The cell was perhaps twenty feet square, its only illumination a small butter lamp which stood in a niche in the wall above his head. In its pale light he saw that the place was crammed with stinking humanity. A few heads turned towards him listlessly to stare vacantly a moment before turning away.
Most of them were Tibetan peasants, their sheepskin shubas wrapped closely about them while they slept. In one corner, an old lama, his face wrinkled with age, yellow robes torn and soiled, stared into space, fingers clicking through his beads while he intoned a succession of Om ma-ni pad-me hums in a low, monotonous voice.
It was unbelievably cold and rain drifted in a fine spray between the bars of the small window set high in the wall. Chavasse got to his feet, stepped over one poor wretch who huddled in a tattered robe, face beaded with fever, and pulled himself up to look outside.
One adobe wall of the courtyard had crumbled away and he could see down into the town. The wind which howled across the flat rooftops of Changu came from the steppes of Mongolia, bringing winter with it, touching his face with cold fingers. He shivered despite himself, a wave of greyness running through him as if somewhere, someone had walked over his grave.
A door opened on the other side and light flooded out into the courtyard, framing a Chinese soldier in the entrance. He turned and spoke to someone inside. There was a sudden burst of laughter and then the soldier closed the door and ran across the yard, head bent against the rain.
Chavasse dropped down from the window. The man with fever was moaning steadily like some animal in pain, lips drawn back, teeth tightly clenched together. Chavasse picked his way cautiously between the sleeping bodies towards a vacant corner near the door and withdrew hurriedly as the appalling stench of human excrement filled his nostrils.
He returned to his original place and sank down into the sodden straw. A few feet away, a huge Tibetan in tattered robe and conical felt hat crouched against the wall and stared at him unwinkingly, one hand scratching for lice. After a moment, he produced a lump of tsampa mixed with butter from somewhere about his person, broke it in two and offered Chavasse half. Chavasse managed a smile and shook his head. The man shrugged and started to chew the tsampa.
Chavasse started to turn away, his limbs shaking uncontrollably as the cold ate into them. He folded his arms tightly and closed his eyes, concentrating on what had happened, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this one. But there was no answer. After a while he drifted into an uneasy sleep.
He was conscious of the sound of the key in the lock and of the door opening, but it was the blow to the face that really brought him awake. A hand gripped him by the front of his jacket, jerking him to his feet, and he was pushed across the cell and out through the door.
Two privates and a sergeant waited for him in the stone-flagged corridor, all dressed alike in quilted drab uniforms, the Red Star of the army of the People’s Republic on their peak caps the only splash of colour. The sergeant, a small man, turned away without a word and started along the corridor. Chavasse followed, the two privates bringing up the rear, their automatic rifles at the ready.
They mounted a flight of stone stairs to an upper corridor and halted outside a door. The sergeant knocked, listened for a moment and then led the way in.
The room had obviously once been the living quarters of a person of some importance. The wooden walls were beautifully painted, sheepskin rugs covered the floor and logs burned in the large stone fireplace. The green filing cabinet in one corner and the desk in the centre of the room looked somehow incongruous and out of place.
Colonel Li sat behind the desk, a typewritten report in one hand which he now continued to read. Chavasse stood beside a chair a foot away from the desk, his body sagging with fatigue, and examined himself in the narrow gold-framed mirror which hung on the wall behind Li.
The handsome, aristocratic face was haggard and drawn, the eyes dark pools set too far back in their sockets, and blood trickled sluggishly from a cut in his forehead. As he raised a hand to wipe it away, Colonel Li grunted, dropped the report on his desk and looked up.
An expression of immediate concern appeared in his eyes, and he frowned.
“But my dear chap, what have they been doing to you?” he demanded in impeccable English.
“Your concern is so touching,” Chavasse told him.
Li leaned back in his chair, a slight smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “So, you speak English. You see, already we have made progress.”
Chavasse cursed silently. He was tired—more tired than he had been for a long time, and because of that he’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book.
He shrugged. “Your round.”
“Naturally!” Li said calmly, and nodded to the sergeant and two privates, who immediately withdrew.
The warmth of the room was beginning to make Chavasse feel a little light-headed. He swayed slightly, groping for the edge of the desk to steady himself. Colonel Li rose to his feet at once. “I think you’d better sit down, my friend.”
Chavasse slumped into a chair and Li crossed to a lacquered cabinet in one corner, opened it, took out a bottle and two glasses and returned. He filled the glasses quickly and pushed one across the desk. Chavasse waited for the Chinese to drink first.
Li smiled faintly and emptied his glass. “Drink up, my friend,” he said. “I think you will be surprised.”
It was the finest Scotch and Chavasse coughed a little as it caught at the back of his throat. He reached for the bottle and filled his glass again. “I’m glad you approve,” Li said.
Chavasse toasted him silently and took it down in one quick swallow. As the liquor flooded through him, he felt better. He leaned back in the chair and said, “All the comforts of home, eh? You guys certainly have it rough working for the proletariat. By the way, you haven’t got such a thing as a cigarette, have you? Your boys cleaned me out. From the look of them, I’d say you don’t pay them very often.”
