“All right,” Kalin said. “You aren’t interested in answering questions, I can see that.” He put his notebook away and stood up. “I’m in no rush. We’re really just filling in a few blanks here. Once I have a statement from you, I can file a report, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. Asimova and Vlaicu are dead, and you’re in custody, so there’s no need for alacrity.”
Dead?
Nadia and Bogdan were dead?
That got Chapel’s attention. He whirled around to study Kalin’s face, looking for any sign the man was lying.
If he was, it was impossible to tell. Kalin might have been carved from a block of marble. “You didn’t know, did you? Perhaps you thought they got away. Of course we couldn’t let that happen. We picked up the truck less than an hour after it left Aralsk-30. They were unwilling to surrender, and we had already sustained some casualties, so the order was given to fire rockets on the vehicle. There wasn’t much left of them, just enough to identify the bodies.”
Chapel dropped his head. Nadia was dead. After all he’d done to try to get her and Bogdan safely away, after everything—
“So you see, this is just a formality. But I do like to be thorough. We’ll see how you feel tomorrow, after you’ve spent the night with us.”
“Just let me sleep!” Chapel howled, as they held him down and poured energy shots down his throat. The orderlies laughed and shouted in his face — the words were in Russian, but it didn’t matter that he couldn’t understand; the meaning was clear. Loud music blared from speakers in the ceiling and the light kept getting brighter — then they were throwing ice water on him, dousing him in it until he shivered and cried out, and still they were laughing, laughing—
Sleep deprivation.
It was a kind of torture. Chapel’s head was reeling, and his eyes wouldn’t focus properly. He felt like hell, felt like he wanted to throw up but that wasn’t it, it wasn’t his stomach; his brain wanted to purge, to — to just stop, to — to—
Kalin came in, dragging his chair. The way its legs squeaked on the tiles made Chapel want to cringe in the corner and wrap his arm around his head. He forced himself to stand still, up against one wall, with an expression of stoic indifference on his face.
“Good morning,” Kalin said. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Chapel insisted.
Kalin didn’t laugh. He sat down in his chair and took out his notebook.
“Are you ready to tell me your name?” he asked.
Chapel bit back a profanity.
“Perhaps you’d like to tell me how you met the terrorist Asimova?”
Chapel scowled. “She was no—”
Kalin waited, pen poised over his notebook. “Yes?” he said.
Chapel screwed his eyes shut. Bit his tongue to keep it from moving. He’d come very close to giving himself away, there. Far too close. Sleep deprivation took away your filters, made you say things without thinking about them first.
He had to be very, very careful now. He took the time, let the pounding in his head recede. Waited until he was totally in control again before speaking.
“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” he said. A small, pointless act of defiance. But it helped him straighten out his back and stand taller.
“That’s interesting. Especially given what we found when we tested your clothing. Forgive me if this is a bit… tasteless, but it’s germane to our conversation. We found traces of semen in your underwear. We also found her DNA — hairs, skin cells. Do you understand what that suggests?”
“That you’re some kind of underwear pervert?” Chapel asked. Childish, he knew. He could have done better if he could just think. Just think straight.
Kalin pursed his lips. “You do understand that you’re under investigation? Anything you say will be subject to verification.”
Chapel looked out the window. Or rather, he looked at the thick plastic that covered the window, and the bars beyond. He could see very little through those barriers. Just a sky the color of rotten tin.
Kalin waited patiently for a while before proceeding. “Subject does not acknowledge that he is under investigation,” he noted, eventually. “Exhibits signs of mental disorganization. Does not appear to follow logical questions.”
“That sounds like a psychological profile,” Chapel said. “I guess I am in an asylum, so it makes sense. What was that last night, a therapy session?”
“A method of persuasion,” Kalin said. “We have several at our disposal.”
“Sure. The KGB were always the experts in torture and interrogation,” Chapel said.
“I’m not KGB. The KGB doesn’t exist anymore.”
“You’re FSB, then,” Chapel pointed out. An organization that had been created, instituted, and staffed almost exclusively by former KGB agents.
“There is a difference, you know. The FSB is committed to human rights. We don’t hook up anyone to car batteries or pull out their fingernails with pliers. We won’t stick you in a cage full of rats.” Kalin laughed as if such things were quaint, old-fashioned practices, like writing with quill pens or traveling in horse-drawn buggies. “We won’t take you out in the courtyard and just shoot you.”
“Too messy,” Chapel said. “So how will you do it?”
“Do what?”
Chapel forced himself to grin. “Maybe you’ll inject me with polonium. That’s one of your techniques, right? Or maybe you’ll just let me starve.”
Kalin started writing in his notebook again. “Subject indulges paranoid fantasies. Believes he is to be killed. Believes he is important enough to be executed in violation of the rule of law.”
Chapel wanted to rip the notebook out of the bastard’s hand. “We both know how this ends,” he shouted.
“Do we? If I were to kill you, that would make it impossible for me to get the information I need. It would mean I couldn’t finish my report. No, no. I’m going to keep you healthy for as long as it takes.”
A little voice started screaming inside Chapel’s head, then. A voice of panic. It threatened to overwhelm him.
He fought it back.
“Let’s try to get back on course, all right?” Kalin asked. “Tell me your name.”
“You haven’t figured that out, yet? In your investigation?”
Kalin favored him with a cold smile. “I know that a man named Jack Carlson is wanted in Romania for destruction of property and discharging a firearm in public. I know that a man named Jeff Chambers is wanted for questioning in Uzbekistan. Since both of those men fit your description, and both were seen in the company of the terrorist Asimova, I think we can safely assume neither of those men really exist. I would like your real name. The one you use in America.”
Chapel turned away from Kalin. He started pacing back and forth, trying to get his blood moving so he could think more clearly. He hadn’t told Kalin he was an American. It wasn’t exactly hard to figure that one out, but if Kalin knew that much, then he must have already figured out that Chapel was a spy, that—
“Tell me your name. That’s all. Then I’ll let you sleep.”
“My name,” Chapel said. Oh, God. If Kalin knew so much already, what would it hurt? And to sleep — even if it was just a nap, just a catnap, a little sleep—
“Yes,” Kalin said. He held his pen over his notebook.
“My name is Napoleon Bonaparte. Put that in your psych profile.”