"He's learning," said Simmons. "Can you bring him around?"
Zelko said: "I think he needs a doctor."
"We'll see," said Simmons. "Put him out."
Zeiko carried Charlie to the feed store, then came back to Craig.
"This one won't need a doctor," he said.
He took piano wire from his pockets, put Craig's hands behind his back, twisted the wire round them. If it is done properly, there is no way in the world to get free from piano wire. Zelko did it properly. Then he began to slap Craig into consciousness.
Craig came round to a rhythmic repetition of pain. When his eyes opened, the slapping stopped, and he looked into Simmons's eyes, which were bright with expectation. Craig knew at once that he was going to be hurt.
"I didn't stay two days after all," he said. "You should have gone while you had the chance. What made you think I would?"
"Jane," said Craig.
"Jane knows so little about me," Simmons said. "Or about you, for that matter. She doesn't even know you're going to die when we've finished.
Your car will crash and burst into flames. No doubt the Foreign Office will miss you—even after I tell them you've had too much to drink. You do belong to the F.O., don't you?" "Yes," said Craig.
"That's what they told me, when I finally got through. They lied of course." He paused. "They've all gone home now except Charlie, and we think you've given him concussion." Craig stayed silent. "It might be a good idea to yell," Simmons said. "It'll help you to get the pitch of the roof. You'll be doing a lot of yelling soon . . . No? But shouldn't you be indignant, old man? F.O. type attacked and tied up? Surely you should ask what it's all about?"
"What's it all about?" asked Craig.
Simmons stepped back and nodded, and Zelko began the beating.
He was thorough, and carefully trained, and the pain from the very beginning was intense, but it was apparent to Craig, before pain engulfed him, that he neither liked nor loathed what he was doing. It was just a job. To Simmons, it was a pleasure he did nothing to hide. That, and a sweet revenge. Until he fainted for the first time there was no attempt to ask him questions, merely the methodical application of pain to a body that had been schooled to resist pain as well as a human body can. Craig gasped at the blows that attacked his kidneys, his guts, over and over, gasped, then moaned, then cried out, but there was a part of his mind that hung on, so that when the questions came, and the blows that interspersed the questions, he still told the same story. He was from the
Foreign Office, he knew nothing about the men who killed Soong, he knew only that the People's Republic of China had protested.
Then the questions were about Simmons's daughter and what she had said to him about Simmons, and Craig swore, over and over, that she adored Simmons, because if he had denied that fact even for a moment he knew that Simmons would kill him, and Craig wasn't yet ready to die. Then more blows, and questions about Tempest, and what they had done together. Something about a camera. Craig remembered there had been a camera, but the part of his mind still immune to them said No, and he denied it. Simmons asked him again about his daughter, and the things he had done to Tempest—Had he done them to Jane? And Craig said No, No, No, and his voice was a scream as Zelko worked on the finger that had been broken once before till he fainted again.
When he came round he believed that he had won. Zelko was bathing his face, and making no attempt to hit him. Simmons had gone. Then Craig came further back into reality and realized that he was wired at chest and thighs to a heavy wooden chair, and that he was naked. When Simmons came back he carried a black metal box of a kind that Craig had been told about, a box for which the only antidote was a potassium cyanide pill. He knew then that what he had survived was only a foretaste. Knew, with absolute certainty, that he would tell them everything they needed to know.
"You know about this?" said Simmons, and Craig nodded. "The Germans invented it. They used it on Resistance people—the ones who swore they'd die before they'd give anything away. This always broke them. It's going to break you."
The box had two terminals and wire from them that ended in heavy clips. Craig winced as they snapped onto his flesh, then Simmons moved a pointer across a dial and there was nothing in the world but pain. Nothing at all. The sounds that came from his mouth were great, inhuman bellows, his body arched and kicked until the wire cut his skin. Then the dial moved back, and the pain receded to an agony only just bearable.
"Tell me about my daughter," Simmons said. "Tell me what you did to her."
But the last sane part of his mind flickered once more, before it died, and Craig knew that if he told one thing he would tell it all.
"Went for a drive," he groaned. "Had lunch. She told me she adored you."
"That's not what she told me," said Simmons. "I want the truth." Craig was silent.
"If I go on," said Simmons, "I'll make you impotent. I mean to go on."
He moved the dial again, and again Craig screamed, on and on in the agony that was his whole world.
At last Zelko said: "You'll kill him," and Simmons moved the dial back.
"Who sent you?" he asked, but Craig could only babble his agony, and the words he made were meaningless. Zelko smacked him across the face, four smashing slaps, and Craig was silent.
"Was it a man called Loomis?" Simmons asked. "From Department K? What does Loomis know about me? What does he know?"
And Craig could only think: "I can't die. I can't die, so I'm bound to tell."
This time he screamed before the dial moved.
Hornsey looked in at the window, and vomited once. The noise from inside hid the sound of his retchings. It was necessary to go in, and Hornsey doubted that he had the nerve. He looked at the Luger in his hand. Hand and gun were shaking. He closed his mind to everything but the gun, the way he had been taught, and the shaking died. Hornsey ducked beneath the window, reached the door. He knew exactly where Simmons and Zelko stood. He thought that if he missed, they would do the same to him and the thought almost defeated him. It had to be now. He pushed the door open and Zelko's hand went at once to his coat. Hornsey shot him dead. Simmons looked at him, frozen, and Hornsey yelled across Craig's screams: "Turn it off. Turn that bloody thing off."
Simmons didn't move and Hornsey rushed him, the gun barrel flashed, and Simmons fell. Hornsey looked at the dial; the machine was off. But Craig still screamed for almost a minute. When the screams died at last, he wept.
Hornsey untwisted the wire from Craig's chest and tied up Simmons, then was sick again at what he had to handle as he took the clips away from Craig. He looked at the dead Zelko, then turned back to Craig, and spoke to him softly, gently, and Craig said "Hornsey" and began to weep.
Hornsey said, "I'm sorry, Craig. I couldn't get back sooner. I had to let Loomis know."
Craig said "Loomis?" and the relief in his voice was absolute, because now he could tell everything and still not betray.
* * *
The night bell buzzed on and on, demanding an answer, and the caretaker, tired or not, came awake completely, pulled on overalls on top of his pajamas, slid his feet into heavy-duty shoes. As he walked down the corridor he checked his Smith and Wesson; felt to make sure the knife was in place in the leg of his trousers. The spy-hole showed him an empty porch, but he opened the door warily, even so. There was nothing—the whole street was empty—nothing but an empty car at the curbside, a bright splash of scarlet that looked purple in the lamplight. The caretaker moved over to the car, and his steps were still wary. The passenger's seat was covered by a rug. The caretaker took the rug in his left hand, the Smith and Wesson rock-steady in his right. He pulled the rug away and jumped to one side, then looked down.