The only question that really worried me was the one about Buff. That was one thing I couldn't, wouldn't, tell this bastard; I knew what would happen to her if I did.
“Frontón, I can tell you. But that's about all."
I looked around the room seeing it for the first time. I heard Villamantes saying, “You are foolish to be stubborn,” but I was looking at his room, his office. The only word that popped into my mind right away was “creepy.” It wasn't much at first, just an impression, helped by a few objects in the room. Things an ordinary guy wouldn't have around.
A couple of them were pictures on the stone walls. One, a nude woman on a cross, with spikes in her hands and feet, the mark of knife wounds in her body, one breast slashed nearly off and hanging down on her stomach, blood streaming from it and a dozen other wounds, her mouth stretched wide. The other one I didn't get at first, couldn't figure. It looked like a modern thing, one of those surrealist idiocies, but then I saw the detail, saw what it was. It was scores of tiny figures, dismembered, arms and legs and thighs and heads and breasts and bits of bloody flesh, all thrown together like the Polish corpses buried by their Russian murderers in Katyn Forest. It made my insides crawl to look at it.
He was studying my reaction. I interested him immensely. “That is my favorite,” he said. “And this is pleasant, too."
It was one of the other things I'd seen, a statue no more than four inches high sitting on his desk next to a dial phone that looked out of place here. It was a plaster snake rising in coils to its distended head with the forked tongue flicking out of the red mouth. You had to look closely to see the body crushed in the coils, the hand and leg oozing from the metallic scales like toothpaste from a tube.
And then I saw the real ones, the rattlesnakes, the living ones of which General Lopez once had spoken. They were in a box on a stand against the wall on my left. The box was about three feet wide and deep, and half that high, with one glass-walled side. It was like an aquarium with polished wooden sides and one glass face, but inside the box, curling and writhing behind the glass like eels or maggots, were the ugly snakes, a dozen or more of them. I shut my eyes involuntarily, a chili running up and down my spine, like snake scales crawling there.
He chuckled. “You don't like my pets, Mr. Scott? They have killed eleven men. It is not a nice way to die. But I like this one even better.” He caressed the statue with his hand. The guy was mad, insane. Normal, maybe, in most ways, with sanity in his appearance and his voice, but still insane.
His voice got sharper. “Now perhaps you'll tell me. Quickly, Mr. Scott."
“Well, like I said, I can explain about the Frontón. Perhaps you already know.” Maybe if I gave him a little at a time, I could drag it out. Man, I thought, I've really had it. There wasn't a prayer that I'd get out of here by myself; the solitary hope was that the General's maid was on my side and would get word to the General who could fly over with an atom bomb or something. This was assuming the maid was O.K., and the General still loved me, and enough other things to just about make my position impossible.
“I mean,” Villamantes said, “where is the girl? This Buff?"
“I thought you had her."
Villamantes glanced at the two men who were still behind my back. “You don't have to stay. You may leave Mr. Scott with me.” He smiled. “You see? I am not so bad.” For just a second I thought: maybe this bastard is so nuts he's not going to poke my eyes out. Then he looked again at the men and, still smiling, said, “Of course, I would not wish you to be very active, Mr. Scott.” He said something in Spanish.
Oh, oh, I thought—and that was all I thought. I felt the first blow, maybe the second, but no more than that. When I came to it wasn't with a sense of complete disorientation; I knew where I was. I was on the floor of Villamantes’ office. My face was resting on the carpet. The simple way to say it is that I hurt. It wasn't localized; I hurt all over, everywhere. Villamantes must really have gotten some kicks watching his boys work me over.
I must have moved, because Villamantes’ voice reached me. “Get up, Mr. Scott. Try it.” And for the first time I noticed something different about his voice, an added tenseness, excitement maybe, even twisted pleasure. Unless I was imagining it. Then he spoke again, and it was there all right.
I moved my head, started to push myself up. I couldn't make it at first. Pain darted through my left shoulder; they must have twisted hell out of it. Finally I got my right hand under me, surprised that I wasn't still bound, pushed a little, rolled over on my side.
