by Doug Dollard
“No, she answered confidently. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Then why,” I began but then stopped. She was staring so intently into my eyes it suddenly occurred to me fear wasn’t the emotion restraining her. It was likely the hospital staff had been advised against speaking with me. But it wasn’t going to prevent me from asking questions.
“Do you remember how you were injured Mister Riley,” she asked before I could frame a question of my own.”
“Yes, of course I do. I was observing an experiment at the Global Energy Research laboratory in Wilton Park when everything just started coming apart as if there was an earthquake.” It wasn’t quite like that but an earthquake was as close to describing what had happened as I could articulate. The razor stopped moving against my skin momentarily. I could see my explanation had confused her.
“Do you know what happened to the others?” I asked, hoping at least some of the people in attendance had survived.
“I don’t have any information about the accident you are describing Mister Riley,” she answered, her voice not unsympathetic but evasive and perhaps genuinely puzzled by my question.
“Then how did I get here?” She stared at me in what I could only assume was disbelief.
“The military brought you here of course. Do you not remember?” I had little recollection of the events of that night after the explosions collapsed the building. It would have been protocol to call in the army in the event an act of terrorism was suspected.
“Do you have family who need to be informed of your presence here?” she asked, changing the subject. I shook my head.
“No one who will miss me,” I answered truthfully.
“Do you remember saving my life last night?” she asked, her voice soft and pregnant with emotion. Her hand holding the razor against my chin trembled slightly and she immediately pulled it away.
I looked up at her. For an instant here eyes were soft and filled with expectation. And then whatever secrets they held disappeared as if a light had purposely been turned off.
I had dreamed about struggling out of bed in the night amidst a terrible thunderstorm. I recalled a young woman standing beneath a collapsing ceiling. Instinctively I had rushed to move her from the path of falling debris. Until now I had attributed it to just another vivid dream or confused memory from the Tokomak explosion.
“No,” I lied. “I don’t remember that.” Better not to complicate things.
“Hmm,” she murmured low in her throat as if drawing my veracity into question. “We don’t have earthquakes in London Mister Riley,” she said coolly, resuming the slow process of dragging the razor across my cheek.
“Whom do you work for Mister Riley,” she asked. I did not like lying to her but in some things I had little choice.
“I’m a research analyst with the U.S, Government. I compare historic events with contemporary trends and construct probability models.” It was close enough to the truth.
“It sounds complicated.”
“It isn’t really.” She had finished removing the last of my stubble. Taking a small towel she wiped my face clean of soap.
“You look much younger without the beard,” she smiled ruefully.
“Thank you,” I said in reference to both her compliment and attending to my hygiene. She stood up then, gathering up the toiletries used in my rehabilitation.
“You don’t remember crashing into a field two nights ago do you?” she asked pointedly. It was a strange accusation and I had no idea what it meant. Noting my bewilderment she nodded as if confirming a suspicion.
“Get some sleep Mister Riley,” she admonished me. And then she was gone leaving the subtle scent of her hanging gently in the air.
Damn, I cursed myself. I had not thought to ask her name.
Chapter 21
MISGIVINGS
After the attractive lieutenant departed I began to take stock of my situation. Too many things were not adding up. I could not make sense of the soldier standing guard at my bedside, my isolation from the rest of the ward, the reluctance of the hospital staff to discuss anything relevant to the Tokomak disaster or the inexplicably hostile interrogation by the British military. What troubled me most was my inability to get any information on the terrorist attack.
A disaster of that magnitude would have headlined on every newspaper. There should have been others from the Wilton Park facility in need of medical care. The bodies of the dead, and there were likely many would have required a large cold storage facility. In the middle of these thoughts I was interrupted by the sudden reappearance of the brash young lieutenant who had interviewed me the previous day.
This time he was accompanied by a petite woman dressed in a brown suit, brown low-healed shoes and dark stockings. The woman looked to be in her mid thirties but was probably much younger. Her light brown hair was pulled back from her face and drawn up in a bun, her lips, eyes and cheekbones free of makeup. Her face was tight and expressionless, her eyes distant if not cold. She carried with her a small pad and pencil which she held closely against her breast. I attempted to catch her gaze but her eyes were firmly fixed on a point above and behind me.
I wondered when the Agency would intervene. I surmised it had been at least forty-eight hours since the accident. Although I was officially on PTO Langley would by now have a copy of the guest list and noted my name among them. The Agency would already have people on site and my name would have been flagged as one of the missing. It couldn’t be too much longer before the artful dance of diplomacy saw me escorted to a medical facility on one of the American military bases.
“I have a few more questions for you Mister Riley,” Lieutenant Buckley said, interrupting my train of thought.
I sensed immediately something had changed. The lieutenant seemed far too confident, too jovial in fact. I noticed the woman had taken her writing pad in her left hand and held the pencil poised as if to take notes.
“Before I answer your questions Lieutenant I have a few of my own,” I began. “I want to know why I am being held under guard and why I am being interrogated as if I were a person of interest.”
