He seemed to be
floating several feet above the floor of a medieval torture
chamber, hovering weightless over a scene of Boschian horror.
Below him, damned souls incarnate writhed in agony, screamed in
anguish . . . but there was no sound. As he drifted through the
chamber he could see victims stretched out on racks while dark
demons capered about them, mocking and laughing. Other victims
ran hopelessly about, trailing fire as other devils pursued them,
howling in silent delight.
He floated to the door - Was it by an act
of will? He wasn't sure - and it creaked open - sound - there was
sound now; from the next room he heard screams. Now he was
afraid. Terror like a gnawing rat ripped into his soul, but he
could not turn back; invisible hands pulled him into the lower
pits of darkness.
Here the demons were of a different
breed, more humanlike, clothed in black, their faces pale slashes
in the night. Their tools of torment were far more modern than
those of the level above: electric sparks crackled around their
howling victims, glistening needles filled with evil plunged into
writhing forms strapped to stainless-steel gurneys; naked
humanity in endless procession stumbled forward to their
appointed doom, curling whips and snarling dogs driving them into
brightly lit tiled rooms. Iron doors slammed shut. A hissing
whisper like the threat-warning of a venomous snake issued from
the next room, to be instantly drowned out by gasping hysterical
screams. Through a filth-smeared porthole he could see the
distorted face one of the damned within, clawing at the glass
with bloody fingers, scratching frantically, digging for air, for
life, even as its features rotted into yellow corruption. A guard
by the door looked up. His open-mouthed leer revealed a red,
gaping emptiness.
"Room for one more. . . ."
Floating above the door like a lost soul
he screamed in terror and anguish for all that was lost, for the
death of all, for himself.
"MARTEL!"
James Martel reached up with a cry,
grasping hold of the hand at his shoulder.
"Come on, Martel, wake up."
Reality started to take hold. The man
standing over his cot looking down at him with such cool disdain
was Special Agent Brubaker. His eyes were red rimmed from too
many cigarettes, too much coffee, and too little sleep. He'd
obviously been working hard for a long time.
"Sweet dreams, Martel?"
Jim struggled for composure. He had held
out against this man and his tag-team partner for weeks, and he
felt a stab of shame for breaking, even a little, even in a
dream. "Bathroom," Martel whispered, shrugging his
interrogator's hand off his shoulder.
"Sure."
Martel stood on shaky legs and
half-staggered the ten feet to the bathroom portal. There was no
door, and though he had lived for several years on board naval
ships the lack of privacy under these circumstances bothered him.
Having given his permission, Special Agent Brubaker, who had been
with him since Berlin, stood in the middle of the room, watching
boredly as Jim relieved himself and then splashed cold water on
his face. He looked into the rather large mirror set directly
into the wall. His face, illuminated by the harsh glare of a
single bare bulb, was drawn and pale. A week's stubble gave him
the look of a wandering vagrant rather than that of a lieutenant
commander in the United States Navy. His mouth was gummy and foul
tasting. He ran his tongue against the back of his teeth and
looked back at Brubaker. He longed for the common decency of a
toothbrush, but would be damned if he'd ask.
He stepped back out into the room. He
wanted to know the time of day, but was damned if he'd ask for
that either. Without waiting for the inevitable instruction,
Martel turned toward the table at the far side of the room, and
was surprised to see a second person on the other side of it,
obscured by the glare of the lamp that was aimed at the chair on
the near side. Apparently the new interrogator had come in after
Martel had collapsed into exhausted sleep.
Then he recognized him.
"Grierson."
Grierson nodded. Reaching into the pocket
of his double-breasted jacket, he produced a pack of Lucky
Strikes and held them out.
Forgetting to hide his eagerness, Jim
took the proferred pack, put a cigarette in his mouth and inhaled
deeply when Grierson lit it with his Zippo, which was embossed
with the emblem of the FBI.
"I just want to run over a few
questions with you, Martel."
"Your boys tell you I'm ready to
break and it's time to come in and get all the credit?" Jim
asked, trying to sound calm and invulnerable, knowing he was
doing a poor job of it.
"You know the game, Martel. We don't
like doing this."
"I just bet you don't." Jim
nodded toward Brubaker. "Too bad the Constitution holds back
your thug over there from doing a really good job. I can think of
at least one country that he'd love to work for."
Brubaker started to reach angrily over
the table to grab Martel but desisted at a peremptory wave from
Grierson.
Martel smiled coldly at his frustrated
tormentor. The man had stayed at least arguably within the letter
of the law at all times, but Martel knew that Brubaker would love
to be unleashed.
"You're the expert on the Nazis,
Martel," Brubaker said.
"Right. I'm the expert. They'd
recruit you in a minute."
Martel's gaze shifted back on Grierson.