I got my knees under me. “You sonofabitch, Villamantes.” I looked around, noticed we were alone in the room. Good. He had a gun, but I'd jump at him and knock him down and kick him, then run out and knock down ten or twelve guys and high-jump over the wall and float off into space strumming my harp. All this after about six weeks in bed. “You insane sonofabitch, Villamantes."
“I thought you knew my name. Now, where is the girl?"
I shook my head as if dazed. I was dazed. “Monique?” I asked thickly. “I dunno. Just a minute.” I shook my head again, got to my feet. My left shoulder hurt like hell. I could still use the arm, even wiggle the fingers, but I wasn't going to be cutting up with any fancy left jabs.
He looked at me for a moment. “No, not Monique. That later, but first the Buffington girl.” He paused. “You are not stupid, Mr. Scott. Observe this. I know that Captain Emilio has not reported at the police station—or to me. Nor has Monique arrived, nor the man who was with her—driving the car in which you so unfortunately were in a collision. Observe only that—and there is much more about which I will let you guess for now. Naturally you know where the girl is—the conclusion would be obvious even for a stupid man. And I speak frankly; I am extremely intelligent.” He paused. “And inventive. I know many ways of persuading you to tell me what is in your brain.” He smiled. “Must I open your skull and tickle your brain to learn what is in it?"
Somehow I didn't think that was just a figure of speech. I thought of little round saw blades buzzing, slicing into my skull.
Suddenly he shrugged and what he said next surprised me. “Well, I shall let you think of that. And rest, Mr. Scott. Perhaps when you have rested you will speak freely.” He walked over and banged on the door. The two guys came in. I thought they were going to beat me up again, but he spoke to them and they led me out. Maybe he really was going to let me rest and think. But he had to have some kind of angle.
The men led me out of the big room, down a narrow hall to a door which they opened and shoved me through. A light burned in the room and I saw another man sit up on a cot in the corner as the door slammed behind me. It was Doctor Buffington.
For a moment neither of us spoke, then he said, “Shell! My God, how did it happen?” He looked older and terribly tired. His eyes were red and his clothing wrinkled, the goatee straggled. He got up from the cot and hobbled toward me, moving painfully.
“Doctor,” I said, but he interrupted.
“My baby, my Buff. Have you seen her? Is she all right? What have they done to her?"
“She's—” I stopped. I thought I'd figured out Villamantes’ angle. “I'm sorry. Doctor,” I said quickly. “I don't know. That insane bastard Villamantes asked me the same thing. He's mad.” I looked around the room for pictures, big ashtrays, anything that might hide a mike. Maybe I was dreaming, but Villamantes hadn't put me here for fun.
I hated to see what happened to the Doctor's face, though. When I told him I didn't know how Buff was his face sagged, his shoulders drooped. Then he frowned. “What—what do you mean, he asked you the same thing?"
I shook my head. “He did, that's all. I've been in his hair and he seems to think I know the answers to everything. As a matter of fact, I do know some answers. Did you know Monique was one of the bastards. Doctor?"
He didn't even hear me. He was wringing his hands. “I haven't seen her tonight. They may have killed her. My baby, my baby."
It was ugly to see, but hi
s emotion was real and deep. And he had, I knew, been through his own particular hell here. Then his face twisted and the tears rolled from his eyes. He started crying audibly, sobbing, a broken old man, tired, worried, sick and hurt. “My baby,” he sobbed, “my Buff. Oh, my God, my God.” He put his hands to his bald head and squeezed, his thin face contorted.
I couldn't stand to see the old guy going to pieces right in front of me. “Sit down. Doctor,” I said. I walked to him and put my arm over his shoulder, led him toward the cot. I put my mouth next to his ear and whispered, “She's all right. Keep your mouth shut. They might be listening. She's out of here and O.K."
He straightened suddenly, started to speak, then saw my finger on my lips. “Sit down,” I said. “Don't go to pieces. Talk. Tell me what they've done to you, made you do."
