'So, you are not a labor organizer?' 'No,' he admitted, 'I'm not.'
She stared hard at him and in that moment he understood how good she was. Her timing, expressions, control over the interview were extremely well managed. He was also aware that he had begun to sweat.
He knew what that meant: She had gotten to him-he was guilty, he had lied. This is why the pressure always works, he thought. You show them how you know they lied about one thing to force them into conceding they lied about another. He had used the same technique a thousand times. Now it was being used against him. And, to his great discomfort, he was discovering he could not resist. He wanted to confess to Captain Valdez.
He wanted to regain her trust.
'You are now, by your admission, in considerable trouble,' she said.
'The penalty for lying to an official of the government can be severe.'
Her amazing emerald eyes were glittering. He thought: She's the lepidopterist, I'm the insect. Now she's going to pin me to the board.
'If you insist, I will telephone your consul. In that case this interrogation will be terminated. You will be tried, perhaps as early as tonight. The immigration inspector and I will serve as witnesses.
This photocopy of your police identity card and the tape recording of your confession will be placed in evidence. The judge will find you guilty. The sentence will be'-she shrugged-'three years, perhaps four.'
She stared at him, licked her lips, then smiled. 'Our prisons are well known for their conditions. Perhaps you've read or heard.' She paused.
'That is one way we can proceed. '
She wasn't bluffing; that was her message. She was using all the leverage she had gained to force him to assist in his own destruction.
Janek looked at her. 'There is another?' She nodded. 'What do I have to do?'
'Simple,' she said. 'Tell me truthfully why you have come to Cuba.
Think about it.' She rose, picked up her file and tape recorder, then nodded to the guard. 'It would be best to decide before we speak again.'
She started toward the door. When she reached it she paused. For a moment Janek thought she was going to say something, but she left without looking back.
Head bagged, roughly shoved into a room, he felt the presence of other men. He heard them shuffling, and then, without a word, one tore off his smock and others began to rough him up.
They were methodical. One would hit him then shove him at another, who in turn would pummel him then shove him on to a third. This went on for approximately five minutes. Because he was blindfolded and was turned around many times, he lost his balance and fell.
When he was on the floor, they stood around him and kicked his body with their boots. But they were careful, he noted, not to strike him in the face or groin. In fact, he realized, after his initial terror, their kicks, like their blows, were light and not injurious. It was a symbolic beating. I They were not trying to hurt him; they were working to increase his sense of helplessness and fear.
How arrogant of me to think I could just come into this country and do as I liked. I came for you, Kit. Where are you now?
Locked back in his closet, he thought over his situation. A number of things were clear. First, he had no fights. He had lied to them, and because of that they felt entitled to treat him brutally.
Second, they had had only two opportunities to find his police ID: at the airport during his long wait for his luggage, and during the short period when he was out walking La Rampa. The airport was the more likely possibility had searched through his things before he went through immigration. Which meant that the moment he had lied to the inspector he had become a suspect. But of what ' he wondered. Why are they so concerned? Why do they think I'm here? Finally, he was disgusted by his reactions to what was happening to him-his detachment, curiosity, admiration of' their technique. It's like I'm on a danin busman's holiday. But then, considering the gravity of his situation (My God.!
I'm in a stinking Cuban jail!), he decided that his professional interest might be the one thing that was keeping him from panic. I 'Hey!
Gringo!' Tap-tap-tap. 'Gringo? You there'?' Tap-tap-tap. i The whisper and the tapping cut to him through the wall. The voice had a rasp. The speaker was in the adjoining closet, head down near the floor. 'I'm here.'
'Shhh! Not loud, gringo! Be careful. If they hear us they will beat us.
I have been beaten enough today.'
Janek pressed his ear against the wall. 'What's your name?'
'Ernesto. Yours?'
'Frank.'
'You are all right, Franco?'
'Yes.
You?'
'Not so good.' Pause. 'Who is your interrogator?'
'Valdez.'
'The woman? Dark skin? Green eyes?' Ernesto sounded excited. 'Yes.'
I 'Ah, my friend, you have bad luck. Her name is Violetta. She has no lover-this is what they say. Be careful. She is dangerous. She will never touch you herself but will order others to hurt you. They say she likes to give such orders. Everyone fears her here.'
'What did you do?'
'They will not tell me. They wait for me to tell them. This is their method. They break you and then you tell them everything.'
'I don't-'
'Shhhh!'
Janek heard steps approaching down the corridor. They stopped in front of Ernesto's closet. The guard yelled something in Spanish, kicked the door, then strutted back. After a while, Janek heard a cautious tap-tap-tap. He pressed his ear against the wall again. This time Ernesto's whisper was faint.
'Safer not to talk. Good luck, gringo. God keep you!'
Janek settled back against the wall. Of course it was a scam-well executed, too. Plant a fellow convict in the next closet, then have him tap-tap-tap you a message after you've been left to simmer after a beating for-how long had it been? Another twelve or fourteen hours?
With the right prisoner it could be effective. The question now was what was the message-what had Ernesto really meant to convey? It had to do with Violetta, he was sure-that she was not to be trifled with, and that, since he was certain to be broken sooner or later, he would do well to come clean with her at once.
Many hours later the muscular black guard opened his closet, threw a hunk of bread at him, then slammed the door shut.
Janek sniffed the bread. It smelled all right so he ate half of it. He wondered what time it was. He guessed it was night. He figured he'd been confined for at least two days. He curled up as best he could on the tiny floor.
I came here for you, Kit, he whispered to himself. Then he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
'Stand! '
The black guard stood in the doorway. Janek raised his head and blinked.
The harsh light that broke around him hurt his eyes.
The guard kicked him. 'Fast!'
Even before Janek had fully risen to his feet, the guard grabbed the back of his smock and yanked him out.
'Move! '
The ignominious shoving and bagging routine began again.
Violetta didn't bother to look up when the hood was removed from his head. She was reading her dossier and continued to read even as he sat facing her, waiting for the interrogation to begin.
Since she refused to acknowledge him, there was nothing to do but try to read her document upside down. It was in Spanish, so he gave up. But then she turned a page and he felt heat rising to his cheeks. There was a color Polaroid stapled to the page-a photo of himself, head bagged, lying naked on the stained tile floor. They must have taken it just after they beat him.
