But was it possible . . . was it at all possible that Lana had betrayed him?
She would do anything to protect her father. If pressure had been placed upon her—great, unendurable pressure—was it so far-fetched to imagine that she might have cracked, gone along with the NKVD?
And then he reminded himself: Why is it so inconceivable that Lana might have deceived you . . . when you yourself have been deceiving her?
He didn’t know what to think. He was so deeply exhausted that he could no longer think clearly.
There was a loud metal clanking, and the lock on his cell was unbolted. Metcalfe sat up and braced himself for the unknown. Three uniformed guards entered, two of them pointing their weapons. “Stand,” the lead guard said.
Metcalfe stood, watching the three carefully. Not only was he outnumbered, but even if he managed to wrest the gun away from one of them, even if he put the gun to the head of one of them, seized a hostage, he knew he would never get out of here. He would have to cooperate until an opportunity arose.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Hands behind your back,” the same guard shouted.
He was marched through a dark hall to an iron door with a small grate in the center, which turned out to be a small, primitive elevator. His face was pushed against the elevator wall. The door clanged shut, and the elevator rose.
It opened on a long corridor with a long Oriental runner on a parquet floor and light-green-painted walls. The only light came from white glass globes that hung down from the ceiling.
“Look straight ahead only,” the lead guard commanded. “Hands behind your back. Do not look to the side.”
Metcalfe walked, a guard on either side of him and one behind. Out of the corner of his eye he saw they were passing a long series of offices, some of them with doors open, men and women working inside. Every twenty or so paces stood another uniformed guard.
He heard the repeated tap of metal against metal, then saw that one of the stationary guards was tapping his key against his belt buckle. A signal of some sort.
Suddenly he was pushed toward the wall and into a niche the size of a telephone booth. Someone of importance was passing by, or at least someone they did not want him to see.
At last they came to a large, dark-stained oak door. The lead guard knocked; after a few seconds it was opened by a small, pale-haired man of ghostly pallor. He was a secretary/receptionist of some kind, an aide-de-camp whose office was the antechamber to his superior’s office. His desk bore a typewriter and several telephones. Papers were signed, a copy given to the leader. Metcalfe watched in silence, unwilling to betray any emotion, any anxiety about where he was being taken. The aide-de-camp knocked on an inner door, then lifted a hatch set into it.
“Prisoner 08,” he said.
“Come,” a voice responded.
The aide opened the door, standing back as Metcalfe was escorted in by the lead guard; the others stayed behind, standing stiffly in a military position.
This was the spacious office of someone of high rank. The floor was covered with a large Oriental carpet; the furniture was dark and massive. Against one wall stood a tall combination safe. A massive desk, topped with green baize cloth, was piled high with folders and a battery of telephones. Behind it stood a slender, delicate-looking man with a high, domed forehead, a balding head, and round frameless spectacles that magnified his eyes grotesquely. He wore a crisply pressed gray uniform. Without moving from behind his desk he extended a spidery hand, making a quick gesture. The guard turned on his heel and departed from the room, leaving Metcalfe standing there alone.
The bespectacled man bent over his desk, sorting through papers for several minutes as if Metcalfe were not there. He pulled out a thick folder, then looked up at Metcalfe, saying nothing.
Metcalfe recognized the time-honored interrogation technique: silence tended to make the inexperienced subject uncomfortable, anxious. But Metcalfe was not inexperienced. He was determined to remain silent as long as his interrogator refused to talk.
After a good five minutes, the bespectacled man smiled and said, in perfect British-accented English, “Would you prefer to speak in English?” He then switched to Russian: “Or in Russian? I understand you speak our language fluently.”
Metcalfe blinked. English might give him an advantage, he thought. Perhaps it would deprive the NKVD man of the ease of nuance, a subtlety of expression that only a native speaker possesses. He replied in English, “It’s of no consequence to me. As long as we can speak freely and openly. Do you have that authority, Comrade . . . ? I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t, as you Americans say, throw it. You may call me Rubashov. And ‘Mister,’ not ‘Comrade’—we are not comrades, after all, Mr. Metcalfe. Sit, please.”
Metcalfe sat on one of two large green leather couches positioned close to Rubashov’s desk. Rubashov, he saw, did not sit. He remained standing. Behind him hung three framed portraits, of Lenin, of Stalin, and of “Iron Felix” Dzerzhinsky, the infamous founder of the Cheka. Rubashov’s head appeared to be flanked by the portraits, as if it were part of the gallery.
“Would you like a glass of tea, Mr. Metcalfe?”
Metcalfe shook his head.
“It really is superb tea. Our chairman has it brought in from Georgia. You should have some, Mr. Metcalfe. You need sustenance.”
“Thanks, but no.”
“I am told you haven’t eaten the food you’ve been given. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, is that what it was, food?” He recalled the tin plate of watery tripe soup that had been thrust at him, along with a stale hunk of black bread. How long ago had that been? How much time had passed since he’d been thrown into his solitary cell?
