Sleeper Agent (2 page)

Problem: You are driving a truck on a narrow road only wide enough to accommodate your vehicle. On your left is a steep embankment rising straight from the road. On your right is a deep ravine dropping off immediately from the road shoulder. In the back of the truck are twelve of your men.

You round a bend in the road. Sitting in the middle of the road is a small child. You cannot drive around it. You cannot stop the truck in time.

Question: Do you swerve, sending the truck into the ravine? Or do you not? Do you save your men? Or the child? Or both? No solution. There was no solution, but there was only one thing to do.

Run over the child.

He focused his watering eyes on the two enraged Gestapo interrogators confronting him. Without a word he pulled himself into an attitude of attention.

And stood.

The officer with the steel-rimmed glasses glared angrily at him. With quiet malevolent menace he said, “I ordered you to sit down, Lieutenant! Are you deliberately disobeying?” His shrill voice rose in anger.

“No, sir. Obeying.”

“Explain!”

“I was ordered to stand at attention, sir.”

“
I
ordered you to sit down!”

“Sir. I was already under orders to stand at attention when I was given the order to sit down. I am obeying the first order. It cannot be countermanded, except by an officer of superior rank. Sir, from your insignia both you and the other officer appear to be of equal rank. However, sir, the other officer, who gave me my first order, seems older. I assume that he, therefore, has seniority.”

Some of his tension left him. That was it He’d made his choice. He’d run over the child.

Dimly he was aware that this new team of interrogators was different from the others. They were pulling something new on him in their efforts to break him down. Confusing him with utterly unreasonable, impossible demands. Humiliating him, bringing him to a point where he could no longer think.

And then?

The older interrogator spoke again. “You said you lived in a brownstone house in Greenwich Village.”

Wearily he was about to agree. A tiny synapse in his tired brain snapped shut. A warning alarm flashed. Wait!

“No, sir,” he said. “I
worked
in Greenwich Village.”

The officer looked up quickly. “What? You are changing your story?”

“No, sir. That’s what I said before.”

“Impossible! Have you been lying to us?”

“No, sir. No.”

“Then what
is
the truth? Did you
work
there, or
live
there?”

“I worked there, sir.”

“Don’t lie to us again.”

“I didn’t lie, sir.”

The officer gripped the table with his two hands. He leaned forward, suddenly dangerous. “You are calling
me
a liar?”

“No. No, sir!”

“Then
who
lies? Answer me!
Who?"

Rage built up in him. God damn, it’s unfair! What the hell
do
they want from me? I’ve told them the right things. Don’t they
know
by now?

At the same time he wanted to scream his frustration at them . . . and to plead for reason. For compassion. But he knew he had to cope in other ways.

“I must have been . . . unclear, sir. I
worked
in the village. I
lived
on Twenty-fourth Street”

“You are quite certain now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you should be a little more careful with your answers in the future.” It was the interrogator with the steel-rimmed glasses. The man’s whole mien was provocatively overbearing.

The young lieutenant felt the fury rise in him, threatening to explode. It took all his willpower to control himself. He trembled. Not from fatigue alone.

The older Gestapo officer gave a dry cough. ‘Tell me, Lieutenant Crane, what—”

“
Kane,
sir. Robert Kane. First lieutenant, 032—”

“Yes, yes.” The Gestapo man interrupted him curtly. ‘Tell me, Lieutenant Kane, what is your favorite meal?”

His stomach suddenly contracted painfully. “Meal, sir?”

“Yes. Food. Food, Lieutenant. What is your favorite?”

His mind was all at once tilled with a phantasma of foods. He felt ravenous. “Steak, I guess.”

“With potatoes?”

“Yes, sir. With potatoes.”

“How do you prefer it? Rare?”

Startled, he realized incredibly that his mouth was watering. He swallowed. “Medium rare, sir.”

“And what do you like to drink with it? Wine? Beer?” The question from the younger of the two interrogators.

The lieutenant turned toward him. “I . . . I like beer, sir.”

