by Adam Hall
'What is the name of the yacht?'
'The Isabella. Look, wouldn't it be better if you played that thing back a few times?'
'Where is the yacht now?'
'That's the third time. What's the point of leaving that thing running when all you can do is ask the same bloody questions like a record player?'
I'd begun looking at him sideways a bit in the last half-hour: the cover demanded that I should react with increasing exasperation and finally begin to doubt his sanity. He hadn't tripped me on anything yet because he wasn't capable. This was the best interrogator they had in Hong Kong and he'd been immediately available as a member of the local cell so they'd flown him in right away in the helicopter and now he was doing his stuff but his stuff consisted of the repetition-to-attrition technique and not much else: the idea is that if you shout the same question at the subject fifty times he'll finally tell the truth. It's meant to work on the principle that every time they shout the question you feel a bit more guilty about lying, and in the end you hear your own subconscious throwing up the right answer.
It's not funny when it happens because you start thinking it's your sanity that's begun to slip. Then you're strictly on the skids and if they didn't find the capsule in the lining you'd better get it out and don't let them see you till you keel over. But I didn't think this man could do any good because he wasn't fully trained: he wasn't alternating with the correct mood changes that made you think he believed you and trusted you, so that the guilt mechanism produced more power the next time you lied.
'Where were you diving?'
'In the bloody sea.' I wiped the sweat off my face and tried to slide back the small metal window again to make him think I'd forgotten they'd jammed it solid: the first thing an interrogator looks for is the onset of memory lapse and it'd make him feel good and when you start feeling good you've got one foot on the soap. You shouldn't feel anything. In first category interrogation - no kicks, no shocks - you don't really talk. You question or you answer. Anything like conversation is discouraged because it decreases the tension.
'Where were you diving?' he asked me again.
His eyes were a bit pink-rimmed under the light and I wondered how long he could keep it up. Two hours is a long time.
'Listen, I'm going to tell you the whole thing again and you make sure you get it all down on that tape. Then if you ask me just one more question again I swear I'll throw you straight through that fucking door. Okay?'
I didn't expect an answer because that one's in the book. The interrogator has to keep up the theme of repetition, and anything else he says will ease the monotony and he doesn't want to do that.
'Right. My --'
'What is your name?'
He wanted it his way: if I told him 'the whole thing again' the ball was going to stop in my court. It had to be question, answer, question, answer, wearing you down.
'Harry Cox.'
'Why did you come to Hong Kong?'
'To do some diving.'
'Why?'
'Some people gave me a job.'
'What job?'
'Look for a wreck.'
'What wreck?'
'Now don't start asking me that one again. I've told you, a boat went down with a private collection of gold coins on board, and my present employers --'
'Who are your employers?'
Question 9.
'I gave them my word I wouldn't reveal their names. Listen, you let a thing like this get around and you'll have the whole of the Hong Kong fishing fleet out here looking for that boat, it stands to reason.'
'What is the boat's position?'
What depth, did it Wow up, was there a collision, so forth. I gave him the answers again, there wasn't any problem. But now and then I told him he was a stupid clot and asked him if he'd gone off his rocker, routine cover approach but helpful to relieve the tension in me. He could throw me this stuff till he had to bring in a relief and it wouldn't worry me but it was what they were doing outside this cabin that was starting to give me the shakes because I was a bit farther inside the tunnel at this stage and going deeper and I didn't want to go on.
The man they were going to give me in Pekin would be different from this one. For the first few days I'd respect his skin and admire his techniques and then he'd start getting close and I'd have to fight back till he blew me and when he'd blown me he'd begin on the real stuff: the Bureau.
He would be a top professional. A brain surgeon.
'Where is the yacht?'
'Which one?' Just a gag: this was the thirtieth time.
'The one that dropped you over the wreck.'
'Somewhere in the South China Sea. They didn't say where they were going. Now listen, I've given you the whole thing again, as I said I would. Now if you ask me one more question I'm going to smash you up and you'll wish to Christ you'd never set eyes on me. Now do you understand that?'
I put a lot of spleen into it but he went on staring into my face with his pink-rimmed eyes while he thought out the next question. His feet were still in the stance he'd taken up when I'd talked about throwing him through the door: he'd quietly slid them there and I hadn't looked down but I didn't have to because he was a belt and it would be the first defensive position. You can't interrogate anyone alone in a small room unless you can stop him when he comes at you: intensive questioning can drive a man into a psychic trap and an explosion on the subconscious level can be murderous.
'You are lying,' he said and slapped down my photograph.
Phase two.
He'd taken my cover story and gone over it exhaustively and couldn't break it so now he was going to watch my eyes while he threw facts at me. Facts like the photograph.
'Christ,' I said, 'if I thought I looked like that I'd go and shoot myself!'
'This is your photograph. We know it is.'
'Bloody insulting!'
It was the same one.
'One of our agents managed to swim clear,' he said, 'from the car in the harbour.'
Frown. Three-second pause. Then: 'What the hell are you--'
'He says this is your photograph.'
Prolong mystification. 'Car in the harbour? What on earth,' so forth, till he cut in again.
