He glanced at the image, then, burning with anger, turned away. He looked terrible, like some kind of thing lying there, naked and exposed, red splotches over his body. To be photographed like that, in such a state of vulnerability, and then to have the picture examined by this woman while he sat before her in this ridiculous revealing smock… it was too much. He thought of what Ernesto had said: They break you and then you tell them everything.
He told her everything. There was no need to withhold a single detail.
His only need was to convince her that he had not come to Cuba for any political purpose and was no threat to its regime.
As the Mendoza story poured out of him, he gazed steadily into her cold green eyes. They revealed nothing, which only spurred him to be more truthful, more precise, more sincere.
Occasionally she interrupted to ask a question, but most of the time she simply listened. When her tape ran out she held up her hand, flipped the cassette, then motioned him to continue. He guessed that he had spoken for nearly an hour before she signaled that she had heard enough.
Again, just before she left the room, she paused as if she had something to add. He watched her back as she stood still in the doorway. Then, as before, she left without a word.
Perhaps he spent another full day in his closet. There was no way to know. He ate the bread they threw at him and drank the water, and sat on the floor trying to imagine how, if he were a Cuban investigator, he would go about checking out his story. The only way that he could think of was to go straight to Tania Figueras.
Later, he thought about Sarah, the way she'd looked through the window of the Praha-so calm, svelte-and then the glow of greed in her eyes when she'd told him she needed more money. He thought of the way she'd snickered when she boasted that 'a little bird' had told her he was being sent to Cuba, and the sadness in her eyes when she'd warned him about Mendoza: 'It will only bring you pain… He was dozing when he felt a prod. He opened his eyes to find Fonseca bending over him.
'Your story is true, Lieutenant Janek.' Fonseca spoke without expression, without severity. 'We confused you with someone else, someone who might have come here with a less innocent purpose. You must understand, the moment you lied to our immigration officer we had no choice-we had to find out why you had come.'
Janek nodded.
'Your clothes will be brought to you and then you will be taken to your hotel. Even now they are sewing back your buttons. Tomorrow you will meet with a detective from the Urban Police. I have spoken to him and he is ready to assist you.' Fonseca offered his hand. Janek took it.
'Enjoy your stay in Cuba, Lieutenant.' For the first time Fonseca smiled. 'I doubt we will meet again.'
Janek felt cleansed as he rode back to the Habana Libre in an unmarked Seguridad car driven by a silent driver. The deserted night streets were dimly lit and the bay of Havana, smooth as glass, reflected the light of a three-quarter moon.
Yes, he felt cleansed, although he was not physically clean at all; his body was sore, he had not shaved or washed and the stink of imprisonment was still upon him. Rather, it was the sensation of having come clean that suffused him. For years he had employed the purgative effect of confession in his work, holding it out, in interrogations, like a cool glass of water, telling suspects how good they would feel and how clean, once they owned up to what they had done. Now he was experiencing that sensation. How else could he explain his feelings of calm and innocence?
He had lied, had come into their country under false pretenses. But now his lies were purged. He had been punished. Now he could go on about his work unsullied.
The King Is Dead i:.!
There were days when, no matter in which direction she turned, she would find herself facing her own reflection… The rows of mirrors along the wall doubled the space in the room in which thirty women, bodies honed, exercised in unison. The instructor, a rail-thin redhead dressed in no nonsense workout clothes, led the drill.
'Higher! Higher! Higher!' she ordered, ponytail bouncing. 'Impact!
Impact! Impact!
Gelsey, in the back row, center, pranced to the commands. Panting, sweating into her leotard, exhilarated by her own incipient exhaustion, she couldn't take her eyes off the images dancing across the mirrors ahead. Faces, torsos, arms, legs-limbs scissored and eyes flashed.
Tails of hair swung like whips. Thirty pairs of twins performed synchronous jumping jacks. 'Up-down! Up- down! Higher! Higher!
Higher!'
Gelsey was not the only one to regard the reflections. The entire class watched itself, for the silvered glass seduced. The wall of mirrors became a huge screen inspiring effort and discipline. It was like being in a theater, performing and watching at the same time-thirty female narcissist, each regarding and loving her own reflection, each asking:
'Mirror, mirror on the wall/Who is the fairest one of all?'
On the edge of fatigue, Gelsey wanted only to merge with her mirror image, meet her dream-sister on the glass. But, understanding mirrors, she knew that although one can stand outside looking in, or inside looking out, to linger on the surface plane is impossible.
'Higher! Higher! Higher!' the instructor cried.
After aerobics she met up with Tracy. They grabbed towels, mopped off, strolled together past men and women working out with weights. There were mirrors in the locker room, too, big ones over the sinks.
'Some class!' said Tracy when they reached their lockers. 'That Ms.
Ponytail's a real bitch!'
Gelsey pulled off her damp leotard. 'Don't be a wimp. She gives us our money's worth.'
'Wimp! Give me a break, Gelsey.' Tracy stared at her, pretending to be angry. Then suddenly she beamed. She was a small true blonde with a pretty face, features good but not quite good enough to allow her to earn her living as a model.
She was also the only one of Diana's girls whom Gelsey saw-not that they had all that much in common besides a devotion to high-impact aerobics.
Still, their time together under Diana had forged a bond. Gelsey knew that Tracy respected her-for her expertise at the game and for daring to leave Diana and strike out on her own. She had her suspicions as to why Tracy kept up the friendship. It had occurred to her that Diana had put Tracy up to it, to spy, to make sure that she didn't home in on the easy marks and that she kept her distance from the hotels. Still, Gelsey preferred to think Tracy was genuinely fond of her.
'So, what's going on with you lately?' Tracy asked. Towels wrapped about their bodies, they walked toward the shower room, passing a lightly steamed mirror. 'Good scores? Bad scenes?' Tracy giggled.
'Actually, we had a lulu the other night.'
They stood beneath adjoining showerheads, a tiled shoulder-high partition between them. Gelsey closed her eyes, reveling in the sharp sting of the water against her back.
'What happened?'
'Remember the new black girl I told you about?'
'Sooky?'
Tracy nodded. 'She was over at the St. Moritz hitting up on a Jap. He had all the signs-diamond ring, Rolex, solid-gold lighter, the whole bit. So, comes time to go upstairs, Sooky's slobbering. Guy looks like Mr. Bucks. In the elevator she's already tasting the score, maybe thinking how she can screw Diana out of most of it.' Tracy laughed.
'I know what's coming.' Gelsey stepped out of the stream of hot water, started to soap up.
'Do you, now?'
'He was a plant. He worked for the hotel.'
Tracy gazed at her through the spray. 'How come you're so smart?' 'You said it was a lulu. Anyway, the guy sounded too good to be true.'
'Sometimes you'll meet a Mr. Bucks like that.'
Gelsey gazed back. 'Sure. Like Kirstin did, remember? Remember what that cost her?'
Tracy turned away. 'I'll never forget.'
'Diana wants you never to forget. That was the point of the exercise.
