Quiller Salamander

by Adam Hall

  The man who teaches interrogation techniques at Norfolk is a Chinese, Yang Taifang. The Chief of Signals had him pulled out of a prison in the Province of Fukien when no one was looking, because the first two or three years of his thirteen-year sentence had been spent under intensive interrogation, so he knows which end the flint goes in. 'Must remember,' he says, 'not much good talking to subject when fully conscious. Must first disorientate, and this easy. Save excellent amount of time this way.' He can't speak too clearly because of what they did to his face: some of the motor nerves are gone; but mentally he's still very bright and his memory is sharp. 'First, disorientate,' he says, using his own verbal spelling. 'Then humiliate, especially if subject proud man, like soldier.'

  When the captain could stand up I pushed him across the room and turned him round to face me. 'Do you remember,' I asked him, 'what happens when you make me tell you twice to do something?'

  He was trying to watch me but his eyes couldn't quite focus.

  'Yes.'

  Breakthrough.

  'Kneel.'

  I don't think he went down onto his knees with any conscious intent; it was just that he was aching a lot and felt like letting his body collapse.

  'That's good,' I said, and ripped the linen name tag off his battledress and gave it to him. 'Eat that.'

  I waited, listening to the cricket singing.

  'Is that your name?' I asked him.

  'Yes.'

  'I want you to eat it, and if I have to ask you a second time you know what's going to happen.'

  His eyes still couldn't focus very well: he'd hit his head when we went through the aikido roll, and it had affected the occipital area. He looked at the name tab, then at me.

  'Eat?'

  'Yes.'

  He put it into his mouth.

  'Just chew it a bit, then swallow. Don't choke.'

  Faint light swept the open doorway as something went past on the road. The heat of the day had been trapped in here, and sweat had started running on the man in front of me, this now temporary man, the captain.

  Then he spat the name tab into my face and I drove one finger into the trigeminal nerve between the neck and the point of the jawbone and he screamed because pain in that area is instant and agonizing.

  I wiped my face and picked up the name tab and held it out for him. 'Take it,' I said.

  Tears streamed on his face, and for the first time I had to think of the girl with one leg, who was sore under her arms because she still wasn't used to her new crutches.

  'I don't want to tell you what to do,' I said, 'more than once.'

  Two seconds, three seconds, four, five, then he put the name tab into his mouth. He wasn't watching me anymore, was looking down.

  'Don't waste my time,' I told him, two seconds, three, then he swallowed.

  'Was that your name?'

  'Yes.'

  'What did you do with your name?'

  He looked up at me now, head a little on one side.

  'What?' he asked me.

  'Can you hear me all right?'

  It took time. 'This side.'

  'All right. Keep your head turned like that.' Perhaps he'd burst an eardrum somewhere along the line, and I didn't want to make any punitive strikes if he hadn't heard the command; it wouldn't get us anywhere.

  'I'm going to ask you again,' I said, 'because you might not have heard me the first time. What did you do with your name?'

  'Swallow it.'

  The left hemisphere a little dulled, I'd have to be careful: I didn't want to impair his memory, because that was what I was here to listen to when the time came. The time wasn't now: he wasn't ready yet, would clam up, whatever I did to him, finito.

  I looked at my watch. We'd been working for thirty-four minutes. Outside the building, dark was down: I could see it through the doorway. The flashlight was still bright but I didn't know how long the battery would last: we'd only just started, and it would be another two hours, perhaps three, before I could ask the first question, and even then I would have to do it with extreme care.

  'You swallowed your name?'

  'Bat.'

  'In French. Stick to French. You swallowed your name?'

  'Yes.'

  'You ate it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who are you, then? Give me your rank and name.'

  'I am Captain Saloth.'

  The same as Pol Pot's real name: perhaps this man had adopted it, was full of borrowed pride.

  'No,' I said, 'you're nothing now. You have eaten your rank and your name, so now you are nothing. What are you?'

  'I am Captain –'

  'You're not listening. When I tell you something, it's always right. If you contradict me, you know what will happen to you. Now, what are you?'

