Quiller Salamander

I looked at my watch. We'd been working for thirty-four minutes. Outside the building, dark was down: I could see it through the doorway. The flashlight was still bright but I didn't know how long the battery would last: we'd only just started, and it would be another two hours, perhaps three, before I could ask the first question, and even then I would have to do it with extreme care.

'You swallowed your name?'

'Bat.'

'In French. Stick to French. You swallowed your name?'

'Yes.'

'You ate it?'

'Yes.'

'Who are you, then? Give me your rank and name.'

'I am Captain Saloth.'

The same as Pol Pot's real name: perhaps this man had adopted it, was full of borrowed pride.

'No,' I said, 'you're nothing now. You have eaten your rank and your name, so now you are nothing. What are you?'

'I am Captain — '

'You're not listening. When I tell you something, it's always right. If you contradict me, you know what will happen to you. Now, what are you?'

'I am Captain — '

Screamed again because I worked on the same nerve.

I waited, listening to the cricket's song. The nothing was silent now, its eyes shut and the tears dripping from its face, its knees folding at last as I knew they would.

'Don't do that. Kneel upright. Knees straight. Can you hear me?'

The nothing said nothing. I had to think of the former Captain Saloth in that way now to create the reality. What was real in my mind must be made real in his.

'Can you hear me?'

'Yes.'

'Then straighten your knees.' Waited. 'Good. Now, I've told you what you are, remember? You are nothing. Listen carefully to the question. What are you?'

The song of the cricket had stopped.

The nothing was swaying slightly from side to side. The agony of the last strike would still be burning through the nerves; it would last for some time, perhaps for days, would be tender for weeks, months. I know this: it was a month before I could even shave there after I came out of the underground cell in Zagreb.

'Are you going to make me ask you the same question twice?'

It flinched. 'No.'

'Do you remember the question?'

Its face looked at me, the eyes flickering with pain, the head held slightly to one side, the tears drying on the blotchy skin. I thought of the other girl, the one in the photograph on the wall of the mine-clearing office, smiling, radiant, used to her crutches by now, no problem, held in a bear hug by the two grinning men.

It said something in Khmer.

'French. Always speak French.'

'What question?'

'Listen,' I said, 'you're not paying enough attention. I'm going to tell you what you are, and then you're going to answer my question. Now listen carefully. This is what you are: you are nothing.' I waited, watching it to see if it understood. I thought it did: there was still intelligence in the eyes and the swaying had stopped. 'So here comes the question. What are you?'

It was silent. It didn't move. It looked like the remains of a wood carving half destroyed by time, the head angled on the neck, the eyes splintered, the mouth half open and askew. But I could hear it breathing, and in the sound of its breathing there was a faint musical note, a kind of mewing that loudened suddenly into speech.

'Nothing.'

I look at my watch, the last chance I shall get because the battery of the flashlight is running low.

The time is 21:39.

We have been here for two and a half hours, something like that.

It seems longer, much longer.

I watch its face as the light grows dim. It's still alive, and still conscious. There wasn't very much more to do since it recognized itself as nothing: that was the breakthrough. But we needed more time between the questions and the answers, because sometimes it remembered its pride and did silly things, and there is now a gash on my face and I can feel the blood caked there, itching as it dries, a trophy won by inattention, but then I'm tired too, and I feel some of its pain. All men are brothers, however divided by their lunatic ideologies.

The cricket is singing again, and in the rectangle of the doorway there is moonlight.

'Who are you?'

'Nobody. Nothing.'

'You are my prisoner. What are you?'

'I am your prisoner.'

'Your life is in my hands. Do you want to live?'

'My life is — '

'Listen to the question. Do you want to live?'

'Pain. Want end of pain.'

The light is very dim now, just a glow.

It is still kneeling, immediately in front of me. I can smell its sweat. It reeks. It can smell mine. I reek. I can smell its blood. It can smell mine. All men are pigs.

The light goes out.

'Your pain will end, if you're very careful.'

I think it is swaying, in the pale light from the doorway, from the moon. I think I am swaying too. It's getting late. I didn't sleep last night. I slept for a few hours today but this has been tiring for the psyche, which is exhausted by the endless need to withhold compassion even from this thing, this child-crippler, this hero of the holocaust to come.

'What did I tell you?'

'My pain end, if I care, take care.'

I think there's just enough consciousness, just enough memory, to have made it worth while, worth coming here, worth talking with my brother pig.

'How will you take care?'

'Take care, yes.'

'You will take care by answering my questions truthfully. I shall know if you are lying.'

Blind suddenly, my eyes closing. I open them again. I must take care too. 'Shall I know if you lie to me?'

'Lie.'

'Listen to the question. Shall I know if you lie to me?'

'Yes.'

'Then we'll begin. But the pain will only end if you take care not to lie. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Yes.'

Harken ye then to the cricket's song.

'How long will General Kheng remain at Headquarters?'

25: ALTERNATIVE

I turned into the side street where I'd been parked before in the Mine Action van, watching the white two-storey building. I could see the jeep in the distance. Symes hadn't moved.

He got out of his vehicle when I flicked my lights a couple of times, but walked slowly, warily, because in the moonlight he could see only a Chinese jeep with two people in it. When he was near enough to hear my voice I called out the code-name for the mission, and he quickened his step.

'He's still in there,' he said when he recognized me. He meant General Kheng.

'I know. He'll be there until morning. There's no need for you to stay.'

He looked at my passenger. 'People been talking?'

'Yes. I want you to take him over, look after him somewhere. He's a bit switched off at the moment but put him under restraint in case he wakes up to things.'

'Roger.'

He went back to his jeep and brought it alongside, and I helped him with the prisoner. Then I drove to the little bullet-scarred post office and used the telephone outside.

Pringle picked up on the second ring, hadn't gone to bed: Control was in the field and the executive had made contact with the target and the mission was running hot.

'I brought in a prisoner,' I said. 'Symes is looking after him.'

'Is he for interrogation?'

'No. But I need to debrief.'

'To Control?'

'Yes.'

'I'll make him aware.'

'I was hoping you'd make contact,' Flockhart said.

He'd put a coat over his bush shirt, though the night was still warm. We were in the dugout room, in the house of Sophan Sann. Pringle was here too, looked underslept.

I waited.

'We have received a reply,' Flockhart went on heavily, 'from London.' He hadn't slept much either; the blanket on the settee was still smooth, and there was steam clinging to the glass of the coffee percolator.