It was a crude attempt at distraction of course but it seemed to be working. The Lieutenant, caught in the middle of formulating his question halted, a look of surprise crossing his face. The small woman even hesitated, her pencil poised above her writing pad, her gaze suddenly shifting to meet mine.
“Why am I being interrogated by the British military and why am I shackled to this bed? Am I a suspect in the destruction of the Tokomak facility?”
The lieutenant appeared momentarily confused as if he had been taken off his game, but immediately regained his composure, his face solidifying into a mask of distrust.
“You will answer my questions Mister Riley, not the other way around.” His voice was angry but controlled. It appeared he had prepared for an adversarial interview.
“What was your mission? Why are you here? Who are your contacts?” he asked in rapid succession.
“My mission?” I repeated wondering if I were still a suspect. I am here---was here to observe an experiment in thermonuclear fusion at the Tokomak Fusion facility in Wilton Park.” The little woman in the brown suit wrote vigorously in her notepad as I spoke.
“What facility would that be?” Lieutenant asked skeptically.
“The Global Energy Research facility,” I answered, intentionally keeping my voice level and calm to avoid any impression his obtuse and repetitive questions were unsettling me. “The same facility that exploded into a burning inferno two nights ago.”
In truth I did not know exactly what had transpired other than there had been explosions, fire and I had to assume deaths. I had good reason to suspect it had been destroyed by an act of terrorism but as yet I had no proof.
Lieutenant Buckley was growing impatient with the American’s attempts at misdirection. Wilton Park encompassed hundreds of acres of mostly forested parkland and preserves. With the exception of a few ninet
eenth century estates there were no buildings in Wilton Park matching the prisoner’s description. In point of fact there was no commercial development of any kind within the park. Further there were no reports of German bombs falling anywhere within Wilton Park during the past month. The American was playing him for a fool and he was going to put an end to it.
“You are a German agent whose presence in Britain is not protected by the rules of war,” he stated emphatically.
Rules of war, I thought? What was he talking about? I was completely mystified by his questions as well as his mounting anger. It was not unusual for a skilled interrogator to feign emotions to gain advantage but I doubted the Lieutenant was so skilled. I had to assume his emotions, whatever their origins were real.
I knew altering a subject’s perceptions of contemporary events had proved a successful strategy for breaking their resistance. But I couldn’t imagine I’d be considered a suspect let alone one of significant intelligence value.
“Lieutenant,” I began calmly. “I can only tell you what I know. I am an American citizen. I am in London to observe an experiment in thermonuclear fusion. I am a guest at the Savoy in London. You can check there to confirm that is true. Two nights ago during an attempt to fuse deuterium and tritium in a magnetic field something went wrong and the plasma core exploded, or at least I think it exploded.”
“You ‘think’ it exploded?” the lieutenant asked, his tone clearly dubious.
“I don’t know, maybe or the building collapsed or something else in the building blew up. There were more than two hundred people present. I can’t believe they’re all dead.”
I paused there, struggling to recall the sequence of events after the explosions. The truth was I was still pretty groggy and uncertain about the sequence of last night’s events.
“And how is it you alone, among hundreds of people managed to escape?” Buckley asked, the skepticism in his voice bordering on sarcasm. Ignoring his obvious disdain I attempted to answer though I was uncertain of exactly what had transpired.
“I truly do not know what happened,” I continued though with slightly less conviction. “I crawled away from the fire after the explosions. I must have lost consciousness because that’s all I remember until waking up here.”
I realized how feeble that must have sounded to an already hostile antagonist but I couldn’t add more clarity because in truth I was unclear of exactly what happened that night.
Surprisingly the lieutenant’s expression was not one of disdain but rather he appeared smugly confident as if he held the key to my misfortune.
“You have a bullet wound on your left side Mister Riley. How do you suppose that got there?” Lieutenant Buckley’s expression was of a man who had just pulled an inside straight. He must have been keeping this bit of information for just this moment.
“Do you have any other lies you wish to tell me?” he asked with the barest hint of sarcasm.
For a moment the lieutenant’s words made little impression on me. They seemed at first oddly disconnected from me as if he were speaking about some unknown person. I could not fathom how I could have sustained a gunshot wound. I returned his gaze but it was obvious nothing I could say would advance my protestations of innocence.
Though Lieutenant Buckley controlled any outward expression of exuberance he was immensely satisfied to have trapped the American spy in his own web of outrageous fabrications. It was a satisfying conclusion to his interrogation.
“We are going to take your fingerprints now Mister Riley,” he said coolly. “If you do not cooperate I will have the guard hold you down and take your prints by force. Either way I will have your fingerprints and I am not ill disposed to taking them from you by force if you make that necessary.” He raised a hand poised to signal the guard as he waited for my reaction.
“I have no objection,” I said somewhat puzzled he had prepared for my resistance. He waved off the guard as he moved to my bedside withdrawing a small inkpad and cartridge from the haversack slung around his shoulder.
