With the arrival of each new officer at the Department of Public Security's interrogation cells, so the demand for confession grew, so the screw was turned.
By the time that the Colonel reached the basement cells, the Kurd, and it was all he prayed to his God for, was close to death.
The Colonel had seen the carnage inflicted by the traversing machine guns on the human waves of the enemy outside Basra.
He had seen the heads of men blown apart by revolver fire; he had seen the kicking death throes of those hanged from make-shift gallows. But even the Colonel was nauseated, felt the bile rise in his throat, when he saw what had been done to the Kurd.
They had taken the fingernails from his hands, the toenails from his feet. They had beaten the soles of his feet with rubber truncheons. They had used the al-mangana, the clamp on his toes that was tightened. They had torn off one of his ears. They had pounded his penis to a bloodied prune. The cell echoed with the Colonel's fury. He had the Kurd taken down from the manacles that suspended him from the ceiling. He demanded that the doctor be brought immediately. He had no feeling for the Kurd, but he had uncontrolled anger for those who had supervised an interrogation that had lost them their suspect.
The Kurd had not talked. And even as he was lowered from the ceiling, his prayer was answered and, sinking deeper into wave after wave of pain, he died. It was 21 hours since his arrest.
The Colonel demanded continued discreet surveillance of the post-restante box. It was all they had. He promised a charge of treason for any man who failed in his duty.
There was a knock. His door opened. It was Boll in the doorway.
' A h, Frederick, you have a moment?'
Funny, but actually he wasn't frightened of the man any more.
They would make him suffer when it was discovered that he had lost a Senior Scientific Officer.
'What can I do for you, Reuben?' He heard the coolness in his own voice. There had been times when he had stood up when Boll came into his room.
'That man who came… '
'What about him?'
'I wanted you to know that I thought his investigation here disgraceful.'
'I expect that he would have said that he was only doing his job. .. '
'That is extraordinarily reasonable.'
'… Nevertheless, I told him to get the hell out.'
' Y o u told him to get out?'
' O h, yes. That's what I told him. He went too far, frankly.
I'm not sure I didn't offer him some violence. Anyway, he went, as instructed.'
He saw the surprise on Boll's face. 'I just wanted you to know that you had my sympathy.'
'Thank you, Reuben.'
' O h, and you should know that I rated your paper very highly.
Good work… '
'Thank you again, Reuben. I hope you have a pleasant trip to the United States.'
He stared at the closing door.
If he went fast, if he went when Colt wanted him to, then Boll would just have arrived at Livermore or Los Alamos, or wherever the bastard was feting himself. Just have got his feet under the table when the alarm button would go. A Senior Scientific Officer from H area disappeared, that would get Boll's fat little feet under his fat little arse scurrying back onto the plane home.
It was time to make his call.
From her desk by the window Carol saw everything that moved at the front of the H3 building. She saw Frederick Bissett go and she realised that he must have left the building through the emergency fire door beside the entrance to the laboratory section.
She saw that he was hunched, as il he were frozen cold, as if he had compressed his neck into the collar of his raincoat, almost as if he tried to hide his face. Boll was on the telephone, staring out of his window. Boll saw hint get into his car, and thought, with fresh amazement, of Bissett s throwing the man Rutherford out of his office.
Basil was performing the painful weekly duty that distressed him, still, after so many years at the Establishment. Basil was sealing the plastic bags that held his faeces and his urine. Basil detested going to the lavatories of Health Physics to perform, and he had the dispensation to provide Ins weekly samples wherever he chose. Basil rapped at the window. The tyre of his bicycle was punctured. He banged on the window and shouted. He wanted Bissett to take his samples over to Health Physics, not too much to ask. But Bissett had his raincoat collar turned up past his ears and he hadn't heard. Basil watched in irritation as the Sierra pulled out of the parking area.
Colt wrote down what time Bissett hoped to reach Paddington station, told him at all costs to avoid being followed to the station.
There was the faint threshing of fear at his gut. He hated the fear. Colt wanted to be out, gone, beyond the reach of fear.
If she had not seen the E II R insignia on the Englishman's briefcase, the landlady might well have called the police. They were two filthy creatures. They tramped their mud across her hallway, across her breakfast room, up her stair carpet, and all over two of her bedrooms. The Englishman had given as his address, in her Registration Book, 'c/o Home Office, Queen Anne's Gate, London', and the American had written, 'c/o Embassy of the United States of America, Grosvenor Square, London'. Well, anyone can invent an address and there was mud all over their faces, on their hands and their clothes. And she hadn't lived in Warminster all her life that she couldn't recognise the smell on the waterproof jacket of the American. Mr Erlich stank of cordite. Well, obviously, they had been playing army games at the School of Infantry and Mr Erlich might have been the dirtiest American she'd ever seen, but his manners were lovely. And Mr Rutherford had paid a week's booking fee in advance, in cash.
Through the morning and the afternoon the landlady was alone in the guesthouse with the two sleeping men. Her usual guests, commercial representatives for the most part, would not be back until the time she served her early supper. The Englishman and the American had said they would not be eating in.
In the late afternoon, after she had taken her retriever for a walk, she went up the stairs with her plastic watering can to anoint her geraniums. She had seen the American, wearing only his boxer shorts, come out of the Englishman's room and carry a portable telephone through his own door.
It was her joy, her pleasure – her late husband used to call it her vice to overhear the conversations of her guests.
'Jo, I can't. I just can't…'
The American's voice was surprisingly soft and wheedling for such a big man, she thought.
'. Jo, that is not reasonable. You want to go to Mombasa, great I would like to go to Mombasa. You can, I can't. End of story..
He was getting rather cross, and she didn't think she liked this
|o. Here was poor Mr Erlich up to his ears in mud and guns…
'Jo, don't go on, don't get goddam scratchy. The beginning and the end of it is that I cannot break away. No, no chance.
Heh, Jo, did you hear what happened to the All Stars in Naples?. .. That's too bad, that's dreadful… Listen, it is not my choice. Get that into your head… You want to go to Mombasa, you go to Mombasa. That is not fair, Jo… Yes, you send me a postcard, you do just that..,'
She glided to the far end ofl the landing, She heard the American come out of his room, walk to the Englishman's door.
They were gone at dusk, as the first of her evening guests checked in. The Englishman was brusque, as he had been that morning. The American was subdued, poor thing, and seemed to jump about two feet when the dog came out of her sitting room and sniffed his trousers. She had never been outside the United Kingdom for a holiday, but she thought it must be disappointing for the American not to be able to take time off from his work to accompany his Jo to Mombasa. On the other hand, she always said, life was not complete without disappointment, and she had learned in long widowhood that this was true.