  'I am Captain –'

  Screamed again because I worked on the same nerve.

  I waited, listening to the cricket's song. The nothing was silent now, its eyes shut and the tears dripping from its face, its knees folding at last as I knew they would.

  'Don't do that. Kneel upright. Knees straight. Can you hear me?'

  The nothing said nothing. I had to think of the former Captain Saloth in that way now to create the reality. What was real in my mind must be made real in his.

  'Can you hear me?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then straighten your knees.' Waited. 'Good. Now, I've told you what you are, remember? You are nothing. Listen carefully to the question. What are you?'

  The song of the cricket had stopped.

  The nothing was swaying slightly from side to side. The agony of the last strike would still be burning through the nerves; it would last for some time, perhaps for days, would be tender for weeks, months. I know this: it was a month before I could even shave there after I came out of the underground cell in Zagreb.

  'Are you going to make me ask you the same question twice?'

  It flinched. 'No.'

  'Do you remember the question?'

  Its face looked at me, the eyes flickering with pain, the head held slightly to one side, the tears drying on the blotchy skin. I thought of the other girl, the one in the photograph on the wall of the mine-clearing office, smiling, radiant, used to her crutches by now, no problem, held in a bear hug by the two grinning men.

  It said something in Khmer.

  'French. Always speak French.'

  'What question?'

  'Listen,' I said, 'you're not paying enough attention. I'm going to tell you what you are, and then you're going to answer my question. Now listen carefully. This is what you are: you are nothing.' I waited, watching it to see if it understood. I thought it did: there was still intelligence in the eyes and the swaying had stopped. 'So here comes the question. What are you?'

  It was silent. It didn't move. It looked like the remains of a wood carving half destroyed by time, the head angled on the neck, the eyes splintered, the mouth half open and askew. But I could hear it breathing, and in the sound of its breathing there was a faint musical note, a kind of mewing that loudened suddenly into speech.

  'Nothing.'

  I look at my watch, the last chance I shall get because the battery of the flashlight is running low.

  The time is 21:39.

  We have been here for two and a half hours, something like that.

  It seems longer, much longer.

  I watch its face as the light grows dim. It's still alive, and still conscious. There wasn't very much more to do since it recognized itself as nothing: that was the breakthrough. But we needed more time between the questions and the answers, because sometimes it remembered its pride and did silly things, and there is now a gash on my face and I can feel the blood caked there, itching as it dries, a trophy won by inattention, but then I'm tired too, and I feel some of its pain. All men are brothers, however divided by their lunatic ideologies.

  The cricket is singing again, and in the rectangle of the doorway there is moonlight.

  'Who are you?'

  'N
obody. Nothing.'

  'You are my prisoner. What are you?'

  'I am your prisoner.'

  'Your life is in my hands. Do you want to live?'

  'My life is –'

  'Listen to the question. Do you want to live?'

  'Pain. Want end of pain.'

  The light is very dim now, just a glow.

  It is still kneeling, immediately in front of me. I can smell its sweat. It reeks. It can smell mine. I reek. I can smell its blood. It can smell mine. All men are pigs.

  The light goes out.

  'Your pain will end, if you're very careful.'

  I think it is swaying, in the pale light from the doorway, from the moon. I think I am swaying too. It's getting late. I didn't sleep last night. I slept for a few hours today but this has been tiring for the psyche, which is exhausted by the endless need to withhold compassion even from this thing, this child-crippler, this hero of the holocaust to come.

  'What did I tell you?'

  'My pain end, if I care, take care.'

  I think there's just enough consciousness, just enough memory, to have made it worthwhile, worth coming here, worth talking with my brother pig.

  'How will you take care?'

  'Take care, yes.'

  'You will take care by answering my questions truthfully. I shall know if you are lying.'

  Blind suddenly, my eyes closing. I open them again. I must take care too. 'Shall I know if you lie to me?'

  'Lie.'

