something to wear.'
The time had come to take a stand. He would not assist in his own degradation. He stood facing them with as much dignity as he could summon, considering that his head and upper face were encased in a hood buckled to his neck.
'You refuse. Very well. We will assist you.'
There was nothing sadistic or even exasperated in Fonseca's voice, just the flat intonation of a cop doing his job. He gave his orders in Spanish and then Janek felt large hands grasping at his body. Someone roughly opened his shirt, popping off the buttons. Someone else pulled off his watch. A third man unclasped his belt, then harshly extracted it. After they stripped off his shirt, they handcuffed him again, pushed him down to the floor, grabbed hold of his legs, then tugged off his shoes, socks and pants. He did not fight them but resisted by going limp. That didn't slow them down. They yanked off his underpants with the dispatch of men who stripped prisoners every day.
Lying on his back on the cold tile floor, his cuffed wrists crushed beneath him, he sensed them standing in a tight circle around him and assumed that they were staring down. Yes, he was certain, they were studying him, a middle-aged captive lying helpless, hooded, naked, at their feet. And their faces, he guessed, reflected a certain repugnance, too, a certain distaste, for, he knew, he could not be a pretty sight.
He could smell himself, an aroma of sweat and fear coming off his body, which was probably inducing expressions of mockery and derision on the faces of the men above. He had seen far better men than them wear the victor's smirk. He had even worn it himself occasionally and so knew its purpose-to mask a bully's shame.
Now he sat on the floor of the tall locked closet lit only by the red bulb. His wrists were no longer cuffed, his head was no longer bagged, but he wore a particularly humbling garment, a kind of hospital gown secured by a single clasp behind his neck. It left a good part of his back and buttocks exposed and its skirt barely covered his thighs.
He heard footsteps approaching, then a key turning in the lock.
Crouching back against the wall, he felt like an animal cornered in a cage.
'Stand!
The order came from a muscular black man wearing an unmarked khaki uniform. He had a thick, bushy mustache and poorly shaved, heavily pitted cheeks. The timbre of his voice, cold and abrupt, was different than Fonseca's. He thought: This one's a guard, not a cop. 'I demand to see the American consul.'
'Stand! ' Janek took his time getting to his feet. 'Turn!
Janek turned slowly. The man snapped cuffs over his wrists, then yanked him backward out of the closet.
'Move!
'Where?'
'Move! '
The guard placed his hands on Janek's back and shoved him hard. Janek stumbled.
'Fast! '
The man pushed him again. Understanding he had no choice, Janek obeyed.
The man continued to shove him down a long corridor lined with doors.
More closet cells, Janek thought. At the end of the corridor he faced a steel door enclosing a small thick window of wired glass. His guard reached over his shoulder and banged on the door. The face of a second guard, older, lighter-skinned, appeared in the window. He stared at Janek, nodded and unlocked the door. As soon as it was open, Janek felt the hard hands of his escort on his back.
'In! '
Another shove as Janek staggered through the doorway into a room with a stained teffa-cotta tile floor. He thought: This was probably where they pulled off my clothes.
His escort grasped his arms while the older guard approached him with the head bag. This was the first time Janek had seen it. Although he knew they were going to put it on him again and despised the thought, he couldn't help himself-he peered closely to see how it was made.
Constructed of dark brown leather, it was shaped to fit over his entire head except for the nostrils and mouth. It looked much like an old aviator's helmet, except that the flap, which would normally extend only to the top of the forehead, had been cut lower to cover the prisoner's eyes.
As the older guard approached, he grinned sheepishly as if to say 'Sorry, these are the rules.' Janek smelled the oil again, then realized with disgust that he had unconsciously bowed his head to make it easier for the guard to put it on.
He thought: Prisoner for only a day and already I'm trying to help.
Her eyes! That was his first reaction when his guard pulled the hood off his head and he found himself face-to face with his interrogator.
The woman possessed a kind of bizarre beauty, he thought. Her eyes, a pair of smoldering emeralds, glowed out of her gaunt, dark face. Her chocolate-colored skin looked smooth as satin and her cheekbones were exceedingly high. Thin, sinewy, she held herself straight in her chair behind a little wooden desk. Her hands were clasped in front of her on top of a closed folder. As she switched on a portable tape recorder, he noticed that her nails were painted camouflage-green.
Janek looked around. His guard, expressionless, stood just behind his stool. Janek turned back to face his interrogator. She wore the same khaki uniform he'd seen on the guards, but with red dashes on the epaulets. She was inspecting him, her eyes moving slowly down his body.
His smock was bunched up beneath him, partially exposing his genitals to view. He wanted to squirm, but fought the impulse. The whole situation, the way he was dressed and seated, had been contrived to make him feel devalued and insecure.
'I am Captain Valdez,' she said, raising her eyes. 'An officer of the Agency for State Security.' Her English was formal and barely accented.
'You will address me as Captain.'
Janek stared back. He did not want to reveal his fascination with what was happening and the strange way this woman was forcing him to view himself. It was odd to be on the other end of an interrogation. He thought: So this is what it's like. But he knew that if Captain Valdez was experienced, she would pick up on his interest and use it against him. His best policy, he felt, was to ignore all attempts at intimidation. He resolved to maintain his dignity no matter how scornfully she might behave.
'There are two ways an interrogation such as this can go,' Valdez said.
'Friendly or hostile. We can work as partners or become antagonists.
It depends on you.' She stared at him. 'Have you been mistreated?'
'I was hit and pushed around. Your people took my clothes and watch.'
'That's standard. Anything else?' Her voice was impatient, her tone clipped.
'I asked to see the American consul. They hit me in the mouth for that.'
'They did not understand.'
'They understood. Now I'm asking you. I want to see my consul. I have that right.'
She ran her tongue slowly over her lips. 'Perhaps.'
So, it's going to be like that. He wasn't surprised. The important thing now was to find out why he was there. He wriggled on the stool, trying to ease himself into a few more inches of smock. She watched his struggle with a smile.
He looked into her eyes. 'Why am I here?'
'You know why.'
He shook his head. 'I have no idea.'
'You lied to an immigration officer. Just as in your country-lying to an official here is a crime.'
'I did not lie to her.' 'You told her you had come to Cuba for tourism.'
'That's true.' 'You told her your profession was labor organizer. But in your suitcase we found this.' She laid the photocopy of his police ID on the table. When she spoke again, her tone was contemptuous. 'This is your true profession, isn't it, Lieutenant?'
So… they'd been to his room, searched his luggage, which meant they'd also found the ink pad and the blank fingerprint form he'd brought to ID Tania.
'Yes,' he said, 'I'm a police detective. I work for the city of New York.'