"You know I'm clean. You've had me down here now a month at
least, including this last week of non-stop interrogation. And
what have you got to show for it? I'm willing to bet the heat's
on to clean this thing up, to pin something on me and get me out
of the way. But I'm just not cooperating, am I? And if you can't
prove I did it, the leak must have happened back here in the
States, and that would mean you guys screwed up."
A glance passed between Grierson and his
helper. "We're just doing our job, Martel. Nothing personal.
There've been leaks, serious ones, and all the little arrows
point to you." Grierson paused for a moment, as if mastering
impatience. "Aren't you getting tired of this game, Martel?
Why don't you just come clean? Admit what you did and I'll see
you get off light." He smoothed his feature into something
like friendly neutrality. "Martel -- maybe we've been taking
the wrong tack here. Maybe you just overheard something by
accident and passed it on without thinking. We could go to bat
for you, Martel. There's this place, out in Nevada for people who
have heard things they shouldn't have. You could spend the next
couple of years there, then be free as a bird. You'd be
comfortable, plenty of good food, women even! It's a real nice
place, more like a resort than anything else, very pleasant, You
could be there in a couple of days, getting fat and tanned. How
about it, Martel? Just give us what we need. Medal of Honor
winner like you, we could get you that good life easy. After a
year or two you'd be free as a bird."
"I didn't do it. And you know
it."
"Just a couple more questions,
Martel."
Jim sighed and lowered his head.
"On May seventh you met with Wilhelm
von Metz and gave him design specifications for the new Midway
class carrier, in particular details related to the armored
decking and below-the-waterline armor belting."
"We've gone through this a hundred
times already, and you know it's a crock. My initial
contact report clearly shows I was ordered to do so through Naval
Intelligence to justify von Metz's contact with me to his
superiors. The information had been compromised here in the
States. My guess is through a construction worker." He
paused, "You guys must have messed up."
Grierson ignored the dig. "What
about the tracking specifications for the Mark 23 acoustical
torpedo?"
"Nothing. I've told you that a
hundred times!" Martel didn't add that as a matter of fact
he had invented and his father had patented the feedback
mechanism that made the device practicable.
"The meeting with von Metz on June
nineteenth, the fusing systems on the same torpedo?"
"We never met on June
nineteenth."
"Are you certain? My records say you
did."
"Bullshit."
"I heard you say it, Martel,"
Brubaker interjected. "June nineteenth."
"You're wrong -- hell no, your not
wrong; you're lying. We never met on June nineteenth, and
I never said we met on June nineteenth."
"Cut the crap, Martel."
Suddenly some internal gauge in Martel
redlined.
"Maybe you sons of bitches would
like to know where I was on March 15th, 1943. I was fifteen
thousand feet over Leyte Gulf. A zero slipped onto my six and put
three rounds into my engine and one into my seat-back. I flew
that aircraft back two hundred miles with seven rivets in my back
and the oil pressure dropping every minute. That's what I
was doing, you son of a bitch, and it's a gaddamned good thing
that the crash boat was there because even if my back hadn't
cracked on impact, I'd lost too much blood to climb out of the
cockpit. Where were you that day, you slinking
stay-at-home bastards?" He glared at Grierson.
"Making time with your secretary?" He shifted his
burning gaze to Brubaker. "Trying to make a date with Rosie
the Riveter so you could trick her into saying the wrong thing in
bed and toss her in the slammer? Where were you, you lying
shits, while I was out taking bullets for my country?"
Martel slumped back in his chair, eying his enemies with wary
contempt.
For a moment there was silence.
Grierson's face was a study in outrage overlain with amazement.
Brubaker was the first to speak. "Nobody's saying you didn't
fight Japs pretty good, Martel. But what about your buddies, the
Germans? Hell, as far as I'm concerned, you are a German.
Are they paying you, Martel, or are you doing it out of pure
patriotism?"
This time it was Lieutenant Commander
James Manhein Martel who lunged from his chair, and it was a
measure ot the effect of six week's sleep deprivation on his
figher-pilot reflexes that Brubaker managed to lurch an
involuntary step backward before Martel's fist passed throught
the space his face had occupied a split second before.
Curiously, Grierson shoved himself
between the pair not as a fellow cop, but with the attitude of
someone separating arguing peers who had passed over the edge of
violence. Martel just stood there panting. Brubaker had the look
of a junkyard dog being baited from beyond a fence.
"Enough!" Grierson shouted.
"Martel, Bru, ease off, will you?"
"Chief, please let me squeeze
him. He'll talk."
"Maybe later, Bru. Not now."
Then, speaking low so that Martel couldn't hear, he added, "We
aren't authorized." He turned back to Martel, who spoke
before Grierson could.
