I have never carried a gun in peace-time. It is an impediment, physically and psychologically. Some operators clutter themselves up with guns, code-books, flashlights and death-pills. I travel light. A gun is as clumsy as a woman's handbag. It is utterly useless in defence at a distance because you haven't time to draw even if you see the adverse party with his rifle levelled, which you won't. In Solly Rothstein's case I wasn't the target, and I was expecting the shot, and saw the rifle at the window; but I couldn't have picked off the sniper with a revolver at that range except by luck. Psychologically you have the advantage, unarmed, providing the adverse party knows that you are. (These people knew. They would have frisked me on the way here.) Knowing you have no gun they're not afraid of you, and fear is a natural spur to alertness: unarmed, you disarm them. Any demand at gun-point always carries the risk of failure because they mostly demand that you do something useful to them and you can't do much when you're dead. A gun is psychologically a penis-substitute and a symbol of power: the age-range of toy-shop clientele begins at about six or seven, rises sharply just before puberty and declines soon after the discovery of the phallus and its promise of power. From then on, guns are for kids and for the effete freaks and misfits who must seek psycho-orgasmic relief by shooting pheasants.
There are a few special situations when a gun is useful. This wasn't one of them. A gun would have been useless to me now.
Oktober spoke.
"Take off your coat."
The anaesthetist was filling the syringe. The fluid was colourless. There looked to be about two ounces.
Stand up. Breathe deep. Slip the coat off. Squeeze the toes, relax them. Remember: The advantage is mine. And now the final requisite: rage. The blood needed a shock-dose of adrenalin to anoint sudden intense physical action.
They're after my guts, this arrogant pack of Hitlerite Belsen bastards! A noble death-smeared underfoot by a clique of schizo shits!
The very action of taking off a jacket sets it up as a weapon because for an instant it is held both-handed like a matador's cape. I let Oktober have it across the face in a blinding shroud and kneed for his groin once and again and found the rim of the little japan-lacquered table and sent it pitching head-high to a man at the guard on the left, hearing the gun clatter down as the other guard swung a razor-chop left-handed that missed the neck and burned a shoulder-blade before I could get a sight of his leg and work on it. The placing was perfect because momentum was taking the weight of my body forward hard and at a low angle so that as my shoulder hit his knee my left hand hooked him behind the ankle so that the foot couldn't shift and he screamed as the knee-joint broke.
Someone fired but fired to miss and I knew it and kept up the pressure, thrown off balance now by the collapsing of the guard's leg but getting some of it back with one hand hitting the thick carpet and pivoting me half-round to face the line of run: the doors. The situation seemed comfortable so far: Oktober had staggered back because of the coat but my knee had found his groin second time and I'd heard the grunt in his throat and his face would be white by now. One guard out of action with a smashed leg. The anaesthetist would be psychologically worried by the wrecking of his equipment and didn't look unarmed-combat-trained anyway. The psychoanalyst wouldn't weigh in, wasn't his field.
I began the run. A foot beside me the pile was raised by the spit of a wide slug-shooting to miss again because at this range they could have split the spine if they'd wanted to. A word of command from Oktober. My right foot in trouble as fingers locked round the ankle and I hit ground half-way to the doors, jacknifing and swinging a buncher at the hands: no go. The table came and I twisted and caught it against the shoulder as the hands bettered their purchase and I had to engage with the guard, using my other foot against his neck and pressing back and back as he yielded, one hand coming away but the other holding on. Switch tactics: let the foot give way and bring his head closer with a jerk. No go again – he'd rolled and put the grip on and I had to kick for the side of the head, getting it once but not hard enough.
A shadow stood over me and an arm locked round my neck and that was it. A final effort and then both legs and the neck were trapped. I waited for the pressure. It didn't come. Oktober was giving commands and I heard the doors shutting: the crash of the table against my shoulder had muffled the sound of their opening.
In a few seconds the arm was unlocked from my neck and my legs were released and Oktober said:
"You may get up."
I was smart about it for decency's sake, and tucked my shirt in, making it look like the end of a dormitory rag. Breathing not too bad, didn't wheeze. Relax.
The little japan-lacquered table lay in four pieces and the anaesthetist was still gathering up his gear. One guard stood behind me: I could feel him there. Six men had come into the room and stood in a ring, each with a gun out. The other original guard was still on the carpet with his leg at a dreadful angle from the thigh and a puddle of vomit beside his blenched face. The psychoanalyst was standing outside the ring of men, looking straight at my face with the intensity of a painter who must commit what he sees to his canvas. Oktober stood stiffly, visibly accommodating his pain and refusing his groin the comfort of his hands. The colour was seeping back into his face but the sweat had gathered and dripped from his chin.
The anaesthetist had charged a smaller syringe and now stooped over the prone guard, lancing a vein in his leg, straightening up. No one spoke. I could hear Oktober's breathing; the pain was audible in it. My right arm was going numb from the blow of the table and the shoulder-blade throbbed. I'd got off lightly; they could have done much worse than this. The guards were well-trained: the orders must have been: He is not to be damaged unless absolutely necessary.
The anaesthetist nodded to Oktober, who said: " Two of you. Take him to Doktor Lowe. Then come back."
The guard was unconscious. They carried him with his legs together. The doors opened and closed. The anaesthetist was checking the damage to his kit. Oktober asked him what the situation was and he said: " We can proceed when you are ready, Herr Oktober."
The five remaining guards were signalled to close in and Oktober said to me: "Sit in the chair." There was no expression on the oblong face, no hate in the eyes. He would not wipe the sweat from his chin. It wasn't there. The pain wasn't there. I had done nothing to him.
I sat down again in the brocade chair and began thinking out the next move. Oktober said:
"Zander. Take aim at the left foot. Gebhardt, the right foot. Schell, the left hand. Braun, the right hand. Krosigk, aim at the genitals." I watched the little barrels line up. All catches were set at fire. "At the slightest movement, shoot. Do not wait for my order." He spoke to the anaesthetist. "Approach the patient from behind and work without covering any line of fire." To me he said: "Be careful not to move your hands or feet by the smallest degree, especially when the needle enters."
The smell of ether and soap came into the air as the man passed behind me and rolled up the sleeve of my shirt and cleansed the skin. I looked around me without moving my head. The psychoanalyst was still studying me, assessing his material. The five guards had their eyes fixed on the five targets; their fingers were curled on the triggers. I stopped thinking out the next move. There wasn't one.
"Proceed."
The needle went in.
12: NARCOSIS