Your photograph.
Your photograph.
Your photograph.
Till I blew up and began shouting, I tell you you're making a stupid mistake, I demand to phone the governor of Hong Kong, you can't do this to a subject of the United Kingdom, storming up and down, could've been an actor if I didn't have a face like a hyena's arse.
Your photograph.
I let him go on.
Very hot in here now.
Damned if I'm going to ask him to open the door.
Photograph.
Told him to screw himself, then he pulled the towel off the thing on the bed and watched my eyes closely.
'Hell's that?'
'Your radio. We found it.'
Feeble laugh. 'Listen, if I had a radio like that I'd get a bomb for it in Kowloon! What is it -- Hammerlund?' I looked at it, very keen radio man.
'This is your radio.'
'Well, I must say that's very generous of you.'
I timed it at fifteen minutes: he gave it all he knew how.
Your radio.
Your radio.
Your radio.
Told him he was out of his cotton-pickin' mind, told him to belt up. Bloody light was in my eyes, starting to worry me. I still wasn't completely out of the narcosis thing and I hadn't slept since eight-o'clock last night and it was now six-thirty and he was still pitching it at me.
'Where was your base? The Hong Kong Cathay?'
'I don't know what you're --'
'The Mauritius? You stayed at both those places.'
'Will you bloody well listen to me a minute? I tell you--'
You're mistaken.
Where was your base?
He threw me the other places on my travel pattern, watching my eyes, trying to pick his wa
y in, the Orient Club, the Golden Sands Hotel, telling me he knew I'd been there, telling i me he knew so much about me that there wasn't any point in my denying his accusations.
'You were there when Flower died.'
'What flower?'
'The man Flower. You were there when he died.'
'What the hell's a man flower?'
I looked at him obliquely again, worried about his mental state.
'Flower was an agent. He was your agent.'
'Oh Jesus wept, are you back on that agent thing?'
Flower.
Flower.
Hot and the light blinding.
Flower.
One stage I thought all right we'll have a go, he's in the first defensive position but that doesn't matter I'll start with a full yoharka, give him no time.
Have to watch it. No emotions. Start emoting and you'll end up right in his hands because the gut-think'll get in the way of the brain-think. Steady.
Tired, that's all. Went down too deep, too long.
'You were there when he --'
'Go and shit.'
'You were —'
'Shuddup.'
'You went to Jade Imperial Mansion.'
'Someone else. Bloke in the snap.'
'Shall we tell Mr. Tewson about your woman friend?'
'Moira? What's she got to do with --'
'Not Moira. Nora.'
'I haven't got a woman called Nora. She any good?'
'You went to Jade Imperial Mansion.'
Six times in six minutes.
Poor old Tewson, wonder what he's thinking now. Bit of a shaker for him. But it was pick-proof, that was all I cared. Just her name alone had given it credibility and he couldn't phone her to ask her about it because her line was bugged and they'd monitor his call this end and he'd know that. And he couldn't tell his Chinese fellow-workers because they'd shove him in shackles in case he believed me and tried to dive overboard. There wasn't anything he could do except worry, while the fuse went on burning in his head.
'So you have been lying!'
'I have not been lying!'
'With every word you have lied!'
'I've told you the truth!'
Yelling at each other.
Heat of the lamp, his face coming and going.
'Lies! Lies! Lies!'
'I've told you the truth, sod you!'
Look out, perk up.
Tired.
'I am sorry, Mr. Cox.'
'What?'
'I am sorry.' Smile on his face. 'Of course I believe your story, but you must understand that we have to pay close attention if persons approach this oil drill. We have very expensive machinery here. I hope you will accept my apologies.'
Movement of air as he passed me.
'Listen,' I said. 'Can I go out and take some air on deck?'
'But of course, Mr. Cox. It is a delightful evening.'
I leaned on the rail.
Below me the sea was amethyst, its haze reaching to the ochre line of the horizon where the sun had gone down. All was still, except where a sea bird wheeled in silence overhead.
'What's this stuff?'
'It's a kind of millet gruel.'
I thought it looked rather wet.
There was a dish of man-t'ou.
'What about this?' In public I was keeping the cover.
'Millet,' he said, 'corn, squash, potatoes. Not bad.'
The line shuffled along and we shuffled with it.
Think they've got anything except millet?'
He gave his quick white laugh but it was just habit: his nerves were pretty bad. 'There's some Pekin duck along there.'
Face and the lamp, swinging.
'Thank Christ for that.'
The canteen was very clean and everything shone under the bright lights. Music tinkled soothingly from the speakers Someone dropped his tin plate and there was immediate silence and then the clatter started up again. I didn't notice any smell of actual food: I suppose they kept it down with Airwick or something hygienic like that.
I shovelled some duck on my plate for the sake of protein and Tewson had some too. Then we went along the deck to his cabin, carrying our trays.
'Sorry there's no wine.'
As we put our trays on each side of the table I noticed his hands were shaking. His brick-red colouring had yellowed since I saw him last.
'This is very welcome.'
'Is it?' He seemed pathetically pleased. 'It doesn't taste too bad. I expect I've got used to it.'