Rolling on a fresh dab of oily black ink the lieutenant top each of the fingers on my right hand in turn and, after first pressing them against the inked pad he rolled them one by one against a white identity card. When he had finished he smiled, placed the card with my fingerprints into his kit and departed with the little woman following quickly behind him.
In addition to being disconcerted over the British governments decision to secure my fingerprints I was astonished at the antiquated tools. Fingerprints were normally scanned and digitized before being electronically transmitted and automatically fed into a massive computer database where they were matched against millions of others on file. The lieutenant’s methods were not only antiquated; any attempt at comparing them using this method would necessarily be done manually. It would make his task of identification nearly impossible.
My head was swimming either because of the drugs I suspect I’d been given or because my head injury had rattled my brain. I didn’t know what to think. The Lieutenant had crafted an interesting if fantastic narrative. The question was why? Though my memory of the accident was somewhat fuzzy my injuries were undoubtedly the result of having been caught in a collapsing building, just as I had insisted.
One of the tenets of successful interrogators was to realign the subject’s perceptions. Fabricating new realities, lying, dissembling, turning the subject’s patriotism or religion or belief system against him was the initial step in loosening his grip on whatever beliefs kept him grounded.
I knew this and I was trained to resist it and yet I was finding it difficult to remain grounded. The interview with the lieutenant had drained what little strength I’d had. I was exhausted and my head felt as if a spike had been driven into my brain. I lay back on my pillow and closed my eyes. I could work this out tomorrow I thought. For now I was content to drift off into a dark and dreamless sleep.
* * *
With the airman’s fingerprints safely packed away in his kit Lieutenant Buckley was satisfied he had successfully debunked this fifth columnist’s pathetic attempts to conceal his true intentions.
“What will happen to him now?” the stenographer asked in a hushed tone reserved for the most solemn of occasions. Lieutenant Buckley frowned. He would have ignored the question except that his pride took control of his better judgment.
“Normally prisoners of war of no intelligence value are remanded for internment at one of the more than one hundred POW camps scattered throughout England and Scotland,” he answered contemptuously. “Our Mister Riley, if that is even his real name may have additional intelligence value to the Crown.” It was a much as he could legally divulge to a civilian under the Official Secrets Act, and yet his exuberance at having so convincingly outmaneuvered the saboteur made him reckless.
“He will be segregated and in all likelihood sent to one of the Combined Services Detention and Interrogation Camps where he will receive the special attention German spies deserve,” he concluded, smiling contentedly.
“As he was captured out of uniform he may be deemed an unlawful combatant and could be executed if it is established he was operating as a saboteur.”
Now he would file his report along with the fingerprint card with the Directorate of Military Intelligence and resign the German saboteur to his fate.
Nodding to the little woman in the brown suit they both turned and retreated the way they had come, around the white curtain and down the long corridor, their footsteps slowly fading into the distance.
Chapter 22
WING COMMANDER SIR JAMES WHITLEY
Near Beaconsfield, United Kingdom
With his face turned an ashen grey Wing Commander Sir James Whitley ignored the expanding pool of spilled tea spreading slowly across his desk. Lifting the file on his desk out of the path of the spill he read for a fourth time the last paragraph in an otherwise routine Army Intelligence report containing the otherwise unremarkable interrogation of a captured German airman shot d
own over Beaconsfield two nights ago.
Alerted by his master’s distress Willie, Sir James’ Victorian bulldog raised his head from his usual spot on the carpet beside the Wing Commander’s desk. Whitley reflexively reached down and stroked Willies head. Reassured by the touch of his master’s hand Willie lowered his head and resumed his rhythmic pant.
Fluent in both German and Italian but unable to fly after his injury Whitley had been assigned to the Directorate of Military Intelligence. The DMI interrogation centers had been the brainchild of Brigadier Peabody, a professor of psychology at the University of Cambridge before the war.
Noted psychoanalyst Doctor Wesley Chiltington postulated more could be gained by artful deception and skillful manipulation of a prisoner’s environment than through brute intimidation. Commander Whitley was now a seasoned expert in the application of Chiltington’s principals.
Commanding the Wilton Park facility Whitley’s clientele had here to for been senior Italian commanders captured in the battle for North Africa the year before. Now he was confronted by a new and potentially far more sinister threat to the British cause.
The report in front of him was atypical of any of the initial POW debriefings he had seen before. The preliminary interview of the prisoner revealed little of consequence other than the curious if unintended confusion of the prisoner. But perhaps the prisoner’s medical condition complicated the interviews so little intelligence was gained.
The facts however were indisputable. Shot down over Beaconsfield the night of the 24th of January the German, the only member of his crew to survive had been badly injured in the crash of his Heinkel He 111.
After being treated for his wounds the prisoner was placed under guard in the military wing of Queen Anne’s Hospital in London. Upon regaining consciousness he was interviewed by a young lieutenant from the regular Army Military Intelligence Corps, as was protocol for all captured German aircrew.
