“Bauman?” Blok said. “Bring me some more water, please.” The man with the bucket-an aide to Major Krolle, Michael assumed-answered “Yes sir” and walked across the room. An iron bolt slid back, and there was a quick glimpse of gray light as a heavy door opened and closed. Blok turned his attention to the prisoner again. “What is your name and nationality?”
Michael was silent. His heart pounded; he was sure Blok could see it. His shoulder hurt like hell, though it probably wasn’t fractured. He felt like a wrapping of bruises around a barbed-wire skeleton. Blok expected an answer, and Michael decided to give him one: “Richard Hamlet. I’m British.”
“Oh, you’re British, are you? A Tommy who speaks perfect Russian? I don’t think so. If you’re so very British, say something in English for me.”
He didn’t respond.
Blok sighed deeply, and shook his head. “I think I prefer you as a baron. All right, let’s say for the sake of speculation that you’re art agent for the Red Army. Probably dropped into Germany on an assassination or sabotage mission. Your contact was Chesna van Dorne. How and where did you meet her?”
Had they caught Chesna? Michael wondered. There was no answer to that question in the eyes of his inquisitor.
“What was your mission?” Blok asked.
Michael stared straight ahead, a pulse beating at his temple.
“Why did Chesna bring you to the Reichkronen?”
Still no response.
“How were you planning on getting out of the country after your mission was completed?” No answer. Blok leaned a little closer. “Have you ever heard of a man named Theo von Frankewitz?”
Michael kept his face emotionless.
“Von Frankewitz seemed to know you,” Blok continued. “Oh, he tried to shield you at first, but we gave him some interesting drugs. Before he died, he told us the exact description of a man who visited him at his apartment. He told us he showed this man a drawing. The man he described is you, Baron. Now tell me, please: what interest would a Russian secret agent have in a decrepit sidewalk artist like Frankewitz?” He prodded Michael’s bruised shoulder with his forefinger. “Don’t think you’re being brave, Baron. You’re being very stupid. We can shoot you full of drugs to loosen your tongue, but unfortunately those don’t work very well unless you’re in… shall we say… a weakened condition. Therefore we must satisfy that requirement. It’s your choice, Baron: how shall we do this?”
Michael didn’t answer. He knew what was ahead, and he was readying himself for it.
“I see,” Blok said. He stood up, and moved away from the prisoner. “Major Krolle? At your pleasure, please.”
Krolle stalked forward, lifted the rubber baton, and went to work.
Sometime later, cold water was thrown into Michael’s face again and revived him to the devil’s kingdom. He coughed and sputtered, his nostrils clogged with blood. His right eye was swollen shut, and the entire right side of his face felt weighted with bruises. His lower lip was gashed open, leaking a thread of crimson that trickled down his chin to his chest.
“This really is pointless, Baron.” Colonel Blok was sitting in his chair again, next to Michael. On a tray in front of him was a plate of sausages and sauerkraut and a crystal goblet of white wine. Blok had a napkin tucked in his collar and was eating his dinner with a silver knife and fork. “You know I can kill you anytime I please.”
Michael snorted blood from his nostrils. His nose might be broken. His tongue found a loose molar.
“Major Krolle wants to kill you now and be done with it,” Blok went on. He chewed a bite of sausage and dabbed his lips with the napkin. “I think you’ll come to your senses before very much longer. Where are you from, Baron? Moscow? Leningrad? What military district?”
“I’m…” His voice was a hoarse croak. He tried again. “I’m a British citizen.”
“Oh, don’t start that again!” Blok cautioned. He took a sip of wine. “Baron, who directed you to Theo von Frankewitz? Was it Chesna?”
Michael didn’t answer. His vision blurred in and out, his brains rattling from the beating.
“This is what I believe,” the colonel said. “That Chesna was in the business of selling German military secrets. I don’t know how she learned about Frankewitz, but let’s speculate that she is involved in a network of traitors. She was helping you with your mission-whatever that was-and she decided to intrigue you with some information that she thought you might take back to your Russian masters. Dogs do have masters, don’t they? Well, perhaps Chesna thought you might pay for this information. Did you?”
No response. Michael stared past the blinding spot lamp.
“Chesna brought you to the Reichkronen to assassinate someone, didn’t she?” Blok cut a sausage open, and grease drooled out. “All those officers there… possibly you were going to blow the entire place to pieces. But tell me: why did you go into Sandler’s suite? You did kill his hawk, didn’t you?” When Michael didn’t answer, Blok smiled thinly. “No harm done. I despised that damned bird. But when I found all those feathers and that mess in Sandler’s suite, I knew it had to be your doing-especially after that little drama on the riverbank. I knew you must have had commando training, to have gotten off Sandler’s train. He’s hunted over a dozen men on that train, and some of them were ex-officers who’d fallen from grace; so you see, I knew no tulip-growing ‘baron’ could have beaten Sandler. But he gave you a run, didn’t he?” He poked his knife at the blood-crusted bullet gash on Michael’s thigh. “Now, about Frankewitz: who else knows about the drawing he showed you?”
“You’ll have to ask Chesna,” Michael said, probing to see if she’d been captured.
“Yes, I will. Count on it. But for right now, I’m asking you. Who else knows about that drawing?”
They didn’t have her, Michael thought. Or maybe it was just a faint hope. The security of that drawing was paramount to Blok. Blok finished his sausage and drank his wine, waiting for the Russian secret agent to answer. Finally he stood up and pushed his chair back. “Major Krolle?” he said, and motioned the man forward.
Krolle came out of the darkness. The rubber baton was upraised, and Michael’s bruised muscles tensed. He wasn’t ready for another beating yet; he had to stall for time. He said, “I know all about Iron Fist.”
The baton started to fall, aimed at Michael’s face.
Before it could smash down, a hand grasped Krolle’s wrist and checked its descent. “One moment,” Blok told him. The colonel stared fixedly at Michael. “A phrase,” he said. “Two words you got out of Frankewitz. They meant nothing to him, and they mean nothing to you.”
It was time for a shot in the dark. “The Allies might think differently.”
There was a silence in the room, as if mere mention of the Allies had the power to freeze flesh and blood. Blok continued to stare at Michael, his face betraying no emotion. And then Blok spoke: “Major Krolle, would you leave the room, please? Bauman, you, too.” He waited until the major and his aide had left, then began to walk back and forth across the stone floor, his hands behind him and his body crooked slightly forward. He suddenly stopped. “You’re bluffing. You don’t know a damned thing about Iron Fist.”
“I know you’re in charge of security for the project,” Michael said, choosing his words carefully. “I presume you didn’t take me to Gestapo headquarters in Berlin because you don’t want your superiors to find out there’s been a security leak.”
“There has been no leak. Besides, I don’t know what project you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes, you do. I’m afraid it’s no secret any longer.”