Lying like that, with his back exposed to them, a helpless target for knives, ice picks or worse, did not constitute the most charming moment of his life.
"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," he muttered, without emphasis.
"You're all of you fools!" the woman's voice said suddenly. He remembered the sound of her and the ruse she had used on him that morning to get into his flat. He despised himself for the simple way in which she had taken him. It was a lesson he would never forget. "The stakes are life and death and yet you and your lady partner waste everyone's time with glib remarks and pointless jokes."
"What else would you suggest, Miss Van Atta?" Slate asked. "A tea dance?"
The woman's laugh was short and brittle.
"We need you alive for the trade, for Zorki, Mr. Slate. That alone has kept you in one piece. Other arrangements are being tried, should we fail. But that is of no consequence to you, just yet. Consider please your present physical condition. I'm sure you have correctly deduced what will happen if you move the table so much as an inch. So—it is now almost six o'clock in the evening. Uncle has until midnight to come to terms. Do you want to stay the way you are for six more hours? I think not. Consider my alternatives."
"What might those be?"
"You could give us many valuable details about your Headquarters operation. Disposition of personnel, door signals, the locations of alarm systems. Waverly's private entrance to the building. That is something we have never been able to learn. You tell us some of those things and perhaps we can make you more comfortable for the rest of your stay with us."
"Do go on."
"A soft bed, some good food, your favorite liquors and tobacco. We will even throw in female companionship, if you feel the need."
Mark Slate laughed a scornful laugh.
"What is so amusing?" Arnolda Van Atta snapped. One of the men in the room made a growling noise in his throat. "Stay where you are, Fried Rice. Let him answer me."
"My answer is no, Miss Van Atta. No, categorically, personally and with exclamation points."
A man's voice, on Slate's left, spoke up. He recognized the flat, bland tones of the man who had addressed him and April from nowhere visible in the prison room. Mr. Riddle.
"It's useless, Arnolda. He fancies that his friend, Miss Dancer, will come running to his rescue. Let's leave well enough alone. Leave Fried Rice and Pig Alley to deal with him. We'll wait for Waverly's answer."
The woman chuckled a low, deadly chuckle.
"You're right, Riddle. He's a damn hero. But let's make him feel good about things. Fried Rice—do you have the transistor?"
"Yes," came a singsong voice. "You wish to turn it on?"
"I do. Get a six o'clock news broadcast. There ought to be something interesting to report, don't you think?"
Slate could not see the smiles that spread from face to face. Nor did he see the Frankenstein face of Mr. Riddle. The other two men in the room were the Chinaman and apache who had trapped April Dancer in the hallway of Slate's building. Fried Rice and Pig Alley were their code names.
There was a crisp crackle of electrical noise, then a raising of volume. Slate frowned, the table top inches from his jaw. What were they up to? Why should he be interested in a news broadcast?
Arnolda Van Atta abruptly said, "Wait, wait—I think that's it now. Put the transistor close to Mr. Slate's ear."
A bright measured voice was speaking. The clear tones seemed to echo in the room. Slate was riveted to the announcement :
".....a fire and explosion of undetermined origin in the Bronx today has alerted all fire departments in the vicinity of Bronx Park and East 180th Street. A five story building which had once served as a dye factory in the nineteen-thirties seemed to detonate with great violence this afternoon at approximately four-thirty five. Scores of windows, for a radius of ten blocks, were shattered by the force of the explosion.... In a moment, Sports and the Weather, after this message from...."
"You can turn it off now, Fried Rice," Arnolda Van Atta said. The abrupt silence was excruciating for Slate. Yet his brash voice was unconcerned, light as he rested his cheek on the table and stared up at the ceiling.
"Awful waste of a good hideout," he suggested.
"The end justifies the means, Mr. Slate. We left your Miss Dancer back there when we departed in such a hurry. There was no possible way for her to have gotten out. Unless she had wings."
"You misjudge April, old girl. She's an angel. A positive angel. The mistake is yours and the misfortune of Thrush, I might add."
There was a chortle from Mr. Riddle. "Why do you bluff, you fool? The lady was blown to Kingdom Come and nothing you say or think will ever change, that."
"Bully for you, Mr. Riddle," Mark Slate said drily.
Pig Alley spoke for the first time. "Ma foi, this madman has the guts! I would have liked for him to have been with me at Dien Bien Phu!"
"We're wasting time, Arnolda," Riddle said flatly. "Let's leave him to them and see about Zorki."
"No," she said. Suddenly, she took her forefinger and thumb, seized a patch of Slate's right shoulder just below the deltoid of the arm and twisted her fingers. She twisted hard but he did not cry out. He set his teeth and closed his eyes until she relaxed her agonizing pinch. A long sigh escaped her. She was breathing hard. If he could have seen her face, he wouldn't have liked the weird glint of her green eyes. "Idiots!" she hissed. "All of them—idiots! I'll take care of Mr. Slate myself. But later. Not now. Come."
Riddle murmured something and there was a grunt or two of agreement from the others. Footfalls retreated from the table. A door closed. Slate let the tears of pain wash down his face and blinked them away. He could hang on; he would hang on, but the memory of the broadcaster's words haunted him.
He stared into the snout of the Browning .30 caliber machine gun.
He thought about his captors. Arnolda Van Atta. What a name for a bitch of a redhead. Mr. Riddle. That flat, dead as dust, unemotional voice. A French apache called Pig Alley—well, he sounded true to the type. A Chinese named Fried Rice. He filed the information in his agent's mind. He had to admit, even to himself, that he might not live long enough to use that information.
Zorki. Would Mr. Waverly go through with the swap?
April. Was April really dead?
He had to face facts.
For all agents everywhere—death came sooner or later.
He also wondered, almost with amusement, what Arnolda Van Atta had planned for him in the torture department.
He began to hum. He hummed softly and rhythmically, like a man who knows his music and can truly carry the melody. The little room filled with his low, vibrant voice.
A Rock 'n Roll tune that Elvis Presley had made world famous: "Blue Suede Shoes."
He found himself trying to imagine how the Beatles would have treated that particular number.
The War Room of the Pentagon building featured an enormous circular table of polished mahogany. The walls of the room were devoid of decor. A panel board of buttons rested on the table, just to the right of the chairman's seat. At all high level conferences and meetings, these buttons made it possible to provide, suddenly, large colored strategic maps and various panoramic views of the globe. By electrical and mechanical ingenuity, the maps and views could be brought into view at a moment's notice. Very extremely clever architects, from the various branches of military service, had poured their creativity into the devising of this room.