“Ah, yes. There is nothing like a glass of nice cool beer, is that not so?” The Gestapo man reached over and poured himself a glass of water from a carafe on the table. He drank deeply with evident pleasure.

The young man watched, unable to tear his eyes from him. He tried to swallow. His dry tongue stuck painfully to the roof of his mouth.

The Gestapo officer looked at him speculatively. “Perhaps you would like a glass of water, too?”

He poured another glass and set it at the edge of the table. “Here. Take it.”

He hesitated. He stared at the glass. It filled the room. It was another trick. Dammit, he knew it was another trick. But he’d never before in his life craved anything as avidly as he did that glass of water. The inside of his mouth crawled in anticipation. Yet . . . he hesitated. He could not face another disappointment, another rebuff.

“Go on, take it,” the Gestapo interrogator urged him. He was smiling, watching the young man before him. His steel-rimmed glasses shone with reflected light. The lenses seemed impossibly large.

‘Take it! . . . Take it!” His soft voice was persuasive. His spectacles hypnotic. ‘Take it!”

The young man reached hesitantly toward the tantalizing glass. His hand trembled. Water. He’d never seen anything as clear, as fresh, as desirable. Almost . . . almost, and his hand would touch it

And he would drink.

“Lieutenant Kane!” The older Gestapo man spoke quietly. “There is no reason you should be permitted to drink, is there? No. Not now.” His voice grew cold and harsh. “I shall give you a direct order
not
to drink. Lieutenant!
You will not drink!”
He leaned back in his chair comfortably.

The young man stiffened. Slowly he withdrew his hand. He stared mesmerized at the glass of water. His face was a waxen mask.

“My colleague has given you an order, Kane,” the older Gestapo interrogator continued. “
I
have given you an order. Now, obey!”

He wanted to scream. He knew if he did he’d never stop. Why didn’t they shout at him? Yell, bellow, red-necked with rage, as they did before? It would be easier. This disquieting calmness confused him. It forced him to think. And he did not want to think. He hated their calm, their restraint, their composure. It was so different from the destructive turmoil raging in
him.

Do nothing. Just do . . . nothing.

No. If he did, they
had
beaten him. And he would
not
be beaten. He knew that it took just one tiny crack in the defensive armor he’d built around his mind. One small defeat, and the collapse would soon be complete. He hated them. He’d never known hate could be so all-consuming, so . . . stimulating. He
had
to best them.

Imperceptibly his hand moved toward the glass. He felt it quaver. He clenched it as hard as he could—and once more reached toward the glass.

“Of course, this time it is not a question of . . . eh . . . seniority, is it. Lieutenant?” The older Gestapo man smiled pleasantly at him.

His hand hesitated only a fraction of a second. Then he closed his fingers around the glass. He was startled at the cool, smooth feel of it. Carefully he lifted it off the table. With rapt fascination he watched the tiny waves ripple on the water’s surface as he held the glass in his unsteady hand. He stared at it. It was no longer a glass of water. It was the deadly weapon in a grueling duel of wits. He meant to use it. He had to. He meant to win.

With a quick, determined motion, as if he were afraid his own hand would not obey him, he poured the water back into the carafe. For a brief moment he stared at the empty glass. His sense of loss was overpowering. Then he placed the glass on the table.

The older man sighed, much like an exasperated parent over a recalcitrant child. “Now, Lieutenant. Who ordered you to do that?” His voice was mildly reproving.

He stood silent. He knew he’d need time before he could trust his voice. Then he said, “Sir . . . sir, I was ordered to take the glass. I did. I was ordered not to drink. I did not:”

He was certain that at that moment he’d never felt more physically exhausted, more mentally spent—or more triumphant. He had not given up. He had acted.

The younger Gestapo officer rose from the table. He walked around it to stand in front of the young man. He was smiling. “You think you are very clever, do you not?” He nodded amiably. “Well, Lieutenant, we think so, too. I think we shall reward you.”

He turned to the table. Once again he poured a full glass of water. He held it out to the young man. “Here. Take it. Drink it!”,

For a moment their eves met Then with a sudden fierce move the young man grabbed the glass. He’d give them no time for counterorders. In the same jerky motion he brought the glass to his mouth. Water spilled over the rim and ran down his fingers. Down his chin.

