A Matter of Honour (38 page)

Romanov stopped his endless circling and
stared down at the nude body.

“Now I think the time has come for you to be
introduced to our Dr Stavinsky who has so been looking forward to making your
acquaintance because he hasn’t had a lot of work to do lately and he fears he
might be becoming a little rusty.”

Romanov took a pace backward allowing
Stavinsky to come and take his place immediately in front of Adam. The cigar
box was still tucked under his arm. Adam stared at the diminutive figure
who
seemed to be sizing him up. Stavinsky must have been no
taller than five feet and wore an open-necked grey shirt and a badly creased
grey suit that made him resemble a junior clerk in a not very successful
solicitor’s office. A one-day bristle covered his face, leaving the impression
that he hadn’t expected to be working that day. His thin lips suddenly parted
in a grin as if he had come to some conclusion.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,
Captain Scott,” began Stavinsky. “Although you are an unexpected guest of the
Embassy you are most welcome. You could of course make our association very
short by simply letting me have one piece of information. In truth” – he let
out a small sigh – “I only require to know the whereabouts of the Tsar’s icon.”
He paused. “Although I have a feeling it’s not going to be that easy. Am I
correct?”

Adam didn’t reply.

“It doesn’t come as a great surprise. I
warned Comrade Romanov that after his laudatory description of you a simple
series of questions and answers would be unlikely to suffice. However, I must
follow the normal procedure in such circumstances. As you will find, the
Russians go by the book every bit as much as the British. Now you may have
wondered,” added Stavinsky as if it were an afterthought, “why a man who never
smokes should be seen carrying a Cuban cigar box.”

Stavinsky waited for Adam’s reply but none
was forthcoming.

“Ah, no attempt at
conversation.
I see you
have been through such an experience before. Well, then I must continue talking
to myself for the moment. When I was a student at the University of Moscow my
subject was chemistry, but I specialised in one particular aspect of the
science.”

Adam feigned no interest as he tried not to
recall his worst days in the hands of the Chinese.

“What few people in the West realise is that
we Russians were the first to pioneer, at university level, a Department of
Scientific Interrogation with a full professorial chair and several research
assistants. They are still without one at either Oxford or Cambridge I am told.
But then the West continues to preserve a quixotic view of the value of life
and the right of the individual. Now, as you can imagine, only certain members
of the university were aware of the existence of such a department, let alone
able to enrol as a student – especially as it was not on the curriculum. But as
I had already been a member of the Perviyotdel it was common sense that I should
add the craft of torture to my trade. Now I am basically a simple man,”
continued Stavinsky, “who had previously shown little interest in research but
once I had been introduced to the ‘cigar box’ I became, overnight, an
enthralled and retentive pupil. I could not wait to be let loose to experiment.”
He paused to see what effect he was having on Scott, and was disappointed to be
met by the same impassive stare.

“Torture, of course, is an old and
honourable profession,” continued Stavinsky. “The Chinese have been at it for
nearly three thousand years as I think you have already experienced, Captain
Scott, and even you British have come a long way since the rack. But that
particular instrument has proved to be rather cumbersome for carrying around in
a modern world. With this in mind, my tutor at Moscow, Professor Metz, has
developed something small and simple that even a man of average intelligence
can master after a few lessons.”

Adam was desperate to know what was in the
box but his look remained impassive.

“With torture, as with making love, Captain
Scott, foreplay is the all-important factor. Are you following me, Captain?”
asked Stavinsky.

Adam tried to remain relaxed and calm.

“Still no response, Captain Scott, but as I
explained I am in no hurry. Especially, as I suspect in your case, the whole
operation may take a little longer than usual, which I confess will only add to
my enjoyment. And although we are not yet in possession of the Tsar’s icon I
am
at least in control of the one person
who knows where it is.”

Adam still made no comment.

“So I will ask you once and once only before
I open the box. Where is the Tsar’s icon?”

Adam spat at Stavinsky.

“Not only ill-mannered,” remarked Stavinsky,
“but also stupid. Because in a very short time you will be desperate for any
liquid we might be kind enough to allow you. But, to be fair, you had no way of
knowing that.”

Stavinsky placed the box on the floor and
opened it slowly.

“First, I offer you,” he said, like a
conjurer in front of a child, “a six-volt nickel-cadmium battery, made by
EverReady.” He paused. “I thought you would appreciate that touch. Second,” he
continued, putting his hand back in the box, “a small pulse generator.” He
placed the rectangular metal box next to the battery.
“Third,
two lengths of wire with electrodes attached to their ends.
Fourth, two
syringes, fifth, a tube of collodion glue and finally, a phial, of which more
later
. When I say ‘finally’, there are still two items left
in the box which I shall not require unless it becomes necessary for us to
progress to Stage Two in our little experiment, or even Stage Three.”

Stavinsky placed everything in a straight
line on the floor in front of Adam.

“Doesn’t look a lot, I confess,” said
Stavinsky. “But with a little imagination I’m sure you will be able to work out
its potential.
Now.
In order that Comrade Romanov and
the colonel can enjoy the spectacle I am about to offer it is necessary to add
a few details about the nervous system itself. I do hope you are following my
every word, Captain Scott, because it is the victim’s knowledge which allows
him to appreciate the true genius of what is about to follow.”

It didn’t please Adam that Stavinsky spoke
English so well. He could still vividly remember how the Chinese had told Adam
what they were going to do to him in a language that he couldn’t understand.
With them, he had found it easier to allow his mind to drift during their
diatribe but he still ended up in a fridge for four hours.

