“Everyone attached to the embassy has to undergo a polygraph test until the apparent inside source is found; even you, pointless though it will be.”
Another indication that Smith was accepting defeat in his battle to retain the directorship of MI5 from the internal maneuverings of Jeffrey Smale. “If I don’t answer a question honestly-which I might not be able to do if I think it impinges upon my function, which you’ve ordered me not to discuss with anyone, there will be a reading indicating that I am lying,” Charlie resisted, desperately.
“That will be taken into consideration, of course,” assured the other man. “And Robertson’s people have been told that no questions should be phrased that might lead to that particular conflict of interest.”
He had a possible escape, Charlie recognized. But the uncertainties were too many and too great. This was probably going to be the biggest test ever to discover if he were as smart as the smart-ass he’d always prided himself upon being. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Hopefully with something worthwhile from what you’re there to do, for which I seem to be asking every time we talk.”
“Let me explain the procedure-” managed a polygraph technician before Charlie broke in, “I know the procedure. Arm cuff, chest strap and hand-palm sensors, only yes or no answers and the first question is usually whether I masturbate to which everyone says they don’t and gets a lie reading that proves the machine is working properly, so my answer is I did a lot once, when I was younger, but not so much now.”
The technician didn’t look up from attaching the band around Charlie’s chest. “That comfortable?”
“Fine.”
“It’s better if you relax and don’t let yourself get uptight.”
“I know.” The inquiry panel had all left the room by the time Charlie returned, leaving him alone with the two technicians. The one whom Charlie guessed to be the questioner was sitting facing him, going through a list of questions on a clipboard while his colleague hooked Charlie up to the machine, which was between him and the questioner, positioned so that it would be impossible for Charlie to see any movement or to register from the attached computer-screen tracing its peaks and troughs. Charlie wondered where the film and audio apparatus was, among everything else.
“You ready?” asked the questioner, looking up from his clipboard. He wore a woolen sweater beneath a tightly buttoned jacket and had a spare pen in a special holder on his clipboard.
“When you are.” He had to find a way out, an explanation for the inevitable spike that would show up a lie.
“Is your name Charles Edward Muffin?”
“Yes.”
“Are you an operative of an organization known as MI5, Britain’s internal counterintelligence agency?”
He had reason for the wrong answer, Charlie realized. “No.”
There was a pause from the questioner. “Do you tell lies?”
“Yes.” How would that be recorded? wondered Charlie, the wisp of an idea threading its way into his mind.
“Was your previous answer a lie?”
“No.”
There was another hesitation. “Do you lie to your superiors?”
“Yes.” Charlie believed he could see an escape, actually available to him by the one-word answer restrictions.
“Are you an honest man?”
“No.” That had to show as a truthful response.
“Are you proud of what you do?”
“Yes.” Charlie decided he was confusing the questioner, which was precisely what he wanted to do.
“Have you ever come into contact with or had dealings with members of a foreign intelligence service?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t endangered by the question that could have encompassed Natalia.
“Have you ever cooperated with a member of a foreign intelligence service?”
“Yes.”
The technician shifted awkwardly in his facing chair. “Have you cooperated with a member of a foreign intelligence agency within the last month?”
“Yes.” He hoped to Christ it worked.
“Have you ever betrayed your country to a foreign intelligence service or agent?”
“No.”
“Have you ever accepted money, financial rewards, or any benefit in kind from a member of a foreign intelligence agency?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware of listening devices, bugs, being installed within this embassy?” There was impatience in the man’s voice now.
“Yes.”
“Did you have any prior knowledge of those devices being installed in this embassy before they were discovered?”
“No.”
“Have you any knowledge of how those devices were installed in this embassy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you kept that knowledge from your superiors?”
“No.” The questioner was visibly flushed, suspecting he was being mocked: Charlie was surprised it had been so easy.
“Do you believe there to be an informant to a foreign intelligence agency within this embassy?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who that informant is?”
“No.”
“Have you ever served a term of imprisonment?”
“Yes.”
“Were you guilty of the crime for which you served that term of imprisonment?”
“No.”
“Were you subsequently pardoned?”
“No.” The other man’s exasperation was palpable.
“Do you regard this polygraph examination as a joke?”
“No!” What about remaining relaxed and not getting upright? reflected Charlie, noting the frown toward the questioner from the man who’d attached him to the sensors.
“Has every answer you have given been an honest one?” insisted the questioner, close to a repeat of an earlier demand.
He was rattled to buggery, which would show on the tracing replay of the computer tracing, Charlie knew. “Yes.”
“Enough!” decided the questioner, abruptly snapping off the machine, nodding to the other technician to disconnect Charlie from the sensors. “That was ridiculous!”
“What are you talking about?” asked Charlie, in feigned surprise.
“You know damned well what I’m talking about. You were taking the piss, from start to finish.”
“I was doing nothing of the sort!” denied Charlie.
“I can’t wait to hear the reaction of the panel.”
“Neither can I,” said Charlie, which was another honest response.
He only had to wait thirty minutes for his escorted recall-two men this time, the first indication of what was to come-from his tiny office, knowing the reception to expect the moment he crossed the threshold of the inquiry room. The panel sat with what had to be individual printouts of the polygraph before them. There were separate sheets of paper with what Charlie hoped to be copies of the questions to which he’d responded. There were