But he drank.

He imagined the effect to be immediate. Perhaps it was.

The Gestapo man took the empty glass from him. He looked closely at the young man. Their eyes locked briefly. ‘Fine,’ the interrogator said with a smile. “Very fine!” He turned back to the table and refilled the glass from the carafe. Again he held it out to the young man. “Here. Have another glass.”

He took it. This time he drank slower, enjoying every drop of the cool liquid as it soothed his parched lips, his mouth, his throat. And again he emptied the glass.

The other interrogator joined them. He smiled agreeably at the young man. “My colleague is most generous. is he not?” he asked. He took the empty glass. “Perhaps I, too, should . . . eh . . . reward you, no?” He turned to the table, filled the glass once more and held it out to the young lieutenant. “Here,” he said. ‘To your health!” He smiled.

The young man shook his head. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve had enough.”

The smile suddenly vanished from the interrogator’s face. “Drink it!” he snapped, the friendliness gone from his voice. “
Drink!"

An icy shock of realization surged through the young man. With grim certainty he knew the intentions of his tormentors. Oh, God, no! Please, no!

“Drink it!”

With shaking hands he took the glass of water. He drained it. He felt nauseated. His empty stomach rebelled against the sudden flooding. He fought down the rising bile.

With deliberately elaborate gestures the Gestapo man refilled the glass, dwelling on every move. “I do not wish to be thought less generous than my colleague,” he said. “Here. I, too, must insist you have a second glass.” There was unmistakable menace in his mockery.

The young man took the glass. His hands trembled, and water slopped over the edge.

“Careful, Lieutenant. We do not want to waste a drop of it, do we?”

He drank. He forced the liquid down. He was bleak with despair. All of a sudden he was desperately conscious of the pain caused by his swollen bladder. So fast? Perhaps he only imagined it. But he knew with absolute certainty that he could not continue to control himself. That’s what they wanted. The ultimate humiliation. The degrading moment when he was forced to relax and let his bladder empty itself. Where he stood. At attention. Faced by his disdainful tormentors.

The glass was empty.

He was hardly aware that it was again refilled—"One more for good measure!"—and once again he managed to drain it.

He was waiting. Waiting for the moment when he was finally beaten. As he must be. He knew that his defeat would be not merely the inevitable debasement, the total humiliation. That was only window dressing. No. His defeat would be absolute.

The two Gestapo men returned to their seats. For a while neither said anything. They merely watched the young man standing before them. Their faces were intent as they observed their specimen.

Finally the older interrogator spoke. “Have you had enough? I think you have. Tell us your true identity.”

“Robert . . . Kane. First lieutenant. United States Army.”

Was that
his
voice? He did not recognize it

The two Gestapo officers looked at each other. They glanced toward the two unseen men in the shadows, but nothing was said. Finally the older interrogator broke the silence. “Lieutenant, the charade is over. You have done well.”

He stood mute.

“Do I understand you correctly, Lieutenant?” The Gestapo officer’s voice was ominously low. “You are challenging us to . . . to proceed?”

He made no reply.

For a moment the interrogator stared at him. His expression was enigmatic. Then he shrugged. “Very well. The choice is yours.” He picked up the receiver from a black phone on the table. “
Wache antretenl”
he ordered curtly.

He replaced the receiver. He looked somberly at the exhausted young man before him. He sighed. “You know what to expect.” His voice was flat

Yes. He knew. They’d told him they had one final way to break his spirit. They had advised him to avoid being forced to endure it. For his own sake.

Behind him the door opened. He heard the clicks of two pairs of heels snapping to attention.

“Take him,” the Gestapo interrogator said. His voice was totally dispassionate.

He felt his arms being seized in firm grips. Dimly, through a mist of fatigue, he was conscious of two SS men, one on each side of him. His burning eyes rested for a brief moment on the two black-uniformed interrogators at the table. They sat erect, motionless, like two figures in a wax museum chamber of horrors.