Prisoners of Tomorrow (8 page)

“Really?” McCain sounded unconvinced. “And that causes amnesia?”

“We put you under a rather strong sedative,” Kazhakin explained. “You’ve been out for a couple of days. What you’re feeling is the aftereffect. Sometimes the memory can be impaired slightly—rather like a bump on the head.”

Although McCain’s expression didn’t change, inwardly he felt alarmed. Kazhakin was trying to justify memory loss and symptoms of the aftereffects of drugs. As McCain knew well, some extremely potent substances were available to psychological researchers and therapists, and to military and police interrogators. Although there was no truly reliable “truth drug” of the kind beloved in fiction, combined chemical assaults of different stimulants and depressants affected different individuals in different ways, and in general anything was possible. Suddenly he had the worried feeling that perhaps his interrogation mightn’t have been so gentlemanly after all.

“Let’s have a look, then,” Kazhakin said. He motioned for McCain to sit on the edge of the cot, then inspected both his eyes, his tongue and mouth, and dabbed around on his chest and back with a stethoscope while the assistant prepared a blood-pressure gauge. “And we’ll want sample bottles for some blood and urine,” Kazhakin told him.

Tattered remnants of recollections were beginning to float back. He saw the image of a man in a Russian major general’s uniform, with black, crinkly hair showing gray streaks, bright, penetrating eyes beneath puffy lids, and a craggy, heavy-jowled face. “Of course it’s obvious you’re not a journalist . . . Did you know what the file contained? . . . Which organization sent you? . . .” There was another Russian there, too, inseparable from the general as part of the image swimming in McCain’s memory, but the details remained obscure.

Kazhakin was watching McCain’s face as he inflated the bulb of the sphygmomanometer. “Brain starting to function again now, is it? Some things coming back?”

“What day is this?” McCain asked.

“May fourth. You abused your guest privileges on the first, you fell sick the day after, and you’ve been out for two days, as I said.”

If that were so, there ought to have been one notch in the book, not three, McCain thought. It was strange that he had woken up remembering to update his tally of days—or at least awakenings—and yet had no recollection of having done it before. It pointed to his having been out of control of his faculties for longer than Kazhakin was claiming. That would have been consistent with potent drugs, which was not exactly a reassuring thought.

“You probably feel a bit heavy and weak, but in fact you’ve lost a little weight,” Kazhakin said. “I’ll give you some pills to pick you up—no tricks, I promise—and we’ll put you on an enrichment diet to build up your strength. I’m sure that General Protbornov wouldn’t want you thinking of us as inconsiderate hosts.” He saw an involuntary flicker in McCain’s eyes. “Ah, so you remember the name, eh? That’s good.” Kazhakin unwound the bandage from McCain’s arm and smirked at him with undisguised sarcasm. “Yes, we’ll soon have you back to normal,
Mr. Earnshaw
of Pacific News Services, California. I do hope your readers won’t be too upset if they have to put up with your being out of circulation for a while.”

McCain watched expressionlessly as Kazhakin handed the sphygmomanometer back to the assistant and wrote some numbers onto a chart. It was obvious from the circumstances of his and Paula’s capture that the cover story had capsized immediately. He wondered how much more—that he didn’t even know about—might have started taking water since, or already have foundered completely to join it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“You were apprehended in a place you had no right to be, in the act of obtaining misinformation fabricated to discredit the Soviet Union—and not trivially, but on a scale that would have had the gravest international repercussions. You were in possession of specialized espionage equipment, and you came here under assumed names, carrying false papers.” Major General Protbornov paused to allow the gravity of his words to sink in. The action was for effect—this was hardly the first time he’d been through this. He continued, “We can all admire loyalty—indeed, we take justifiable pride in our own—but there is a point beyond which it turns into unreasonable stubbornness. At least tell us who you are and the name of the organization that sent you. You must agree that we are entitled to know that much.”