Colonel Li produced a packet of American cigarettes from his pocket and threw them across the table with a quick flip of his fingers. “You see, I can supply all your requirements.”
Chavasse took out a cigarette and leaned across the table for a light. “What’s the matter with your own brands?”
Li smiled pleasantly. “But Virginia cigarettes are extremely good. When our time comes, we will undoubtedly take them all for home consumption.”
“Careful, comrade,” Chavasse warned him. “In Peking they’d call that treason.”
Colonel Li smiled and adjusted a cigarette in his elegant jade holder. “But we are not in Peking, my friend. Here, I am in complete control.”
The voice was still pleasant, the mood tranquil, but Chavasse was beginning to recognize the technique, and he grudgingly admitted that it was being carried out by an expert.
“What happens now?” he said.
Colonel Li shrugged. “That depends entirely on you, my friend. If you cooperate, things can be made easier for you.”
Chavasse was interested. There was still a suggestion that a deal could be made, that much was obvious; but then, it was all part of a familiar pattern. He smiled at the colonel through smoke. “So there’s still a chance for me?”
“But of course,” Li said. “All you have to do is tell me who you really are and what your mission is here in Changu.”
“What happens if I do?” Chavasse said.
Li shrugged. “We can always make use of those who freely admit their errors.”
Chavasse laughed harshly and stubbed his cigarette out in the jade ashtray. “If that’s the best you can do, I’m not buying.”
The Chinese tapped the desk with one elegant hand and said reflectively, “It’s a very great pity.”
He sounded genuinely sorry, and Chavasse listened to him in a curious, if detached, sort of way. “What is?”
“The fact that we are on opposite sides. I am not a political idealist or fanatic. I’m quite simply a man who has always adjust
ed himself to the prevailing circumstances.”
“I hope it works out for you,” Chavasse said, an edge of irony in his voice.
“Oh, but it will, I assure you.” Li smiled gently. “You see, I have chosen the winning side, make no mistake about that.” He adjusted the papers on his desk into a neat pile. “There is still time for you to change your mind.”
Chavasse sighed and shook his head. “No thanks, Colonel. Better move into phase two.”
Li frowned. “Phase two? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You really ought to catch up on your reading,” Chavasse told him. “To be precise, the latest publication of the Central Committee in Peking. Interrogation of Political Prisoners and Aliens. First you’re nice, then you’re nasty—with due acknowledgement to Comrade Pavlov, of course.”
Colonel Li sighed. “You people really have the strangest ideas about us.” He pressed a buzzer on the desk and, almost immediately, the door opened and the sergeant entered and stood behind Chavasse.
Chavasse got to his feet wearily. “Now what?”
The colonel shrugged. “It’s up to you. I can give you a few hours to think things over. After that . . .” He shrugged, picked up another report and opened it.
The two privates were waiting outside and they trailed behind as Chavasse followed the sergeant along the corridor and down the stone stairs to the basement and turned into another, more brightly lit corridor. Stout wooden doors were ranged along one wall and the sergeant opened one and motioned Chavasse inside.
He found himself in a small stone cell which was no more than six feet square. There was an iron cot against one wall and no window. The door clanged shut behind him and he was immediately engulfed in darkness. The walls and roof dripped with moisture and he groped his way cautiously towards the iron cot. There was no mattress, but in the state he was in, he could have fallen asleep on the floor. He lay down, the rusty springs digging into his back, and stared up into the darkness.
He had a breathing space. Why, he didn’t know, but at once he relaxed, the tension draining out of him. He was so tired; his limbs ached and there was a slight, nagging pain in the centre of his forehead. He sighed and closed his eyes, and immediately, the cell was filled with a hideous, frightening clamour.
He scrambled to his feet, every nerve tingling. A large bell was fixed just above the door and it rang continuously while a red light flickered on and off rapidly.
He was standing there looking up, sick to his stomach, knowing what was to come, when the key grated in the lock and the door was thrown open.
The little sergeant stood in the entrance, hands on hips, and smiled gently. Chavasse moved outside. The two privates were waiting, and they escorted him along the corridor. When the sergeant unlocked the door at the far end, a flurry of rain greeted them as they moved out into the night.
The sergeant walked through the darkness towards a truck parked by the guardroom and Chavasse waited in the centre of the courtyard with the two privates, the wind from the steppes like a bayonet in his back.
He wondered wearily what was going to happen next and then twin shafts of light from the truck picked him out of the night.
The sergeant returned, took out the automatic and made a sign to his two men, who withdrew into the darkness. Chavasse waited. For the moment, he and the sergeant seemed to be alone. He slid one foot forward cautiously, his eye on the automatic, and was deluged with ice-cold water from behind.
It hit with the force of a physical blow. He swung round and received another wave full in the face. The two soldiers stood laughing at him, buckets in their hands.
His whole body seemed to be gripped in a great vice which squeezed the air from his lungs as the wind cut through his soaked clothing, burning into his very flesh. He managed one faltering step towards them, his hands coming up, before the sergeant hit him a blow in the kidneys. As he went down, they moved in, boots and fists thudding into his defenceless body.