“Well, this is not exactly a spa by the Black Sea, although there’s no limit to the length of your stay, hmm?” Rubashov strutted out from behind his desk and stood facing Metcalfe, his arms folded across his chest. His tall black leather boots were polished to a mirrorlike finish. “So, you are a most skilled operative. There are not many who can evade our agents the way you did. I am most impressed.”
A quick denial was, of course, the response the interrogator wanted. But Metcalfe said nothing.
“I hope you understand the situation you’re in.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I understand that I’ve been kidnapped and imprisoned illegally by agents of the Soviet secret police. I understand that a serious miscalculation has been made that will have ramifications far beyond what you may imagine.”
Rubashov shook his head slowly, sadly. “No, Mr. Metcalfe. No miscalculation. All ‘ramifications,’ as you put it, have been considered. We are a tolerant nation, but we do not tolerate espionage conducted against us.”
“Yes,” Metcalfe said calmly. “ ‘Espionage’ seems to be the charge you like to throw around whenever someone decides a visitor is inconvenient, isn’t that the case? Someone, let’s say, in the Commissariat of Foreign Trade doesn’t like the terms of a deal that has been struck with my family’s firm, and—”
“No, sir. Please don’t waste my time with your pettifoggery.” He pointed a tendril-like index finger at the heaps of folders on his desk. “These are all cases on which I am the lead prosecuting investigator. You see, I have much work and not enough hours in the day to do it. So let us, as they say, get right down to brass tacks, Mr. Metcalfe.” He strutted to his desk, retrieved a piece of paper, and handed it to Metcalfe. The investigator reeked of pipe tobacco and sour perspiration. “Your confession, Mr. Metcalfe. Sign it, and we can be done with our work.”
Metcalfe looked at the paper and saw that it was blank. He looked up with a sly smile.
“Just sign at the bottom, Mr. Metcalfe. We will fill in the details later.”
Metcalfe smiled. “You seem like an intelligent man, Mr. Rubashov. Not a crude man, like whoever made the foolish decision to arrest a prominent Ame
rican industrialist whose family has friends in the White House. Not a man who wishes to be responsible for a diplomatic incident that is about to spiral out of control.”
“Your kind words warm my heart,” the investigator said, leaning back against his desk. “But diplomacy is not a concern of mine. It is not my portfolio. My job is simply to prosecute crimes, then to decide the sentences and see that they are carried out. We know far more about you than you might imagine. Our agents have observed your activities since you arrived here in Moscow.” Rubashov held up the thick folder. “Many, many details. And they are not the activities of a man whose purpose here is truly business.”
Metcalfe cocked his head to one side and arched a brow. “I am a man, Mr. Rubashov. I am not immune to the charms of your Russian girls.”
“As I said, Mr. Metcalfe, please do not waste my time. Now, your comings and goings in Moscow intrigue me. You seem to get around rather easily, and rather widely.”
“I know the city well.”
“You were seen retrieving documents on Pushkin Street. Are you denying you were there?”
“Retrieving documents?”
“We have photographs, Mr. Metcalfe.”
Photographs of what? he wondered. Of him taking the packet from behind the radiator? Of him slipping the packet into his coat? Without knowing how much they had seen, he didn’t know how much to admit to.
“I’d be curious to see these photographs.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“I deal in documents all day long. All this paperwork is the bane of my existence.”
“I see. And is it customary for you to run when approached by agents of the NKVD?”
“I think it’s a good idea for anyone to run when they see the NKVD coming, don’t you? Isn’t that a reputation you’re proud of—that you strike fear into the hearts of even the innocent?”
“Yes,” the Russian said with a mild chortle. “But even more so, the guilty.” The wan smile faded from his face. “You are aware, I’m sure, that it is a criminal violation for a civilian to carry a gun in Moscow.”
“I carry a gun for protection,” Metcalfe said with a shrug. “There is a criminal element here, as you know. And we prosperous foreign businessmen are easy marks.”
“This is not a casual matter, Mr. Metcalfe. For this alone, you face a rather long prison term. And believe me, you do not want to spend time in a Soviet prison.” He turned around and stood before the portraits of Stalin, Lenin, and Dzerzhinsky, as if taking inspiration from them. Without turning back, he said, “Mr. Metcalfe, there are people in this organization—men far more highly placed than I—who wish to see you executed. We have evidence, far more evidence than you may realize, of your espionage activities. We have enough evidence to send you to the gulag for the rest of your life.”
“I wasn’t aware you people needed evidence to send people away.”
Rubashov’s magnified eyes stared. “Are you afraid to die, Mr. Metcalfe?”
“Yes,” Metcalfe replied. “But if I lived in Moscow, I wouldn’t be. In any case, if you really have enough of this trumped-up evidence to send me away, then why are you talking to me?”
“Because I wish to give you an opportunity. To make a deal, shall we say.”
“A deal.”
“Yes, Mr. Metcalfe. If you provide me with the information I seek—confirmation of various details concerning the organization you work for, your objectives, names, and so on—well, you may well find yourself on the next train home.”
“I wish I could help you. But there’s nothing to tell you. I’m sorry.”
Rubashov clasped his hands. “Well,” he said. “It is I who am sorry.” He stepped to his desk and pressed a button. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Metcalfe. Perhaps you will feel more inclined to speak freely the next time we get together.”
