'I appreciate that,' I said.
He hadn't looked behind me yet, at the little screen. He was handling this on his own, so far. There wasn't a lot I could do to change the pattern. He was going to give me a chance of talking freely; then, if I chose not to, he was going to force me, or have me forced. I could speed things up or delay them, but not by much. It wasn't that I hadn't been prepared for this. Croder had pitched me into the field with light cover at short notice and I'd known what to expect if I got caught. This.
'Talking of hospitality,' Vader said, 'would you like a drink? A little vodka?'
'Not now.'
'I would be happy to join you.'
'You go ahead, if you'd like something yourself.'
He shook his head, smiling. 'I'm rather too fond of it,' he said in a stage whisper, and the smile became a chuckle.
There was no point in speeding things up, but there was a point in delaying things: there might, somewhere in the next few days, be a chance of getting out of this alive, just a chance in a thousand. But it wasn't going to be fun, delaying things, because it would give me a lot more time to anticipate what they would finally do to me if that chance never came.
'Which intelligence branch are you in?' Vader asked with polite interest.
'What makes you think I'm in intelligence?'
'Oh, false papers, an attempt at surveillance, an attempt to avoid arrest, a reluctance to betray your cell. Good heavens, I've been through all that myself, plenty of times.' The smile relaxed. 'London, are you?'
'The problem,' I said, 'with security people is that they see everything from their own specialized point of view. I suppose that's true of most people. What I mean is, betrayal isn't confined to the intelligence services. One can betray a friend.'
'Oh, agreed. Also, of course, oneself.' He pushed his red-haired hands across the surface of the table, watching them. 'As a human creature, for example, you've no wish to suffer pain, but if the ego decides you shall submit to it, that would be a kind of betrayal. Wouldn't you say?' His hands stopped moving.
I supposed by this time Bracken would have started worrying. Extension 7 would have reported no signal at eight-fifteen, nine-fifteen, ten-fifteen, so forth. I wondered when he'd tell London. Shapiro gone, Quiller gone, not really their day. The red lamp over the board for Scorpion would still be on, but one day they'd have to switch it off. That man who'd been on the stool would reach up and flick the lever and go on sucking on his bloody chewing-gum, and Tilson would go padding quietly back to the Caff in his plaid slippers and bury his face in a cup of tea. We got this from the Foreign Office just now. DI6 have located Q in one of the Potma complex camps, no trial, twenty years. Better put out the light.
'We're getting into philosophy,' I told Vader. 'If I decide to go the whole way, rather than let down my friend, that's what I'll finish up doing.'
For a few seconds we watched each other across the table; then he leaned back, tilting the chair under him. 'As you know, intelligence agents hold a certain degree of — what shall we say? — sympathy for one another. Especially for their opposite numbers. A grudging regard, m'm? That's understandable, surely — we share the same kind of experience. So I'm inclined to put myself in your place, at the moment, because I've actually been there, once or twice.' He looked up at me apologetically — 'Though I have to admit that I was never in your exact predicament. What I want you to understand is that I dislike the idea of your having to submit to indignities, even though you may choose to let it happen. I really do dislike it very much.' He leaned forward again, and spoke earnestly. 'I'd see myself there, in your place That is why I'm offering you this chance of doing all the talking around a table. You see?'
He really wanted an answer.
`Of course,' I said. 'I'd feel the same way myself.'
`I'm sure.' He smoothed the surface of the table 'I'm quite sure.' Like the walls and the door, the table was green, with the wood grain showing through in places, especially where the long narrow striations had formed. 'Also,' he said, 'I want you to know that I'm a family man. I have a charming wife and two pretty daughters, ten and twelve years old. With red hair — did you guess?' He threw back his head and laughed about this. 'So you see, underneath the uniform there's just an ordinary man like yourself, with very human instincts. This is another reason why I hope you'll save us both a lot of misery. Surely you understand?'
'Yes,' I said, 'I understand.'
'Then let's make afresh start.' He tilted his head in curiosity. 'Who are you?'
This was the first phase.
'Who are you?' he screamed and brought the flat of his hand crashing against the table. 'Who are you?'
'I can't tell you!' The chair toppled and hit the floor as I got up and faced him: his rage had got me on to my feet because he was towering over me and I thought he might lash out and I had to be ready — in this mood he could half kill me if I let him.
'Your identity! Your identity ! I demand to know your identity !’ The amber eyes burned in his face.
This was the second phase and I'd been expecting it because it was a classic procedure and he'd been so bloody cosy the first time that I knew he was going to do this the next time we met, but it still took some handling because his rage wasn't spurious: he wasn't a man who liked being blocked.
`Are you English?' His hand hit the table again. 'Are you from London? Answer me!' The table was rocking. I moved away from it, wary. He'd be strong and fast and well trained and I didn't know his breaking point, the point when he'd lose his control — he was working for Mother Russia and for Mother Russia he'd smash a million Englishmen against the wall.
'Answer me !'
The blood had left my face: I could feel it. It had gone to the muscles and the adrenalin was ready: the organism was triggered and what I had to do now was watch him, watch his every move in case he lost control and wanted blood for the sake of blood.
'Tell me who you are! Tell me!'
His wide leather belt came off so fast I was into a knife stance but he brought it down across the flat top of the table with a sound that cracked through the confines of the small bare room and I reacted: the edge of my hand was lined up with the carotid nerve of his neck and the mental rehearsal was already over and the hand was ready to lift and strike with the accuracy of an automaton.
'You were carrying false papers and you were following one of our citizens and you tried to avoid arrest and now you refuse to explain your actions!' He took two paces towards me and I sank an inch lower, solidifying the stance. 'Do you know how many years that would get you in a forced labour camp? Do you?'
I would let him take one more step. If I let him come closer than that he could do some damage. The element of surprise was on his side: when you don't know when the opponent is going to attack there's no real problem — you just have to wait; but when you don't know if he's going to attack it can be very difficult because you're liable to let the hairspring off the hook and get to him first and it might not be necessary. I didn't want to break his clavicle or paralyse him by going in too fast: they wouldn't like me for that.
He started shouting again, bringing the belt cracking down for emphasis, stopping to glare at me with his eyes narrowed to slits and his teeth bared. 'How do we know what harm you might not be planning against our country? How do we know what appalling danger you might not be placing our citizens in? This man you were following — did you intend to kill him? Did you?'