He turned to look at the house. There were lights in every window and all the windows were barred. He walked slowly to the front door and the duty officer handed him a clutch of messages.
“Where’s Kleppe?”
“In the basement, sir.”
“What was his reaction?”
“Your men are still here. They’re in the canteen. I gather he put up a struggle at first but after that he’s been tame enough. He won’t talk.”
“I said he wasn’t to be interrogated until I came.”
“I meant about food or coffee, sir. He’s been left strictly alone.”
“Did he talk on the way here?”
“I understand not, sir.”
Nolan slid off his coat and slung it over a chair.
“Take me down to Kleppe.”
They walked down the stone steps to the basement. There were three rooms clad with steel plate and with heavy metal doors. Kleppe was in the last one and Nolan waited as the key was turned and the door opened. He slid the bleeper into his pocket and walked in.
There was a small table bolted to the cement floor and two light wooden chairs. Along the facing wall was a concrete slab with a folded sleeping bag. Kleppe sat at the table, hunched up and grim-faced, a lock of hair hanging over his forehead. Nolan sat down opposite him and looked at his face. It was a typical Slav face, dark skinned, high cheek-bones and a massive jaw. Kleppe’s dark eyes looked back at him defiantly and uncurious.
There was no response of any kind. Nolan saw no point in playing formalities.
“We’ve been searching your apartment, Mr. Kleppe. We’ve found the radio, and the papers are being sorted now, including the notebooks from the cold-water tank. Do you want to talk about them now or later?”
Kleppe sat silent and unmoving.
“Kleppe, you can choose which way you want it. We can talk like this now or I’ll get the medical orderly to give you a shot. You’ll talk then.”
Kleppe spat, and the saliva was warm on Nolan’s face. He wiped the saliva away slowly with his hand and then pressed the bleeper.
Nolan saw the small remote-control video camera mounted in the ceiling slowly scan the area of the table and then the walls of the room. A few seconds later the door opened and he walked out and on up to the entrance hall. He slowly mounted the wide staircase that led to the first floor. They had given him a temporary office facing the stairway and as he pulled up a chair to the desk he pressed the button in the panel beside the telephone. A young man came at the double.
“Sir?”
“Ask the medic to come and see me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’d like a bowl of soup and a banana sandwich.”
There was a hesitant half-smile. “What’s a banana sandwich, sir?”
“You mash up a banana with sugar and make a sandwich.”
“Yes, sir.”
The medical officer wore a blue denim shirt and Levi’s. He looked as if he had just been woken up. He put his black bag at his feet.
“Fowler, Mr. Nolan. You wanted me?”
“I want something to keep me awake for about three hours.”
“What are you going to be doing in that time?”
“Interrogating.”
“OK.”
“And I want the guy in the basement to keep talking—the truth.”
“Is he antagonistic?”
“Very.”
“We’ve got a choice; there’s a pentothal variant that makes talking and response to questioning certain, but the subject can wander far away from what you’re talking about and the guy can take hours to get back. It’s a bit like unleashing a flood of words. They’ll all be there but may be irrelevant. Or there’s a new thing, TH 94. That gives a lower compulsion to talk. He’ll talk but you’ve got to pull it out of his unconscious. The user reports we have had so far indicate high truth factors but slower commentary. You have to go a long way down.”
“Let’s try the TH 94.”
“OK. I’ll give you your shot first. I’ll need a pulse count and a lung check.”
The young man put his fingers remarkably lightly on the artery at Nolan’s wrist and closed his eyes. It was a high count and he did it again to make sure. He was used to abnormal counts. Adrenalin glands were generally working overtime when he was called in. He put the stethoscope probe up to his mouth and breathed on it. He went carefully over Nolan’s chest and back. There were no lung problems, and he folded up the stethoscope and knelt down to his bag. He stood up and put two pills on the desk.
“Take those, without liquid, then they’ll work faster.”
“Is it OK to eat afterwards?”
“Yes. It’ll help. Where’s the guy for the TH 94?”
“In the basement.”
“It will take half an hour to start working. Shall I go down now and give him his jab?”
“No, I want to be there. I’ll give you a buzz when I’m ready.”
He pulled across the bundle of reports as he waited. There was a brief report on the electronics at Kleppe’s place.
Prelim: Electronics.
Extensive anti-bugging frame covers all rooms and doors. Similar to MAJOR MK IX.
Miniaturized high-power transceiver. Modified SOVTORG model 30. Four crystal fixed frequencies. Component analysis indicates extensive use, approx. nineteen repeat nineteen hours. Cameras Polaroid SX 70. Olympus OM2 with macro lens 55mm and copying device and Recordata back. Signed Harrap and Simon.
The soup and sandwich came, and he read the Moscow embassy report as he ate.
“Your 97016 stop subject Tcharkova, Halenka aged twenty-seven repeat twenty-seven with child (female) aged seven stop well-known painter acceptable to regime stop current address Minskaya Ulitsa 17 repeat 17 Moscow stop several successful exhibitions stop married stop photographs to follow message ends 147011.”
He pressed the red button and when the medical orderly came they walked down to the entrance hall and collected the duty guard.
Kleppe was