'I mean the whole thing's welcome. The idea of being invited to dine on board with a fellow guest. If that's quite the word.'
He looked down.
'They suggested it.'
'Civil of them.'
'I would have asked you myself, of course, if --'
'Of course --'
'I'm glad of a chance to talk to you.'
He took a sip of water.
'Cheers.'
'Cheers.'
We began eating.
I didn't look at him except when he made the odd remark, and he found it difficult to meet my eyes. September was a beautiful month in Hong Kong, he said: the evenings were always like this, very calm.
I said I hadn't been in this part of the globe for some years.
He asked me how the food was.
'Very good.'
He seemed pleased again and I couldn't think why. Some exaggerated sense of hostmanship? His eyes went down to his plate, and the light flashed across his thick-lensed glasses.
'They treat me well. Very well.'
'I'm sure they do.'
'Nothing to complain of.'
'That's good.'
He ate rather hungrily, but I imagined they wouldn't be rationed on board a first-line missile site. Possibly he was hoping to get to the flavour.
He put his knife and fork down.
'Did you come here to take me back?'
I had to think for a couple of seconds.
'That was the idea.'
'What will they do with you now?' he asked me, and looked up.
'The same as they'll do with you.'
He pushed his plate away and folded his arms on the table and leaned towards me.
'I don't believe it, you know. What you said.'
'Don't you?'
I left it at that, wanting to know how much he'd need convincing. He stood it for five seconds or so.
'You can't prove anything.'
He wouldn't need much convincing.
'Anyway,' I said, 'it's up to you.'
He let that go because he had to: he knew we couldn't talk.
'How -- how well do you know Nora?'
Check and re-check.
I wouldn't normally have to, but that bloody light had bored holes in my eyes and I was longing for sleep and couldn't think as fast as I should.
Situation: I'd blown my cover to him. They hadn't broken me down but that didn't mean anything: they knew they were going to, if they kept on long enough. So I could talk to him about anything I chose but not about my warning to him now. He might not realize this and I was ready in case he let a word slip so that I could try covering it.
It was academic anyway.
They'd got us both.
'I don't know her very well,' I said. 'Done a bit of shopping with her, you know-House of Shen, Constellation "144" and places like that. Few evenings together at the Orient and Gaddi's -- she's fun, isn't she? Loves expensive things. Of course I didn't know she was married, or -- well --'
'That's all right,' he said with his head going down.
I don't often see people suffering -- I don't mean self-pity, I mean suffering. Maybe I don't recognize it too easily, because in my opinion it's always their own bloody fault and that's why I don't seem to have too many friends.
But I recognized it now.
I suppose she'd gone and shoehorned him into this thing.
Be a pushover in a place like Hong Kong.
My husband works for the Ministry
of Defence.
How interesting.
It's interesting for him all right, but the money's not much.
I'm sure the prestige is a compensation.
You can't have a fling on prestige.
Hong Kong is certainly a little expensive.
So's everywhere, I find! Excuse me, but are you sort of -- I mean fully Chinese?
I was born here. That makes me a British subject.
Oh isn't that nice I Pushover.
He was staying at this hotel too, and knew London quite well. She ought to look up his brother when she got back, he must give her the address. The Chinese Embassy-just a temporary post.
She'd found his brother charming, and discreet, and extraordinarily generous. Because of his love for the British.
Then Hong Kong again for their next vacation and this time a prearranged contact and a blazing row in their hotel, what did she think she was doing, she wasn't doing anything except wasting the best years of her life tied to a man who couldn't even do it more than once a month and couldn't give her any money so she could at least buy a few new dresses and try to look like a woman somebody loved, but this would be treason, oh don't be so bloody dramatic, the Chinks haven't got anything against us, it's India they're scared of now it's got the bomb, he told me, they're a poor country and this thing you're working on would cut their costs of defence down to a tenth, oh all right, we've talked quite a lot together, so what, and listen, will you, do you know how much they'd pay us for a. few months' work, just as a technical adviser? Better get ready for it, George. A hundred thousand pounds.
He sat with his head down, toying with some kind of fruit mush in a waxed hygienic cup.
'I haven't had time to think,' he said quietly.
He meant he hadn't had time to think about what I'd told him out there on deck with the riveter hammering away.
I haven't had time to think.
You'd have to give me longer than that.
How much longer?
I don't know. I'd have to think.
Egerton sitting there on the edge of the table by the voice spectograph, telling them to do the whole series again and double check.
Tewson's voice.
I wondered where they'd bugged him. Somewhere in Hong Kong.
They'd been getting serious about George Henry Tewson, maybe a long time before they'd sent for me and put me down the hole. They wouldn't be too worried about the Chinese Republic setting up a cheap missile system: the UK was a small island at the wrong end of the telescope and the first targets in any kind of pre-emptive nuclear showdown would be the Soviet Union and India. But Tewson didn't have to stop at China. He'd got goods for sale and there were other potential buyers and some of them were in Europe and he could go from door to door a hundred thousand a knock and she'd think he was the most wonderful man in the world and that was what he wanted, all he wanted.
