“We can talk about my work with the Greek Government.”
Miroshnikov looked up from the file folder.” I want nothing more than the truth here, Mr. McAllister. Not so terribly much to ask, you know. I have all of the facts, or at least most of them. I’ll admit this much to you; in all honesty we think that your work has been absolutely tops. Just first class. It is, in fact, the very reason you are here now. We don’t arrest second-rate spies.”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Oh, but you are, Mr. McAllister. Of that there can be no doubt. But let’s go back to your record. I show you in West Berlin from June of 1978 until June of 1980. In Czechoslovakia from July of 1980 until June of 1982. Poland from July of 1982 to December 1984. Afghanistan for nine months until August 1985, and then here to Moscow in September of that same year.” Miroshnikov looked up again.” Including your year at the Farm and on the various foreign desks at Langley, a quite remarkable fourteen-year association with CIA.”
“With the State Department.”
“With the Central Intelligence Agency.” Again Miroshnikov consulted his file and read off a number.” Your agency identification number, is it not?”
It was.” I’ve never heard that number before.”
“There is no use belaboring that point for the moment. Let’s go back to Athens, and the Scorpius network. Specifically to Thomas Murdock, an elusive man by all accounts. Last we heard of him he was running an airline out of Panama. The drug connection. But in this we are not one hundred percent certain. Can you tell me about him? A very large man, isn’t he?”
Murdock had been one of the best, though McAllister had no fond memories about him. He was a large man, six-feet-six at two hundred fifty pounds. He smoked Cuban cigars, drank black rum, and had been really out of place with Scorpius. In those days it was still possible to operate light planes or helicopters across the border well under Bulgarian radar. His job was as network resupply and drop officer, as well as a safety valve should they need to get their people out in a big hurry. He had been a man with absolutely no fear.
“Thank you,” Miroshnikov said respectfully.” He wrote something in the files. “Go on.” McAllister looked at the Russian. Had he spoken out loud? He rubbed his eyes. His stomach was rumbling, his gut tight, and there was a heavy, disconcerting feeling in his chest. He searched the edges of his awareness, mentally exploring his mind and body. It could be drugs, he thought, though he felt nothing, no tingling around the edges as he had been taught might be the case. Miroshnikov, he decided, was playing with him. Testing him.
“Go on with what?” he asked at length.
“With what you were saying about Murdock, naturally. We were finally getting somewhere. You knew him, and you admitted it, though you did not like him. No personal friendships there, such as with Lapides. But can you tell me what he is doing these days? Just a station name. Or even a simple confirmation of my information that he is in Panama. Just anything, Mr. McAllister.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you do, my dear fellow, you do.” Miroshnikov was beaming earnestly.” We’re making progress and I feel very good about it.” He closed the file folder. “And so should you. We have finally broken down the first barrier which is always the most difficult.” He stood up. “Really quite excellent,” he said.
McAllister looked up at him, his head suddenly very heavy, his eyes burning. What in God’s name had he said? Had he actually given voice to his thoughts?
“I will now give you a piece of information. A bit of stimuli for you. Today is Wednesday, Mr. McAllister, and do you know what that means?”
“No.”
“You have been with us for one week and a day,” Miroshnikov shook his head in amazement.” A record, I think. We usually come to this first stage much sooner. Sometimes within hours, certainly never in my memory as long as a week.” *
In the second place McAllister was denied proper food. His meals, when they came, consisted of little more than tepid water, a very thin Del or sometimes a potato soup and occasionally a slice of dark, stale bread. It was enough nourishment to keep him alive, barely, and of course his food was laced with chemicals which at times caused him severe stomach cramps, at other times nausea so that he would vomit what he had just eaten, and at still other times, diarrhea. There was no toilet, or even bucket in his tiny cell. Water constantly ran over the concrete floor, draining through a hole in the corner. He was forced to take care of his bodily functions while leaning against the cold wall, sometimes remaining in that position for an hour, the thin, watery stool running down his legs. He would then cross to the opposite side of the cell where he would wash himself as best he could.
Once, after one of these sessions, when he was hauled out of his cell and made to strip and stand at attention in the corridor, his legs would no longer support him, and he had collapsed on the floor. They had allowed him to lay there, resting for a few minutes, until one of the guards came back with a big Turkish bath towel which he soaked in a bucket of ice water. For the next twenty minutes he proceeded to beat McAllister on the back and legs, and even the bottoms of his feet with the towel, the pain exquisite without the danger of inflicting serious injury.
His interrogation sessions seemed to come more often then, and with greater intensity, as if Miroshnikov sensed that time was finally running out for him. During these sessions he often thanked McAllister for various bits of information, until McAllister began to seriously doubt his own sanity. Was he speaking when he believed he was merely thinking? Or was it simply another of Miroshnikov’s techniques? Through it all, McAllister began to have a respect for the Russian that at times bordered frighteningly on friendship and even gratitude. His only stimuli became the interrogation sessions and the occasional beating, so that he came to look forward to his time with Miroshnikov.
“We have come a long ways together, you and I, Mac,” Miroshnikov said.” Although it has taken an inordinate amount of time.”
“How long have I been here?” McAllister asked, shocked at how weak and far away his voice seemed in his ears.
“Twenty-seven days,” Miroshnikov said proudly.” And now the first phase of our work together has finally been completed.” He took a cigarette out of his tunic pocket, lit it, and held it out across the steel table.
Without thinking, McAllister took it and brought it to his lips, inhaling the smoke deeply into his lungs. His stomach turned over and he threw up down the front of his thin prison coveralls, his head spinning so badly that he nearly fell off his chair.
Miroshnikov was smiling again.” Very good. It is time now for us to begin the second phase for which it will be best if your system is completely purged. It will be easier for us, and certainly far easier for you. In some extreme cases our subjects have even choked to death on their own vomit. We wouldn’t want that to happen to you. Not now, not after we have come so far together.”
“What are you talking about?” McAllister asked after a long time.
It seemed nearly impossible for him to focus on anything but Miroshnikov’s face. When he tried to look elsewhere across the distance of the suddenly large room, nausea rose up again, bile bitter at the back of his throat.
“We have completed the first level. You have been cooperative, but there is nothing else, at this stage, you will be able to tell me. Your very fine conditioning precludes that. It is time, then, as I was saying, to probe deeper, much deeper, and for that another method is indicated.”
“I won’t be able to take much more of this,” McAllister heard himself saying.
“Oh, but I think you can and will. You are a very strong man, Mr. McAllister, and for this I greatly admire you.”