‘Yes.’
‘Do you no longer regard yourself as a communist?’
Time for another lapse. ‘I was never…’
‘Yes or no.’
‘No.’
‘Do you intend completely to cooperate with people who will be interviewing you in the coming weeks and months?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cooperating with complete honesty?’
‘Yes.’ That had not been as difficult as he had feared.
‘Have you provided members of the FBI with material concerning the KGB mission within the United Nations?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was all the information accurate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have knowledge that you believe will be useful for the continued security of the United States of America?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the identities of people domiciled in this country engaged in activities contrary to the security of the United States of America?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you provide details of those identities, to your questioners?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you regard yourself as an honest man?’
The question was as clever as the one that had followed the testing sex queries and it was the closest Levin came to faltering. ‘No,’ he said, alert for the reaction. It came exactly as he expected.
‘You do not regard yourself as an honest man?’
‘No.’ He imagined he heard the sound of the pen, making the notebook entry.
‘Yet you intend cooperating honestly with your debriefers?’
‘Yes.’ Levin reckoned at the moment the technician was more unsettled than he was but knew it would be dangerous to relax. Part of his lip was becoming numbed under the pressure and he nipped at the left side, needing the continued pain.
‘Have you operated as a member of the KGB in parts of the world other than the United States of America?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were there to be requests from those other countries, would you cooperate with their counter-intelligence organizations in disclosing details of those operations?’
‘No.’ The pause for the notebook query was obvious this time.
‘Do you find this test difficult?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you expect to be subjected to it?’
‘I did not…’ started Levin, aware of the danger and needing the time.
‘Yes or no.’
‘No.’
‘Would you be prepared to undergo further polygraph examination, if it were considered necessary?’
‘Yes.’ There was hardly a choice, but Levin wondered if it were a standard question or whether he had made a mistake. Wrong to become nervous, risking any increase in the sweat or heart rate.
‘Do you believe in God?’
An intentional leapfrog, to disorient him, guessed Levin. He said: ‘No.’
‘In truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you always tell the truth?’
Now it was the technician who was being very clever. ‘No,’ said Levin.
‘Do the KGB use the United Nations as a spy base?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you identify KGB personnel among the Soviet mission to the United Nations?’
Practically repetition of an earlier question. Checking the previous answers then. ‘Yes,’ Levin said.
‘Are you aware of KGB personnel in places other than the United Nations?’
Time to throw the needle off course. ‘I do not believe…’
‘Yes or no.’
‘No, but…’
‘Yes or no.’
‘No.’ Come on! come on! thought Levin.
‘Do you have knowledge of people working on behalf of the KGB in places other than the United Nations?’
‘Yes!’ The man had responded exactly as Levin had hoped.
‘Can you identify them?’
‘Yes. No.’
‘One or the other.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Maybe,’ refused the Russian.
There was another pause which Levin imagined to be for a further notebook entry, but then the technician was by his side, sliding the palm monitor off his hand. So intense had been Levin’s concentration that he had been unaware of the man’s approach. The ease with which the palm pad came off indicted that he was sweating quite heavily: to an acceptable degree or too much? ‘Well?’ asked Levin, as the man removed the other two straps. It was the sort of question they would expect.
‘We’ll have to see,’ avoided the man, noncommittal. ‘Please wait here.’
He left the room awkwardly, carrying the drum and the file and his notebook. An instant discussion with the waiting Bowden, guessed Levin. He rose from the chair, aware for the first time of the ache of tension in his back and legs. Sweating hands and tension sufficient to make him ache: would that have translated on to the recordings? Possibly, but he’d tried enough to throw the needles with his answers, so hopefully the two would correlate and be explainable: if he were given the chance to explain, that is. He stood at the window, gazing out over the trimmed and sensored grounds, the tension still gripping him, the perspiration increasing. This really was testing time: the moment when he either passed, to be accepted. Or failed to satisfy them. What happened then? There were accounts of some distrusted defectors being held and interrogated in solitary confinement for months on end. And he didn’t have months. Everything was very carefully timed. The contradiction was immediate. If everything was so carefully timed, why had the signal come with Natalia still in the Soviet Union?
It was a full hour before anyone entered the room again, an hour for Levin’s mood to plunge from fragile confidence to worry to fear. And then to go almost beyond simple fear into terror as his mind focused upon Galina and Petr. What would happen to them if he hadn’t been clever enough? Imprisonment? Unlikely but possible, he supposed. Maybe repatriation, which would be as big a disaster because if they were once further split Levin couldn’t see how they would ever be reunited. Maybe… The jostling fears stopped at a sound, and Levin turned to face Bowden. The American was serious-faced and the usual bonhomie, which Levin suspected was forced anyway, was missing.
‘Well?’ asked Levin again. There was the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and he realized he had mistakenly bitten through his lip somewhere. He’d have to be careful it didn’t show.
‘One or two inconsistencies, Yevgennie. Quite a bunch, in fact.’
In addition to a file of his own, Levin saw the American was carrying the technician’s notebook and the paper upon which there was a criss-cross of different-coloured lines. The paper from the polygraph drum, Levin guessed. The reaction prepared, he said in apparent anger: ‘It was a ridiculous test! I was assured the questions would be phrased for yes or no answers but they weren’t. It was impossible!’
‘Why don’t we talk it through a little?’
It was important to maintain the indignation longer. Levin said: ‘I was promised by Proctor to be treated properly. Considerately. Promised by you, too. It isn’t happening. If you do not want me then I will go back to my own country!’ He hoped he had not over-pitched the outrage.
‘Slow down, Yevgennie. Slow down,’ placated Bowden. ‘Let’s just talk it through, like I said. Sit down and take it easy.’
Levin walked further into the room with apparent reluctance, going not to the upright chair in which he had sat for the polygraph but to a low, easy chair to one side of the desk. Bowden eased his huge frame on to the chair in which the technician had sat, awkwardly too large for it.
‘Inconsistencies,’ opened Bowden. ‘Maybe there are simple explanations.’
‘What inconsistencies?’ demanded Levin, feigning the anger.
Bowden bent over the notebook he arranged alongside the polygraph reading: the paper was numbered, for the queries to accord with the entries in the notebook, which was specially printed, numerically. He said: ‘Found it strange that you should regard yourself as a traitor?’
He’d succeeded there, realized Levin, relieved. He said: ‘I was being tested for honesty? To see if I could be trusted?’
‘Just that,’ agreed Bowden.
‘So I told the truth,’ insisted Levin. ‘I am a traitor. To my country. And to you. Let’s not pretend: wrap things up in other words, like coloured ribbon: call me a defector like it’s an honourable description. You and Proctor and anyone else I might meet will pretend to be friendly but you’ll always despise me, for betraying my service