Paula Bryce squinted against the light at the vague form outlined on the far side of the desk. At least they had turned the brightness down from the blinding level it had been at all through yesterday. And Protbornov’s restraint was a relief after the shouting and impatience of the other general who had interrogated her initially, before she’d gotten sick a few days earlier. It was all part of a game they played, she told herself. The problem was trying—against fear, fatigue, and a numbing lack of sleep—to tell which of the roles and threats that she had been exposed to were for effect, which were real, and which, depending on expediency, might be interchangeable.

The bruises on her body still ached from the roughing up she’d been given on arrival at Internal Security Headquarters by two female Russian guards with sow faces and the physiques of weight lifters—a ritual doubtless intended to set roles and establish for future reference whose place was whose. Then had come the ordeal of hour after hour of demands, threats, and the same questions repeated over and over, always with the implication of further possibilities that her treatment by the two guards had represented a first taste of.

But she hadn’t given away anything. That was the most important thing that she’d forced herself to recite in her mind, as had been drummed into her by Foleda’s people. “Clam up, deny everything, never admit or confirm anything, even if it’s obvious to everyone and staring you in the face,” one of the UDIA men in the Pentagon had told her. “Because one thing leads to another. The first admission is a step onto a slope that gets slippier all the way to the bottom. It’s like after quitting cigarettes: the only way to stay off is to stay off completely. You don’t fool with even one, because there’s a whole world of difference between
no
cigarette and
some
cigarettes. But there isn’t a lot of difference between one and two, or between four and five, or nineteen and twenty. Okay? It’s the same with revealing information: once you make that first slip, there’s no place to dig your heels in and stop.”

Or could she have given away a lot more than she thought, without knowing it? She had fallen ill for a couple of days—so they’d told her—with an acclimatization problem that affected some people on going into space. She couldn’t remember much about it, but from the way she’d felt when she started seeing things coherently again, she concluded that she’d been under some kind of drug. The doctor told her it was a sedative. But she had been told something about drugs, too, before leaving on the mission . . . she couldn’t remember what. She didn’t have clear recollections of anything right now. All she wanted to do was rest and sleep . . . Everything was too muddled and took too much effort to think about.

“This is getting nowhere,” the figure next to Protbornov complained—a colonel, younger, businesslike, projecting the image of being ambitious and unprincipled. His name was Buvatsky. “Give us just half a day. I guarantee everything you want to know.” Bluff, Paula told herself. Nice guy-bad guy. Part of the act.

“Let us hope that extremes won’t be necessary,” Protbornov rumbled. “You agree that you came here to
Valentina Tereshkova
under a false identity, and with the intention of committing acts of espionage?” His voice was louder this time, evidently directed at Paula.

She shook her head, feigning even greater fatigue than she felt. “What?”

“You agree that you came here under a false identity, intending to commit espionage?”

“I don’t agree anything.”

“But that much is obvious.”

“I wish to communicate with a representative of the United Sates government.”

“You know very well that there is no such person for you to talk to here.”

“I didn’t say talk to. I said communicate with. That can be arranged.”

“That is impossible.”

“Why?”

“For now, it is impossible. And besides, you are hardly in a position to be making demands. I ask you again, Do you not agree that you came here under a false identity?”

“I agree with nothing.”

“What is your name?”

“I wish to communicate with a representative of my government.”

“Do you still claim to be this person, Paula Shelmer?”

“That’s what my papers say.”

“Do you still claim to be an employee of Pacific News Services, California?”

“I’m not claiming anything. You’ll believe what you choose to, anyway.” Wrong, a part of her mind groaned. She was starting to talk back to them. Whether or not she revealed anything that mattered wasn’t the point: it was just as much a first step.

“Common sense dictates that such is not the case. The equipment that you had with you was purpose-designed—hardly the kind of gadgetry that a news agency issues its staff, you have to admit.” Protbornov’s tone was casual now, almost chatty. He turned down the lamp, as if making a symbolic gesture to stop all this unnecessary unpleasantness. She needed to talk, it seemed to acknowledge. “It’s clear you were employed by the American government. That much is true, at least, isn’t it?” His voice held a note of regret that sounded almost genuine. Or was she projecting into it something that a part of her deep down needed to hear? There was a short pause. Her head nodded down onto her chest, and her thoughts swam. “It is true, isn’t it? You are not with Pacific News Services, are you?”

