Wait,” the other blob said. “It will settle down.”
Down. Down. But no time. At stroke of gong will be half-past afterward. Which of course has already happened.
Bonggggg.
Correction. No gong. That was dear Toby smashing him again. Wham. Better. More like it. Love is a manysplendored think.