CapturedbytheSS (5 page)

Darkness lingers over me, but it doesn’t completely engulf
me. My limbs feel heavy and unresponsive. I hear him ask the first question.

“What is your name? Your
real
name, American.”

I’m not saying anything! Kiss my ass! “Isabel Riley.” What
the hell? I can’t believe I just told him that. I had every intention of
revealing nothing.

“Spell your first name, please.”

No! “I-S-A-B-E-L.” Damn it!

“Spell your last name.”

Piss off! “R-I-L-E-Y.” Son of a—

“Recite your military issued serial number.”

I want to say no, I really do, but I feel as if a part of my
mind has been switched off. “0-2-5-7-9-6-4.” Damn it! I’m completely helpless
to censor my answers. This drug is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my
training. I didn’t even know the Nazis had anything like this.

“Good,” my questioner murmurs. I hear a pen whispering
across paper.

“Why did you come to Berlin?”

Name and serial number I can almost live with, but I really
don’t want to tell him the details of my mission. I try to stay silent, but I
blurt out the truth.

“I’m here to obtain details on a reported new spy plane that
was recently built.”

“Really? What plane?”

The pen is a mad whisper across paper.

“Sources reported that Germany had constructed a plane
labeled the C-60, which would be capable of cruising undetected over US soil at
extremely high altitudes.”

“How do you know about the C-60?”

“My superiors told me.”

“How did they obtain information on the C-60?”

“I don’t know.”

He pauses for a moment. “Does your agency have informants in
key positions within the empire?”

“I think so.”

“Who are these informants?”

“I don’t know.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. I have the impression he’s
asked that question to other spies and gotten the same answer. “All right. What
did you learn about the C-60?”

“The plane is real but initial tests have been
disappointing. The plane is easily detectable on standard surveillance
equipment.”

That was actually the highlight of the information I found,
the part I knew my superiors would like. As a matter of fact, I found a lot of
information on the plane, including a glossy, printed manual. I have a
suspicion it was used as part of a presentation. Since it was about the plane,
I dutifully memorized all seventy-eight pages, including all photos and graphs.
I also memorized the name and address of the printing house, which was stamped
on the inside of the front cover.

Since it’s about the plane and because he asked me what I
learned, the drug compels me to start reciting the manual. I repeat the German
words in German, alternating to English only to explain what I found. It feels
weird for this information to pour from me like this, but I can’t stop it.

Loosely translated, I say, “Manual located, title,
The
Spy Plane of the Future.
Printed by Shultzer and Gaines, 641 E Rhonesburg
Street, Berlin, Germany, 10115. Printed by permission.” The rest of the manual
quickly follows as his pen frantically moves across paper.

I know to some outside observer, it might seem a bit odd
that I memorized such minute details such as the name and address of the
printer. But one has to understand, it’s never been my job to determine what is
and isn’t valuable information.

My orders were to get into the Echelon, a secure military
building in Berlin, locate all files on the C-60, memorize everything and then
report to my superiors what I found. Besides, the name and address of the
printing house
could
be important. In the future, our agents may slip
into that facility in an attempt to locate valuable files and other pending
print jobs by the German military. Well, we could have if I hadn’t been
captured.

So, there’s really no such thing as
worthless
information, as long as it’s accurate.

The manual also contained a lot of technical details, such
as the plane’s weight and wingspan as well as maximum air speed and fuel
capacity. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t stop me. He just lets me talk. When I
come to a graph or a picture, he tells me to describe it, which I do. His pen
frantically moves across paper during the interrogation.

I only wish I could’ve gotten this information back to my
superiors before I was captured. It would have been nice if I could have sent
an email or called my agency at some point, but the Gestapo is good at keeping
a firewall up and even better at blocking signals and phone lines.

The Gestapo is essentially a sister agency of the SS. Both
departments handle cases of treason and espionage, but the Gestapo serves as
the empire’s tech police where the SS handles apprehension and interrogation.

Because of the Gestapo, it’s virtually impossible to contact
the States from anywhere within the empire…well, maybe not impossible. I think
my superiors may have a way to communicate with informants, but I think that’s
one of those ultra-secrets I’m not allowed to know.

Finally, I come to the end of the manual and stop talking.
I’m actually a little hoarse from talking for so long.

“How did you learn all this?”

“Test results and plane specifications are on file at the
Echelon, which is located in Berlin.”

“I know that. I mean how did you get into that facility?”

“The building has security weaknesses.”

“Really?” He sounds eager. “And you’re going to tell me
these weaknesses.”

Somehow, I manage to break through the ether. Although it
takes a great deal of effort, I force my mind to focus. But I don’t want him to
know I’m a bit more lucid. This is my opportunity to give him bogus
information.

My instructors taught me that misinformation or
disinformation can sometimes be better than silence, and it can also make
legitimate information appear less reliable. It’s basically a philosophy that
truth mixed with lies makes for shoddy information at best.

Keeping my eyes closed, I try to think of a
plausible-sounding story without giving away important details. But my mind is
a bit foggy from the drug, and I’m having trouble thinking of a lie.

“There’s a broken security camera on the building’s west
side.”

That’s actually an older piece of information. For months,
our agents were able to slip in undetected because of that broken camera. I
wish I could have thought of something better, but that was the best I could do
under the circumstances. I know that camera has been fixed, but I’m hoping he
doesn’t.

“That camera was fixed,” he mutters. There’s something about
his tone that concerns me. I hear his heavy footfalls approaching. A gloved
finger raises my right eyelid, and I inadvertently look up at him.