“No,” she heard herself whisper, even as another voice inside her head woke up, shouting too late in protest.

“But you are with the American government. Is that not correct?”

From somewhere long in the past she remembered hearing about the way salesmen were taught to begin their closing pitch with a series of statements that the prospect could do nothing but agree with. Once begun, the pattern was difficult to break out of and made it easier to go along with the salesman’s proposal than refuse it. She had just made her first slip, not by telling Protbornov something he already knew, but by agreeing with him. She shook her head and said nothing.

“Which department of the American government are you with?” A pause. “The CIA?” Another pause. “The UDIA?” Silence. Then, “I should remind you that it is possible to ask these questions again, but utilizing physiological monitoring instruments that will make concealment of the truth impossible. . . . Very well, we’ve established that you are not Paula Shelmer of Pacific News Services, and that you are employed by the American government. Now, purely for our records and to enable us to furnish information to your own people and to the various human-rights organizations who concern themselves with the welfare of those in your kind of predicament, what is your name?”

“I wish to contact a representative of the United States government.”

Buvatsky got up with a snort and paced impatiently away to the side of the room, outside her field of vision. Protbornov raised a hand to massage his brow with his fingers, and leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Look,” he said, “it is clear from the contents of the computer file you were in the process of copying that your mission was to obtain misinformation created to support the propaganda campaign which your government has been waging concerning the true nature of
Valentina Tereshkova.”
Protbornov looked up and shot at her with sudden sharpness, “Have you ever heard the name ‘Magician’?” Even before the word registered consciously, Paula knew with a sinking feeling that her face had supplied the answer. Protbornov went on, as if the fact were too evident to be worthy of mention, “Magician was a traitor, who was uncovered by our counterintelligence operations, as you well know. He has recanted and gone on record voluntarily to confirm that the information he planted in the file was false. He was working in league with American propagandists as part of a plan to mislead world opinion at a time when the newly emerging great powers remain unaligned. We can show you a video recording of his admission. It was made quite freely, I assure you.” Paula looked skeptical. “We could arrange for Magician to be brought here from Earth to tell you to your face, if that would convince you,” Protbornov offered.

Paula frowned down at her knees. The significance escaped her. Or was she just confused? She looked up wearily. “Why do you care whether I believe it or not?”

Protbornov sat forward, and Paula sensed Buvatsky turning in a corner of the room. Too late, she realized that she’d said the wrong thing again.

“Don’t you understand? That is what this whole issue revolves around,” Protbornov said. “Your people told you that this colony is a disguised war platform, is that not so? They described various weapons that they claimed were concealed here, yes? And their proof was to be in the package that Magician had compiled. Oh, don’t look so horrified—it was an elementary deduction from the facts that we possess. . . . But what matters is that you understand they were lying to you . . . lying, just as they have been lying to the world. As I said a few minutes ago, I admire your loyalty, but don’t allow it to blind you to the possibility that the United States can be less than perfect sometimes, and that perhaps we of the Soviet Union are not always wrong.” He allowed a moment for her to reflect on that, then continued, “You see, where Colonel Buvatsky and I differ is that I believe all of us are basically the same beneath the surface—all unfortunate victims of the mistakes of history and our own, unnecessary, mutual suspicions.

“I don’t have to spell out the tragedy that could result from this paranoia. . . .” Protbornov raised a hand as if to forestall her reply. “Yes, on our side as well as yours. The world has been trembling for over half a century. But don’t you see what an opportunity this represents? For once, the delusions that the paranoia is based on can be exposed for what they really are. It wouldn’t put an instant end to all the tensions that have plagued our two nations for so long, of course, but it would be a solid step in the direction of defusing them. Every withdrawal from a brink has to begin with a first step somewhere. Don’t you owe the peoples of that world down there that much—a chance to hope?”