  'Listen to the question. Shall I know if you lie to me?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then we'll begin. But the pain will only end if you take care not to lie. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

  'Yes.'

  Harken ye then to the cricket's song.

  'How long will General Kheng remain at Headquarters?'

  Chapter 25

  ALTERNATIVE

  I turned into the side street where I'd been parked before in the Mine Action van, watching the white two-storey building. I could see the jeep in the distance. Symes hadn't moved.

  He got out of his vehicle when I flicked my lights a couple of times, but walked slowly, warily, because in the moonlight he could see only a Chinese jeep with two people in it. When he was near enough to hear my voice I called out the code-name for the mission, and he quickened his step.

  'He's still in there,' he said when he recognized me. He meant General Kheng.

  'I know. He'll be there until morning. There's no need for you to stay.'

  He looked at my passenger. 'People been talking?'

  'Yes. I want you to take him over, look after him somewhere. He's a bit switched off at the moment but put him under restraint in case he wakes up to things.'

  'Roger.'

  He went back to his jeep and brought it alongside, and I helped him with the prisoner. Then I drove to the little bullet-scarred post office and used the telephone outside.

  Pringle picked up on the second ring, hadn't gone to bed: Control was in the field and the executive had made contact with the target and the mission was running hot.

  'I brought in a prisoner,' I said. 'Symes is looking after him.'

  'Is he for interrogation?'

  'No. But I need to debrief.'

  'To Control?'

  'Yes.'

  'I'll make him aware.'

  'I was hoping you'd make contact,' Flockhart said.

  He'd put a coat over his bush shirt, though the night was still warm. We were in the dugout room, in the house of Sophan Sann. Pringle was here too, looked underslept.

  I waited.

  'We have received a reply,' Flockhart went on heavily, 'from London.' He hadn't slept much either; the blanket on the settee was still smooth, and there was steam clinging to the glass of the coffee percolator.

  'When?' I asked him.

  'Nearly three hours ago. And the decision of those concerned is that there is to be no air strike against the forces of the Khmer Rouge.'

  In a moment I said, 'Did that surprise you?'

  He looked at me, his smile acid. 'No.'

  Pringle cleared his throat; he didn't easily handle tension.

  'You mind if I sit down?' I asked Flockhart.

  'What? Oh, my dear fellow, please.'

  Still his dear fellow: beware. I dropped into one of the bamboo chairs. I'd been on my feet half the bloody night with that gallant young captain in front of me, hero of the new holocaust that no one in London or Washington or anywhere else could think how to stop. Or wanted to.

  'What were your expectations?' I asked Flockhart. 'From the bureaucrats?'

  He didn't want to sit down, watched me with something shadowing his eyes, pain, I could believe. 'Extremely low,' he said. 'But you knew that, didn't you?'

  'It was such a long shot, and so late in the day.' I didn't look at him, didn't want to watch his suffering. 'At one time, I thought you were simply playing me along for some reason, not signalling London at all.'

  'Did you now.'

  I gave it a beat. 'Were you?'

  He looked at me in surprise, and then remembered. 'Of course, you don't trust me, do you? But no, I was in fact conducting a rather desperate bid for military intervention, and I did indeed hold out some slight hope of success. The prime minister was not entirely unsanguine.'

  'My condolences.'

  I wasn't being sarcastic. He'd just lost something he loved: Cambodia. Nor was I myself unaffected: Gabrielle had come immediately into my mind again when he told me the news. Whatever happened I wouldn't be leaving here without her, or without making sure she'd be safe.

  'Thank you,' Flockhart said.

  Pringle sat down and pulled the pad out of his briefcase and got a ball-point ready. 'Is it urgent?' he asked me.

  My need to debrief. 'I don't really know. It's probably academic at this stage.' I looked at Flockhart. 'For what it's worth, I've got the schedule of events planned by the Khmer Rouge.'

  He looked suddenly alert, which surprised me: he'd led me to believe that to his mind all was lost. 'Have you indeed?'