“Now to the practical,” continued the grey
figure. “By sending a small electrical impulse to the end of the synapse, it is
possible to pass on a large electric message to thousands of other nerves
within a fraction of a second. This causes a nasty sensation not unlike
touching a live wire when the electrical power has been left on in one’s home,
more commonly known as an electric shock. Not deadly, but distinctly
unpleasant. In the Moscow school this is known as Stage One and there is no
necessity for you to experience this if you are now willing to tell me where I
can find the Tsar’s icon.”

Adam remained impassive.

“I see you have not paid attention during my
little lecture so I fear we will have to move from the theoretical to the
practical.”

Adam began reciting to himself the
thirty-seven plays of Shakespeare. How his old English master would have been
delighted to know that after all those years of drumming the complete
Shakespearean canon into a reluctant student, Adam could still recall them at a
moment’s notice.

Henry
VI part one, Henry VI part two, Henry VI part three, Richard II
...

Stavinsky picked up the tube of collodion
glue, removed the cap and smeared two lumps of it on Adam’s chest.

. . .
Comedy
of Errors, Titus Andronicus,
The
Taming of the Shrew...

The Russian attached the two electrodes to
the glue, taking the wires back and screwing them to the six-volt battery,
which in turn was connected to the tiny pulse generator.

. . .
Two
Gentlemen of Verona, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Romeo and Juliet...

Without warning, Stavinsky pressed down the
handle of the generator for two seconds during which time Adam received a
two-hundred-volt shock. For those seconds Adam screamed as he experienced
excruciating pain as the volts forced their way to every part of his body. But
the sensation was over in a moment.

“Do feel free to let us
know how exactly you feel.
You are in a soundproof room, and therefore you won’t be disturbing anyone else
in the building.”

Adam ignored the comment and gripping the
side of the chair, mumbled...
Richard
III, Midsummer Night’s Dream, King John...

Stavinsky pressed the plunger down for
another two seconds. Adam felt the pain instantly the second time. The moment
it was over he felt violently nauseated, but he managed to remain conscious.

Stavinsky waited for some time before he
volunteered an opinion, “Impressive. You have definitely qualified to enter
Stage Two, from which you can be released immediately by answering one simple
question. Where is the Tsar’s icon?”

Adam’s mouth had become so dry that he
couldn’t speak, let alone spit.

“I did try to warn you, Captain Scott.”
Stavinsky turned towards the door. “Do go and fetch the captain some water,
Colonel.”

. . .
The
Merchant of Venice, Henry IV part one, Henry IV part two...

A moment later Pollard was
back,
and a bottle was thrust into Adam’s mouth. He gulped
half the contents down until it was pulled away.

“Mustn’t overdo it.
You might need some more later. But that
won’t be necessary if you let me know where the icon is.”

Adam spat what was left of the water towards
where his adversary was standing.

Stavinsky leapt forward and slapped Adam
hard across the face with the back of his hand. Adam’s head slumped.

“You give me no choice but to advance to
Stage Two,” said Stavinsky. He looked towards Romanov who nodded. Stavinsky’s
thin lips parted in another smile. “You may have wondered,” he continued, “how
much more harm I can do with a simple six-volt battery, and indeed having seen
in numerous American gangster movies an execution by the electric chair you
will know a large generator is needed to kill a man. But first it is important
to remember that I don’t want to kill you. Second, my science lessons didn’t
end at Stage One. Professor Metz’s mind was also exercised by the feebleness of
this stage and after a lifetime of dedicated research he came up with an
ingenious solution known as ‘M’, which the Academy of Science named after him
in his honour. If you inject ‘M’ into the nervous system, messages can be
transmitted to all your nerves many times more efficiently, thus allowing the
pain to multiply without actually proving fatal.

“I only need to multiply a few milli-amps by
a suitable factor to create a far more interesting effect -so I must ask you
once again, where is the Tsar’s icon?”

. . .
Much
Ado
About
Nothing, Henry V, Julius Caesar...

“I see you are determined that I should
proceed,” said Stavinsky, removing a syringe from the floor and jabbing the
long thin needle into a phial before withdrawing the plunger until the barrel
of the syringe was half full. Stavinsky held the needle in the air, pressed the
knob and watched a little spray flow out like a tiny fountain. He moved behind
Adam.

“I am now going to give you a lumbar
puncture which if you attempt to move will paralyse you from the neck down for
life. By nature I am not an honest man but on this occasion I must recommend
you to trust me. I assure you that the injection will not kill you because, as
you already know, that is not in our best interest.”

Adam didn’t move a muscle as he felt the
syringe go into his back.
As
You
Like...
he began. Then excruciating pain swept his
body, and suddenly, blessedly, he felt nothing.

When he came round there was no way of
telling how much time had passed. His eyes slowly focused on his tormentor
pacing up and down the room impatiently. Seeing Adam’s eyes open, the unshaven
man stopped pacing, smiled, walked over to the chair and ran his fingers slowly
over the large piece of sticking plaster that covered Adam’s two-day-old
shoulder wound. The touch appeared gentle, but to Adam it felt like a hot iron
being forced across his shoulder.

“As I promised,” said Stavinsky. “A far more
interesting sensation is awaiting you. And now I think I’ll rip the plaster
off.” He waited for a moment while Adam pursed his lips. Then, in one movement,
he tore the plaster back. Adam screamed as if the bullet had hit him again.
Romanov came forward, leaned over and studied the wound.

“I’m relieved to see my colleague didn’t
miss you completely,” Romanov said before adding, “
can
you imagine what it will be like when I allow Mr Stavinsky to wire you up again
and then press the little generator?”