* * *
He was conscious of lying there in the centre of the yard, his face pillowed against the wet cobbles. He opened his eyes and the lights from the truck hurt them, and then he heard voices and was lifted from the ground and carried towards the lighted doorway.
It was with no sense of surprise that he found himself outside Colonel Li’s office, supported by the two privates. The sergeant knocked at the door, opened it and they went in.
They stood in front of the desk and for the second time that night Chavasse examined himself in the long, gold-framed mirror. He presented an extraordinary sight. Black hair was plastered across his high forehead. One eye was half-closed and the right side of his face was swollen and disfigured by a huge purple bruise. His mouth was smashed and bleeding and the front of his shirt was covered in blood.
Colonel Li looked up at him and sighed. “You are a very stubborn man, my friend, and to what purpose?” The whiskey bottle and glasses were still there, and he filled one and pushed it across the table. The soldiers lowered Chavasse into the chair and the sergeant held the glass to his lips.
Chavasse moaned in pain as the liquor burned into his raw flesh, but after a moment, a warm glow began to spread throughout his entire body and he felt a little better.
“You put on quite a show,” he croaked.
Li’s face creased in anger. “Do you imagine I enjoy this sort of thing?” he demanded. “Do you think I am a barbarian?” He pressed a buzzer on his desk. “Enough of this childish game of cat and mouse. I know who you are. I know all about you.”
The door opened and a young Chinese woman orderly entered with a file, which she placed on his desk. Chavasse noticed in a detached sort of way as she went out that her uniform fitted her like a glove, leather Russian boots setting off trim legs.
“It is all here,” Colonel Li said, holding up the file. “I’ve been in touch with Lhasa and they contacted our intelligence headquarters in Peking at once. Don’t you believe me?”
Chavasse shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”
Colonel Li flicked open the file and started to read.
“Paul Chavasse, born in Paris 1930, father French, mother English, so has dual nationality. Educated at Sorbonne and Cambridge and Harvard Universities. Ph.D. in modern languages. Lecturer at Cambridge University until 1955. Since then employed as an agent by the Bureau, a secret organization used by the British government in its constant underground war against the free Communist states.”
Chavasse was aware of no particular sense of shock that they knew so much. He was not even afraid. His entire body seemed to ache with pain and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.
“You’ve certainly got one hell of a vivid imagination,” he said.
Colonel Li jumped to his feet angrily. “Why do you make me treat you like this? Is it the way for intelligent people to behave?” He moved round the desk and sat on the edge, a couple of feet away from Chavasse. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, as if he were trying to reason with a stubborn and wilful child. “Tell me what you are doing here, that’s all I want to know. Afterwards, you can have a doctor, a meal, a warm bed. Anything you desire.”
Everything was slipping away from Chavasse. To keep his eyes open was an effort and Li’s face seemed to swell to enormous proportions. He tried to open his mouth, but no sounds would come out.
The colonel moved close. “Tell me what I want to know, Chavasse. That’s all you have to do. I will take care of the rest, I promise you.”
Chavasse managed to spit in his face once before coloured lights exploded in his head and a great pool of darkness moved in on him.
12
Trudging along in the rain at the end of the column, Chavasse presented an extraordinary picture. His eyes had withdrawn into dark sockets, his hair was filthy and matted and his gaunt body was covered by an ancient and verminous sheepskin shuba.
His wrists were tied tightly together in front of him and the other end of the long rope was looped over the pommel of his
guard’s high wooden saddle.
He was beginning to feel tired. The rain, blown against his face by the high wind, was icy cold and his stomach ached for food. He slowed a little, and immediately his guard tugged sharply on the rope, sending him stumbling forward onto his face.
The man screamed angrily in Chinese and Chavasse got to his feet painfully and started to hobble forward again. “All right, you bastard,” he shouted in English. “Keep your bloody hair on.”
He could see Colonel Li riding at the front of the column of thirty men, all mounted alike on wiry Tibetan horses, submachine guns across their backs, and he wondered again at the strange mixture of the old and the new that seemed so typical of the Chinese.
Despite the size of the area under his supervision, Colonel Li had only three jeeps and one truck, and when he made his rounds of the villages on the high plateau, where security was bad and he needed a strong escort, he was compelled to use cavalry.
The rain increased in force and Chavasse trudged on, feeling utterly miserable, the coldness seeping into his very bones.
He was perhaps at the lowest point in his life, and he knew that the fact that he admitted this even to himself was extremely dangerous. Colonel Li would have been surprised if he’d known how close he’d been to cracking. He raised his bound hands to wipe rain from his face and stumbled on.
For almost three weeks he had been beaten and humiliated in every conceivable way. Night after night, the bell in his cell had rung and the red light had flashed and sometimes they had come for him and sometimes they had not.
It was all part of a plan. All good sound psychology. Pavlov had started it with his dogs and the bell that sounded at mealtimes, had shown the world that gradually, by changing the order of things, you could produce a complete neurotic breakdown until a man became as broken in spirit as he was in body. Then and only then, the Party believed, could the process of rebirth begin. When the process was finished, the Party had another loyal and efficient zombie to swell its ranks.
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