  I'd forgotten that neither he nor Pringle had known I'd mounted any kind of operation during the night. My last signal had been to the effect that I was simply keeping surveillance on General Kheng.

  'There's a new deadline,' I told them. 'It's for sundown tomorrow, and this is the schedule: General Kheng is to fly at first light to the base camp in the jungle, where he'll complete preparations for the missile attack on the capital at six this evening. Armoured troop transports and six medium tanks will start rolling soon afterwards, at nightfall, heading for the city. They should arrive before midnight. At the same time, the troops based here in the foothills will also be moved into the capital to assist in taking over the government, seizing King Sihanouk and rounding up the civilian population for immediate transport to labour camps.'

  Pringle was making notes, and I had the chilling sense that reason had slipped away, that since there was to be no air strike we were like actors still walking the stage with the play over and the curtain down and the audience long gone home.

  'There's to be no ultimatum?'

  'No ultimatum.'

  Control still wouldn't sit down, paced steadily as I filled in the few details I'd managed to get from my source.

  'How certain are you,' Flockhart asked me at last, 'that these facts are correct?'

  'My informant was beyond knowing how to lie.'

  End pain, he'd kept saying when I pushed him for more answers, more facts, pushed him to the brink, no more pain, but it had been his own bloody fault, for Christ's sake, I'd told him that.

  'Is he still alive?' This from Pringle.

  'Technically. Symes is looking after him.'

  Flockhart had been giving me his whole attention up to this point, but now he looked away. I don't think it was anything to do with the fate of my 'informant' - Control was familiar enough with interrogation techniques and would have been quite happy to hear I'd used thumb screws on any member of the Khmer Ro
uge.

  'You did rather well,' he told me at last.

  I didn't say anything.

  I wanted sleep now, to get the face of that bloody thing out of my mind, the nothing thing, you gotta do whatcha gotta do, right, but you also gotta live with it until it's had time to silt over like the rest of the rotten by-products of this bloody trade.

  Pringle asked me some things he needed to know, would have to take action on: where could the van be picked up and had I got the ignition key, had I told Symes to get medical attention for my informant and had there been significant loss of blood, things like that. Then Control put some questions, did I know the troop strengths of the Khmer Rouge base and the camp in the foothills near Pouthisat, how many missiles were to be fired on the capital, would General Kheng lead the ground assault or fly ahead of his forces to confront Sihanouk and demand his surrender?

  I didn't have information on things like that, or I would have told him already, debriefing is debriefing, you don't leave anything out, he should know that, knew that. He still wasn't looking at me, just listening with his head half-turned as he kept up his bloody pacing, getting on my nerves.

  Then he stopped, as if he'd picked it up, and stood with his back to the plaster wall, moving his shoulder blades against it rhythmically, unconsciously, like a bear scratching itself.

  Pringle looked up to ask him something but didn't, changed his mind, saw something in Flockhart's eyes, perhaps, I don't know, all I wanted was sleep, get in a few hours so that tomorrow I'd be fit for whatever had to be done, a long tussle with Gabrielle, for one thing - she'd want to hold out here, shoot as many KRs as she could before the capital went up in flames and the survivors were driven into the killing grounds, she herself among them if I didn't make absolutely sure she listened to reason, run like hell and fight again another day, so forth, make sure she was on the last flight out of Phnom Penh before the whole thing blew.

  My eyes closing, opened them again, wondered how much time had gone by, Pringle still sitting there with the pad in front of him, Flockhart still scratching himself on the wall, probably not that exactly, more like thinking things out, trying to get his mind to accept that there was nothing else he could do, anyone could do, or trying, like a well-seasoned control in a trade where we accept nothing we don't like until we're actually dead, to find a way out, dream up a last-ditch eleventh-hour nil desperandum sauve-qui peut circus act that in the final analysis would count as a success of sorts because it would at least leave the battlefield strewn with the corpses of the well-intentioned, never say die and all that, go down with banners flying, I think - I've thought more than once, you know - that your Mr. Flockhart is that kind of clown, a closet romantic beneath the trappings of the steely espion.