"Know one thing, Grierson. Now or
later, if you have one of your thugs lay a hand on me, you better
kill me, because by God I'll take it personal, and I won't be
down forever. Ever been in combat, Grierson? I've killed thirty
men or more." He nodded at Grierson's shoulder holster.
"Ever had that thing out in the heat? Ever aim it at anybody
for real? Think about it, Grierson. You and your girlfriend
there."
Brubaker looked like he was about to
explode. Without bothering to look in his direction, Grierson
waved him back down again disgustedly. "Martel--"
Jim cut him off. "Not another word.
I want a lawyer. Now."
"Think about it, Martel. As long as
you haven't been charged we can still handle this
administratively. Stay at that country club for a year or two. If
we go to court it's twenty-to-life, hard."
"Screw you."
"Closing in on your lies, are
we?" Brubaker asked with a vicious smile. "You blew it
about the nineteenth and now you can't cover it up. You're
nothing but a damn traitor."
"Kiss my ass." Martel shifted
his gaze back to Grierson. "Charge me or get the hell
out."
"Just a couple of more questions,
Martel."
"Kiss off." Stubbing out his
cigarette he reached over to the pack that was still on the table
and fished out another one. He suddenly realized that he didn't
have a light and glared at Grierson, who produced his lighter.
"I'll make you a deal, Martel. I
won't ask you anything I've asked before, and you answer what I
ask. All right?"
Jim started to tell him where to shove
his questions, then thought about it. He had nothing to hide, and
didn't want to seem as if he did. Hell, he supposed he even
wanted them to get to the bottom of this. He just wasn't going to
be screwed with anymore.
"Sure. Why not? New questions only.
No repeats. You ask, I'll answer. But start using your psywar
tricks on me again, and not another word."
"Okay. Deal. You're from North
Carolina, aren't you, Martel?"
"Yeah. So what?"
"Ever been to Manhattan?"
"Sure I have."
"Like the place?"
"It's all right."
"Ever talk about Manhattan with any
of your friends?"
"You mean Willie?"
Grierson nodded.
"How the hell can I remember that .
. . yeah . . . sure, we must have. Most Germans are curious about
Hollywood and New York."
Grierson stared at him intently.
"Ever been to Oak Ridge?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
Jim sat absorbed in thought for a moment.
This must have a point, but he couldn't figure it out.
"There's an Oak Ridge at Gettysburg.
It's where they built the Peace Monument. Is that what you
mean?"
"What about 238th Street in
Manhattan, or Apartment U?"
"What the hell are you getting
at?"
Grierson remained silent.
"Look, if what you've asked me means
something, I haven't got a clue."
"What about the stadium at the
University of Chicago?"
"We never played there when I was in
the Academy, if that's what you mean."
Grierson took a cigarette from the
dwindling pack and lit it. He continued to stare at Martel, his
features expressionless.
"Care to discuss any of it?"
"Discuss what?"
"What we've just been talking
about."
"Look, it might mean something to
you but it sure as hell doesn't mean a damn thing to me.
Manhattan. Apartment U or V. You've got another security leak?
Somebody blow your codes?"
Grierson stubbed his cigarette out and
stood up. He started to pocket his pack of smokes and then pushed
them across the table to Martel.
"So is that it?" Jim asked
coldly as the agent headed for the door. "You want to hang
that on me as well?"
"We'll be in touch, Martel." A
guard on the other side opened the door, and the FBI man was
gone. The lock snapped shut behind him.
Martel took another pull on his cigarette
and looked over at Brubaker.
"I bet you'd love to call in a
couple of your friends to help you kick the crap out of me right
now."
"Jesus, I hope they decide to go all
the way on you," Brubaker replied wistfully.
Suddenly, for no particular reason,
Martel's attention fixed on the bathroom mirror. He waved.
"Crap," Grierson snarled as he
turned away from the other side of it, stepped past the cameraman
and back out into the main corridor. He hated it when prisoners
pretended they could see him.
Damn him. He looked back at the camera
crew that had been filming the interrogation, wondering why
Hoover was going to so much trouble over this. It bothered him
that Martel might know something important that the number three
- all right, number four - man in the FBI wasn't privy to. And
whatever this Manhattan project was, it was surely important.
Grierson stepped out into the early
evening chill. The film would be analyzed for any subtle gestures
on Martel's part, but Grierson already knew that nothing new
would be discovered. That was a problem; the Navy was breathing
hard down Hoover's neck on this. Clearly Martel had some friends
in high places, and without clear evidence of Martel's guilt, the
case would soon be dropped. If that happened, Hoover would focus
back in on alleged leaks within FBI counterintelligence and
several of the defense plants that Grierson was responsible for.
Even the hint of a screw-up was enough to
put someone on Hoover's black list.
Grierson climbed into his car and started
back for the ugly confrontation he knew awaited him at FBI
headquarters. He was learning to hate James Martel!