He just stared at me, hope in his moist red eyes. I nodded my head frantically and said, “They made you do their filthy work for them, didn't they, Doc? Did they hurt Buff?"
That snapped him out of it. “Yes. They did.” He started talking steadily.
They left me with him about fifteen minutes. He told me they picked him up outside Monte Cassino, when he got into a too-handy cab. A block away the cab stopped, two other men got in and they'd brought him here. Slick, easy. He told me about the formula, that his work now was to concentrate the stuff, make it more deadly, squeeze more death into smaller quantities—and to simplify the formula if possible—make it more suitable for mass production.
He added, “And they want me to alter the structure a little, if I can. So that all the symptoms will still be induced in the victims, but without permanently disabling them, without killing them. I don't know why, and I'm not at all sure I can—"
He went on talking, but I didn't hear the last words. Maybe the Doctor didn't know why, but I did—suddenly, with the clarity and certainty of absolute conviction. Because today I had experienced those chemically induced symptoms, had known the fear approaching panic, the weakness and doubt, the confusion and nagging anxiety—all of the things the Russian leaders and their Communist fifth column in the United States had for decades been trying to instill in the people of the United States. They had been trying to do it through the spoken and written word, with threats and rocket rattling, bluff and bluster, lies and distortions, the attempt to substitute collectivist weakness and one-worldism for American individualism and patriotism. They had been trying, through subversion and propaganda, to do the things which Doctor Buffington's drug could do chemically.
I told him that and more, speaking in a rush, keyed up and pacing back and forth in the room. Then I turned to him and added, “It goes clear back to Lenin, Doctor, one of the Communist gods. An idol with head of clay. He said the enemy must be weakened, softened up in advance—paralyze the enemy's will to resist, saturate him with defeatism, confuse him, keep him off balance, demoralize him. Then you can win without firing a shot or dropping a bomb. And that's what they want—they want the loot intact, including the people. And we're the enemy, we're the enemy people. Up till now they've tried to win the war by filling us with fear—of the bomb, phony fallout and radiation scares, lies about Russian strength and achievements, smiles followed by threats. It's the art of modern revolutionary propaganda, Doctor, moral and mental subversion, a planned and deliberate pattern for panic—and surrender."
I stopped pacing, sat down by him again. “What they hope you can do is make it easier for them. And quicker. That's all."
He blinked at me. “I—don't know. I haven't had time to think—"
“Well, think of it now. Think of your drug placed in a nation's water supply. Openly, like fluorine, or by acts of sabotage. Or even into the nation's bloodstream, by brainwashing the people into believing it's a cure for Abyssinian itch. Or in rocket warheads, insecticide bombs. Any way, just so it reaches the people."
His face looked gray. “I see,” he said. “Yes, I see."
“Then you see you can't go on with it, can't make it easier for them. No matter what pressures they use on you."
He swallowed. “I'm afraid—” he said. “I'm afraid I already have. Enough. Enough."
We were silent for a full minute. The nervous energy that had been a stimulus during these last minutes drained out of me. And I thought of Villamantes again.
If he wasn't listening to this, it didn't make any difference what I said. But if he was, I decided I'd better let out a few trickles of information from time to time. Not only so he'd leave me in here, but also in the hope that he would believe I was talking freely—and that I'd told him the truth when I swore I didn't know where Buff was.
Besides, the longer he left me alone the less chance he'd have to torture the truth out of me, and the more time the General would have to get here—if he was coming. I didn't relish the idea of men sawing at my brain, anyway.
So I repeated what I'd earlier said to Buffington. “Monique's one of them, Doctor."
His reaction was delayed. Then he said, “Monique?"
“Yeah. She was apparently in it from the beginning, Doc. Clear back in July."
He smiled wryly. “It was only about a week after my chimpanzees died that she met Buff. She did ask me many questions, I remember. I enjoyed talking to her; she was intelligent, attentive."
“I'll bet she was attentive."
And then the door opened behind me. Villamantes said, “Are you rested, Mr. Scott?"