The door to the office flew open, and the three guards stormed in as if they had been waiting for their cue.
He was immediately taken to another part of the building, where the corridor was all white and brilliantly lit. A guard pressed a button on the door to a room that was marked INTERROGATION CHAMBER THREE. Armed NKVD soldiers inside opened the door to an all-white room, gleaming tiles on the floors, walls, even ceiling. Metcalfe saw that five guards were waiting for him bearing rubber truncheons. The door was shut.
He said nothing, for he knew what was coming.
The five men converged on him, wielding their truncheons. It felt as if he was being kicked, hard, in his stomach, in his kidneys, only ten times worse; pinpoints of light sparkled before his eyes. He struggled only enough to protect his vital organs from the brutally hard blows. But it was insufficient. He collapsed to the floor, his vision blurred.
The beating continued; fortunately, he passed out, the pain beyond endurance.
Cold water was thrown on him, reviving him, bringing him back to his state of excruciating, ineffable pain. Then the beatings resumed. He spit blood onto the floor. Blood pooled in his eyes, ran down his cheeks. No longer was his vision blurred; now it was oddly segmented, like a motion-picture projector whose film was slipping its sprockets. Flashes of light alternated with a maroon-stained field of vision. He wondered if he was going to die here, in this gleaming white-tiled room, his death certified by some anonymous Soviet staff doctor, his body tossed into a common grave. Even in his delirium—a crazed, segmented hysteria that alleviated the unbearable pain of the truncheon blows—he thought about Lana. He worried about her, wondered if she was safe, whether they had brought her in for questioning as well. Whether she would remain safe, or whether her day would soon come and she would before long be in the white-tiled room, blood streaming from her scalp, her nose, her eyes.
That was what did it for him: that image of Lana having to endure what he was now going through. He couldn’t permit it. If there’s anything in my power, he commanded himself, I must use it to protect her, to keep her out of this nightmarish place. If I die here, I’m not protecting her.
I must live. I must stay alive somehow.
I must talk.
He put up a crumpled hand, a crooked index finger. “Wait,” he moaned. “I want—”
The guards stopped, on a signal from the man who seemed to be their leader. They watched him expectantly.
“Take me to Rubashov,” he croaked. “I want to talk.”
Before they brought him back to Rubashov’s office, however, they took special pains to clean him up. It wouldn’t do to have him seeping blood all over the chief investigator’s Oriental carpet. He was stripped, pushed into a shower, then handed a fresh gray uniform to put on. He was barely able to raise his arms, the knifelike pain in his side was so great.
But Rubashov, it seemed, was in no hurry to see him. Metcalfe recognized this tactic as well. He was kept standing in the hallway outside the investigator’s outer office for what seemed an eternity; he longed to sit; he had to force himself to remain standing. Metcalfe knew that the beating in the interrogation chamber was only a prelude to other techniques. Often the prisoner was made to stand against a wall for days on end without sleep. The prisoner soon came to crave death. Only two guards accompanied him this time, an implicit recognition that he was too weakened, too enfeebled, to pose much of a physical threat.
At last he was shown in. The pale, ghostlike assistant was gone, his workday presumably ended, replaced by another young man, who looked even more furtive. Papers were signed, then the inner door was opened, and Metcalfe was escorted in.
Whenever the violinist spoke with SS Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, he was keenly aware of what an extraordinary privilege it was to have such a mentor. Heydrich was not only a virtuoso violinist, but he was also a brilliant strategist. That he had personally selected Kleist for this mission was a testament to the assassin’s talents.
He did not, therefore, like to disappoint Heydrich. He got right to the point, as soon as the scrambled telephone connection had been made and Heydrich had picked up.
> “I have as yet been unable to learn what the American is up to,” he said. He quickly recounted—because Heydrich had little patience for extraneous details—how the American’s associate, the Brit, had refused to talk even under great duress and had to be killed. He related how the diplomat Amos Hilliard, who had led Kleist to a scheduled rendezvous with the American, had unfortunately recognized Kleist—perhaps from one of Corcoran’s face books—and had to be eliminated as well. After which, of course, with a body in evidence, Kleist had had to beat a hasty retreat.
“You acted properly,” Heydrich reassured him. “The diplomat would have blown your cover. Moreover, each member of the ring you are able to rid us of is a gain for Germany.”
The violinist smiled as he glanced around the German embassy communications room. “That raises the question, sir, of whether it is time to eliminate the American as well.” Kleist did not dare suggest the great frustration he felt that he had not yet been allowed to finish off the American once and for all.
“Yes,” Heydrich replied quickly. “I think it is indeed time to shut down this spy ring. But a report has just come in that the American has been taken into the Lubyanka for questioning. There he is almost certain to die—the Russians may do our work for us.”
“Another fisherman has hooked the fish,” Kleist said, disappointed. “And if they don’t complete the task?”
“Then it will fall to you. And I have no doubt whatsoever that you will succeed.”
This time, Rubashov was seated behind his enormous desk, his head all but obscured by the towers of folders. He appeared to be writing something; after a few minutes he finished, set down his pen, and looked up.
The Tristan Betrayal Page 37
