"Sir."
Norris pushed the folder to him and leaned back, closing his eyes. Quidley read it quickly.
"My God."
"That's right, Major. Somehow, there's been a leak. From Norfolk. Fortunately, the CBI says they found it out from a Railroad informant. So the Yankees don't know. Yet."
"From here," he repeated.
"Exactly. That doesn't make me look very good. But if you can find the source, bring it to me, we both might come out of this with our current rank." Norris's eyes narrowed, and his voice, always high, went up almost to falsetto. "Now, you're Port Security, Quidley, and that includes counterintelligence functions on my staff. I want a report on what we're doing on this by five today so I can get it out to Richmond. No excuses. No unexplained absences."
"No, sir."
"Get going."
He saluted, pivoted, and left.
Outside Norris's door he stood still and breathed deeply until he stopped trembling. His first thought was to delegate the job, but he knew he couldn't. He'd have to give it his personal attention. He marched back to his office, seething.
"Jeannie. Get me Commander Channing. Then Chief Mays." He spent several minutes with each on the phone, then sat staring at his empty teacup. From Norfolk… how could anything that had been as carefully guarded as Shiloh get out? He had no ideas and no leads. He had to at least look busy, though. Till he felt better. Maybe he'd think of something then.
"Jeannie, I'll be down at the tank, talking with a curfew-breaker they brought in last night."
"Yes, Major."
The Tank was deep in one of Port Control's subbasements. Thirty separate cells, three well-equipped interrogation rooms. The thick concrete walls and ceilings meant it doubled as a bombproof shelter. He asked the soldier in charge, a colored sergeant, to bring the prisoner to IR *2 and to stand by.
The curfew flier was unexpectedly big, big and scarred-up. He was in handcuffs but looked neither cowed nor defiant. Quidley waited for him to be seated, then nodded. "Do you smoke?"
"No, sir." A deep voice, a little hoarse. Quidley noted bruises on the face, recent ones, and the bulge of a dressing under one trouser leg.
"I understand you're injured."
"Yeah. The man on night duty dress it for me."
"Are you comfortable? Would you like coffee? Breakfast?" The standard start for any interrogation was friendly. If that failed, one moved on to other techniques.
"No, sir."
Strange. He was used to CE's who fawned. Most did it badly — too obviously deferential, almost to burlesque — but there it was. A few of the really bad ones were defiant. But this big man seemed different. He had an odd dignity about him. Without… fear. That was it. He suddenly saw that this man did not fear him.
That could not be allowed.
"What's your name?"
"Johnny Turner, sir."
"Where do you work? Do you have a pass?"
"Yes, right here. I'm longshorin' foreman down at the docks."
"Sir," added Quidley sharply.
"Sir."
"Citizen patrol found you climbing the fence around a warehouse area on the waterfront a little after midnight. Long after curfew. What were you doing there?"
The man looked at the floor and smiled slightly.
"How were you hurt?"
Turner didn't answer. The sergeant stepped forward, but Quidley waved him back. There was still a chance of talking it out. "I think you mistake your position, Turner. You're in the custody of the Confederate Army. You were caught breaking the law. We want answers, and we'll get them. Now. We'll try again. What were you doing there?"
After a moment he shook his head and looked at the sergeant. "All right, he won't be reasonable. We'll need a medic. Get Sanchez. He's good at this." He looked back at Turner. "You won't enjoy this, my man. Tell me now. What were you doing out on the docks at night?"
"Sir — I tell you. I was in a fight."
"Go on."
"That's all. Me and this other nigger had a knife fight. That's how I got cut."
"What were you fighting about?"
"Woman."
"But why in the dock area? Why couldn't you fight where — wherever you live? Or at some bar, the way you people usually do?"
Turner was silent again. Quidley saw that he was lying. He sighed. The sergeant came back with Sanchez. The Cuban set a case on the floor and began to lay out drugs and equipment. "Hello, Major. What you want to start him with?"
"What do you recommend?"
Sanchez looked Turner over. "Jeez, he's big. Hey, man, you don't want to talk to Major Quidley? You ought to. He really won't, huh? Well, case like this, we try a hypnotic first. Generally easiest."
"Do it," said Quidley, and turned away as the Cuban began to prepare the injection.
Turner pulled at the handcuffs behind his back. They dug into his wrists but they didn't give. He looked at the door. He'd never make it out… not with three men, two of them armed, to stop him. He watched the medic fill the needle.
He could smell his own fear. Not for me, he thought. But there's no way I can let myself talk about that Shiloh. The Road can do the job without me. Finnick's mean enough to kill. Leo'll lead them. All I got to do is not… he winced as Sanchez jammed the needle roughly into his side.
"We may want the polygraph," the white officer said.
"Right, sir. I'll connect it now."
He felt a dulling fog begin to creep into his mind. He could maybe rush them — maybe that soldier would shoot me if I got this Quidley — but it seemed to matter less, somehow —
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes, sir." Damn; he hadn't meant to answer at all… he'd better just shut up… but he was getting confused. Dizzy.
"Steady him up, sir. They get woozy."
"Would he be better on the cot?"
"I think so, yes."
"Move him, then. Sergeant, lend him a hand."
He felt himself being lifted — it took both the sergeant and Sanchez to drag him, and left them breathing hard — and laid on a bare cot along the wall of the interrogation room. He felt sleepy. So terribly sleepy that his eyelids fluttered and closed.
"Is he out?"
He felt Sanchez open an eye, saw the two faces close over his. "No, he's just under. Go ahead, Major, ask him what you want. Wait a minute. Turner, listen to me. We're your friends. We just want to talk to you about a few things. Talk to us and then the Major will leave and pretty soon we'll let you go."
Shit you are, he thought. The Cuban's voice droned on, soft, persuasive. He wanted to believe it. He did believe it. But there was something else. Had been something else… was it Vyry?
"Go ahead, Major. He's ready."
"Turner. What were you doing at the docks?"
Blankness.
"Damn it, he's out, Sanchez!"
"Ask him again, sir."
"Turner. What were you doing at the docks at night. Answer me!"
"Uh… boss."
"What?"
"He's pretty groggy, sir, pretty deep. I think maybe his resistance is low on account of his injury."
"Turner!" He felt a blow rock his head, but there was no pain. He felt wrapped in cotton, the fluffy dirty cotton that blew about on the warehouse floors when bales burst.
"Turner, answer me!"
"Uh… Leo," he heard himself say. Shit, hadn't meant to say that.
"What?"
"Lee, I think he said, sir."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means he's starting to talk. Keep on with it, Major. Takes a strong stomach sometimes."
I'm going to tell them, Turner thought deep in his mind. Can't help it. They going to get it out. If I could move… can't get up….
"Turner. Who is this 'Lee'?"
Deep down, in the tiny isolated self that had almost lost touch, he had a thought. An idea. Before he lost control he had to act. With all his strength. Quickly, before he could think about it.