Chapter Eighteen
The next half hour, or however long it took them, was a blurred and ugly, pain-filled fragment of time. It was like the moment when the truck had smashed against my car, turning it over, a whirling, crashing, drawn-out second, only this time pain distorted everything, confused everything.
After the beginning I was never fully conscious. I was aware enough to feel the hurt, hear the questions and speak, but never in possession of all my senses. I remember once, after a wrenching pain in my left shoulder, yelling and cursing Villamantes, cursing his pleasant, interested face hanging nearby in the air above me.
I was in the big room I'd entered first. I wasn't bound; even if I could have gotten to my feet, I couldn't have walked to the front door, much less run. And several men were near, a few men in business suits contrasting oddly with the slow-moving, dark-skinned, blank-faced indios, their bare feet silent on the floor as they walked past, like zombies, their faces expressionless.
Villamantes kept saying at intervals that I could rest now, there would be no more questioning for a while—and at first I believed him, let my hopes rise. But always it was a lie, and my spirits would plunge even lower than before, my depression deepening. It was like his telling me in the beginning that the men would leave me alone with him, then having them beat me up; raising my spirits and then dashing them lower than before until I expected nothing more and was grateful for the slightest concession or respite. It was an old Pavlovian trick, a Russian technique, as effective in torture as in summit talks.
In a momentary pause I tried to gather my strength. I would have to tell him something soon, or I'd be so weak, my mind so befuddled, that I might say the things I was determined not to say. The time to speak was when Villamantes thought I'd broken, but while I still had control of my words and thoughts. I saw Villamantes nod, and it all began again. I felt the pain in my shoulder, felt fire sear my right hand and arm. I was naked except for my shorts and I felt pain writhe my body, and then there was more of the pain, and finally I told them to stop.
I talked, but I kept one thought in my swimming brain: that I didn't know where Buff was, that I honestly didn't, that I couldn't tell him where she was even if I wanted to, because I didn't know. All the time I talked, in a wonderful relief from pain, I repeated that one thought over and over to myself. But I told him all the rest: Amador, Emilio, Monique and the driver. But I said that the truck had hit me then. I had never seen the Center before I was brought here. And almost as much as the thought of Buff, I kept the thought of my phoning General Lopez out of my mind. I did
n't tell Villamantes of that either; it was the only hope I had to cling to. It was difficult to remember now if I had talked to the General or to someone else. I recalled Lopez saying I could be assured of his help. But that had been this morning; tonight I had talked to someone else—the maid. I remembered now. She must have told him; that was the thought, the hope I clung to.
Villamantes never touched me, only watched, but his men finally overdid it and I fell into blackness. When I came out of it I saw Monique with Villamantes, talking to him. Captain Emilio, his head huge and white from the bandage around it, squatted near me. I ran my tongue along my teeth. I still had them all. Emilio noticed my movement and grinned. I saw a heavy-jowled face, a man with a thick shock of black hair, and it took me a long time to realize it was the man I'd seen in the Countess’ movie. Jaime something or other—he must have been hiding out here at the Center. Monique and Villamantes continued to talk, occasionally looking at me.
I remember that Doctor Buffington was brought through the room, two men holding him, pulling him. And he shouted violently at Villamantes that he wouldn't work for him any more, that they could kill him, but he'd do no more work for them.
My mind functioned sluggishly, but I knew what that would mean to Villamantes. The threat of torture to Buff had been used to make the Doctor work; he now refused to work—so he must know Buff was safe.
Villamantes walked over and squatted near me. “I thought you must have told him, Mr. Scott. Even though you were clever, careful in the room with him. Can you hear me?"
“I can hear you."
“Do not feel depressed that the Doctor gave your secret away. It is all right."
I was used to the bastard now. I waited for him to go on.
“You see,” he said, “it was obvious that you were the man who took her from here. I had only to look at your trousers, your hands. Torn on the glass of the wall. I knew what that meant as soon as I saw you. Tell me where the girl is."
Pattern for Panic Page 18