“You’re awake,” he declares. “You were trying to feed me
disinformation.” He sounds impressed. “I’ve never even heard of a prisoner
being able to do that with this drug, and we’ve been using it for years.”

I only study him.

He turns and retrieves the empty syringe before drawing more
fluid from the bottle. “You are a willful subject,” he mutters.

“I’m not telling you anything else,” I declare, willing my
mind to stay focused. Although this particular drug is new to me, I do have
some experience resisting the effects of potent narcotics.

Standing over me, he only smiles as he pushes the needle
into my wrist. “Yes, you will, American…although, I am impressed. Most
prisoners respond quite well to just one dose.”

Again I feel the heaviness on my eyelids. I force myself to
stay focused. Unlike the first time, it doesn’t completely sideswipe me. I may
be a bit odd to my instructors, but damn it, I’m good at what I do.

Inhaling deeply, I refuse to let the drug knock me out. I
won’t let this overtake me. I won’t tell him anything else. I won’t let him
win!

“I am
not
going to cooperate,” I insist angrily.

He chuckles darkly as he sits down next to me. “Stubborn as
you are, American, I think you will.”

Despite my best efforts to fight the drug, I once again slip
under the surface of darkness. Pulling against my restraints, I feel the back
of my head sinking back down into the pillow. My limbs turn to mush before my
eyes unwillingly close.

I hear him slip closer to me. His fingers touch my right
eyelid and cheek. I think he’s checking to see if I’m under by raising my
eyelid. Oddly enough, I don’t see any light. There’s only darkness. I think my
eyes are rolled up. It’s weird…it’s as if I’m unconscious but still aware.

He actually repeats all of his previous questions, and I
give the same answers I gave before, except he stops me before I repeat the
manual again. Apparently satisfied, he picks up where we left off.

“Now, American, tell me about these security weaknesses at
the Echelon.”

I want to say no, but whatever he’s injected me with makes
it impossible for me to hold anything back or to lie.

I rattle off details about the cameras’ blind spots, known
times when patrolmen change shifts and certain air and maintenance ducts. I
hate telling him these details. These security flaws are our lifeline for our
intelligence department, though we always seem to find ways around their
updates. His pen frantically whispers across paper.

After about a million questions, he
finally
stops,
mostly because I start answering everything with, “I don’t know.”

“Hmm. You’ve certainly given me a great deal of information,
American. Now I wish to know more about you. I need to create a thorough
profile, especially since you tend to behave differently than other American
spies.”

It doesn’t surprise me that he wants to know more. The Nazis
are notorious for being thorough and meticulous record-keepers. By the time
he’s finished, he’ll probably know my shoe size and the names of my childhood
pets.

“What do you do when you’re not behind enemy lines?”

“Study, train, work out.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“A lover perhaps?”

“No.”

I don’t like these questions, but I’m not surprised he’s
asking.

“Hobbies?”

“I study, train and work out.”

He lets out a sigh. He almost sounds frustrated, as if I’m
withholding something. Hell, I never said I was interesting.

“When was your last sexual encounter? And who was it with?”

Jeez, these guys really wanna know everything. “I was about
twenty, I think. It was with Steven, my boyfriend at the time.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Twenty-four.”

“American, how many lovers have you had?”

“One.”

“One!”

I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I really hate these
questions, though I guess it’s not exactly a threat to US security.

“A female American spy is supposed to be promiscuous. One
lover does not constitute promiscuity.”

Well, excuse me! Honestly, what does this guy want from me?

“You are
not
fitting the profile, American,” he
mutters angrily. I hear his pen tapping his notepad.

It’s not a question, so I don’t say anything. But I can tell
he’s not happy about my answers. I’m not sure I understand why he thinks I’m
supposed to be promiscuous. Is there a rumor that US girls are slutty?

“Didn’t you like sex?” He sounds a bit exasperated.

Yeah! “No.” No? Why the hell did I just say that?

“No? Why didn’t you like it?”

“It didn’t feel good. It hurt. I tried to like it, I really
did, but I never could. I always faked it with my boyfriend. I faked it for
years.”

“Why didn’t you try another lover?”

“Because it felt like such a chore. Sex was always so hard
for me.”

In all honesty, I kinda forgot about all this. Over the last
few years, I just got used to my fingers. He and this drug are really starting
to piss me off. Information is one thing, but this is personal.

“Did you ever consider that you had an incompetent lover?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I studied sex in school. He did everything that the books
and films said to do.”

“Like what? Tell me what he did.”

Oh for heaven’s sake, do I have to draw a freakin’ picture
here? “He would lie on top of me like in the films and he would push his erect
cock into my cunt.” Hmm, a bit blunt but true. I guess this drug doesn’t allow
any purple prose.

“That was by far the
briefest
description of sex I’ve
ever heard. Is that all he would do?”

“Well, yes.”

“
How
would he fuck you? You talked for hours about
the plane, yet I get one sentence on how your lover would fuck you. Give me
details.”

I’m not certain what exactly he wants to know, but the drug
compels me to answer. “He would take off his clothes, ask me to lie on my back,
naked, and then he would lie on top of me while pushing his erect cock into my
cunt.”

“And how did he kiss you? I’m looking for passion here, American.”

“I didn’t like it when he kissed me.”

He only lets out a tired groan. “I’ve had a very long night,
American. And your answers are starting to give me a headache.”

I hear him put down the pen and the notepad. His footsteps
come closer to me and then stop. I feel the distinct sharp pinch of the needle
on my wrist. “Go to sleep, American. I have no more questions for you tonight.”

Blissfully, the world dissolves.