Part 15 (2/2)

There was a knock at the door and a young private came in. Keller didn't recognize him, although he was expecting a messenger sent from Oberst Steinmann. The soldier was tall and broad, with a thick moustache and cropped blond hair.

Once inside, he just stood there.

'Salute when you enter the room,' Keller ordered.

Instead, the private raised his pistol, an SS-issue Mauser with a long, bulbous silencer.

'No, Chris!' shouted the Doctor. Before Keller could react, the Doctor had flown past him, pulling down on the tall man's arm. There was a m.u.f.fled shot. Keller felt a hot sensation in his leg: spreading, agonizing pain. The Doctor had turned away from the private, and was examining Keller's leg. He was saying something.

'Don't worry, it's. .h.i.t your thigh-bone. It will hurt, and will take a while to heal, but you'll be all right.'

'Come on, Doctor,' insisted the big man, pulling the Doctor away. The Doctor shrugged apologetically, and disappeared.

'My cell hasn't got a window.'

'We're underground, Fraulein Summerfield. None of the rooms here have windows.'

Steinmann watched as the prisoner pondered this new information. Summerfield was more presentable now. She had bathed, eaten a meal, then slept for a couple of hours and was beginning to look human again. Now, she wore a fresh prison uniform and her shoulder-length hair had been brushed straight. Summerfield was an attractive woman, with high cheekbones and a full mouth. The cut on her forehead was covered with a sticking plaster. The bruising around her face would be there for a couple of days yet, though. Her hand might never heal properly, although the dressing had been changed.

Wolff was hovering behind him, and was clearly making both Summerfield and Kitzel nervous. Like it or not, Steinmann thought, it was an indisputable fact that Wolff and he were two of a kind. How simple it would be to turn a blind eye to the laws of race, pretend that the Doctor, or the beautiful Miss Summerfield, were Aryans, too. Life is not like that. Such compromises could only weaken the resolve of the German people, deflect them from their destiny. There are no exceptions to a universal rule. Not just that, he thought; just looking at us, it is clear that he, Wolff and Kitzel, were a race apart. He looked at the prisoner again, and realized the contempt he felt for her and her kind.

'Start the tape-recorder, Kitzel. Prisoner F319-350042, I am Oberst Oskar Steinmann, Direktor of the regional Luftwaffe zbV.'

'I'm Professor Bernice Summerfield, no fixed abode. So, you're the nice cop, right? The acceptable face of Fascism?'

Her tone was antagonistic, but she couldn't disguise her fear.

Steinmann held the position of power here, and no amount of arrogant resolve would change that.

'I beg your pardon?'

'You know: nice cop/nasty cop. You get some bully to soften me up, then you come in and act all nice and I'm so grateful that I'll blab everything. It won't work, Oskar, I live with a nice cop and a nasty cop. I'm used to it.' She had a 'Home Counties' accent - the clipped, ever so slightly nasal tones spoken by the upper and middle cla.s.s in the south-east of England.

Steinmann had little patience with insubordination.

'Ready her arm, Kitzel.'

Kitzel brushed the prisoner's forearm with a swab.

Naturally enough Summerfield was alarmed. 'What are you doing?' Her sarcasm was clearly nothing more than a facade.

'When it come to my job, Professor Summerfield, I am not a nice man. You have killed a sixteen-year-old boy while spying for an enemy power. You have already exhausted my patience, and I do not intend to waste any more of my time.'

Kitzel jabbed Summerfield's arm with a hypodermic needle. The prisoner managed not to cry out.

'Thank you, nurse. How long does the drug need to take effect?'

'It should be effective now, sir,' Kitzel declared.

Summerfield was glaring at the nurse with unrestrained hostility. There was no such thing as a 'truth drug', but simple relaxants like the one that they were using on Summerfield would loosen tongues, break down some mental barriers. He had tried a more civilized version of the same technique on the Doctor, trying to get the little man drunk. The Doctor's metabolism didn't seem to be affected. Normally he would try to relax his prisoner in some small way, offer her a cigarette, make a joke. He didn't feel any need to tread so softly with Summerfield.

'We shall begin. Are you married, Professor Summerfield?' The prisoner shook her head. Steinmann wrote this down.

'What is your religion?' he continued.

'I'm not religious.'

Steinmann noted this down. Interrogation of this nature always started with standard questions like this. Begin by establis.h.i.+ng a few basic facts about the prisoner's life. Learn what makes her tick.

'Have you ever belonged to a political party or trade union?'

'No.'

Steinmann made a note of her answer. 'Are you proficient in any languages other than English and German?'

'Quite a few: French, Egyptian, Hebrew, Ancient and Modern Greek, Latin, most of the Martian dialects, Old English, Old Norse. I can get by in a number of others. There was quite a heavy linguistics component of my degree, and I've got the knack.' It wasn't a boast, if anything Summerfield was apologetic.

'What do you hold your degree in?'

'Archaeology.'

Steinmann looked up from his notebook. 'Really? A friend of mine, Hans Auerbach, is writing the history of the islands. It will contain a catalogue of the prehistoric sites.'

'Yes, I've read it.'

Steinmann made a note of this lie, but didn't challenge Summerfield with it. Slips of the tongue, blatant lies, factual errors and the like could all be brought back into play later in the questioning, used to pull holes in an agent's cover story.

All these inconsistencies would mount up and come back to haunt her. For the moment, he wanted to retain the prisoner's cooperation. So Steinmann continued the interrogation with a new question. 'Where did you acquire your degree?'

'It's none of your business,' the prisoner said curtly. It would be unprofitable to continue this line of questioning, Steinmann decided. She had seemed talkative, but the last question had put her on the defensive for some reason.

'When were you born?'

'The twentyfirst of June.' This response was a little more promising. By carefully watching a subject's Adam's apple and eyelids, it was a simple matter to tell if they were lying.

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