His escort grasped his arms while the older guard approached him with the head bag. This was the first time Janek had seen it. Although he knew they were going to put it on him again and despised the thought, he couldn't help himself-he peered closely to see how it was made.
Constructed of dark brown leather, it was shaped to fit over his entire head except for the nostrils and mouth. It looked much like an old aviator's helmet, except that the flap, which would normally extend only to the top of the forehead, had been cut lower to cover the prisoner's eyes.
As the older guard approached, he grinned sheepishly as if to say "Sorry, these are the rules." Janek smelled the oil again, then realized with disgust that he had unconsciously bowed his head to make it easier for the guard to put it on.
He thought: Prisoner for only a day and already I'm trying to help.
Her eyes! That was his first reaction when his guard pulled the hood off his head and he found himself face-to face with his interrogator.
The woman possessed a kind of bizarre beauty, he thought. Her eyes, a pair of smoldering emeralds, glowed out of her gaunt, dark face. Her chocolate-colored skin looked smooth as satin and her cheekbones were exceedingly high. Thin, sinewy, she held herself straight in her chair behind a little wooden desk. Her hands were clasped in front of her on top of a closed folder. As she switched on a portable tape recorder, he noticed that her nails were painted camouflage-green.
Janek looked around. His guard, expressionless, stood just behind his stool. Janek turned back to face his interrogator. She wore the same khaki uniform he'd seen on the guards, but with red dashes on the epaulets. She was inspecting him, her eyes moving slowly down his body.
His smock was bunched up beneath him, partially exposing his genitals to view. He wanted to squirm, but fought the impulse. The whole situation, the way he was dressed and seated, had been contrived to make him feel devalued and insecure.
"I am Captain Valdez," she said, raising her eyes. "An officer of the Agency for State Security." Her English was formal and barely accented.
"You will address me as Captain."
Janek stared back. He did not want to reveal his fascination with what was happening and the strange way this woman was forcing him to view himself. It was odd to be on the other end of an interrogation. He thought: So this is what it's like. But he knew that if Captain Valdez was experienced, she would pick up on his interest and use it against him. His best policy, he felt, was to ignore all attempts at intimidation. He resolved to maintain his dignity no matter how scornfully she might behave.
"There are two ways an interrogation such as this can go," Valdez said.
"Friendly or hostile. We can work as partners or become antagonists.
It depends on you." She stared at him. "Have you been mistreated?"
"I was hit and pushed around. Your people took my clothes and watch."
"That's standard. Anything else?" Her voice was impatient, her tone clipped.
"I asked to see the American consul. They hit me in the mouth for that."
"They did not understand."
"They understood. Now I'm asking you. I want to see my consul. I have that right."
She ran her tongue slowly over her lips. "Perhaps."
So, it's going to be like that. He wasn't surprised. The important thing now was to find out why he was there. He wriggled on the stool, trying to ease himself into a few more inches of smock. She watched his struggle with a smile.
He looked into her eyes. "Why am I here?"
"You know why."
He shook his head. "I have no idea."
"You lied to an immigration officer. Just as in your country-lying to an official here is a crime."
"I did not lie to her." "You told her you had come to Cuba for tourism."
"That's true." "You told her your profession was labor organizer. But in your suitcase we found this." She laid the photocopy of his police ID on the table. When she spoke again, her tone was contemptuous. "This is your true profession, isn't it, Lieutenant?"
So… they'd been to his room, searched his luggage, which meant they'd also found the ink pad and the blank fingerprint form he'd brought to ID Tania.
"Yes," he said, "I'm a police detective. I work for the city of New York."
"So, you are not a labor organizer?" "No," he admitted, "I'm not."
She stared hard at him and in that moment he understood how good she was. Her timing, expressions, control over the interview were extremely well managed. He was also aware that he had begun to sweat.
He knew what that meant: She had gotten to him-he was guilty, he had lied. This is why the pressure always works, he thought. You show them how you know they lied about one thing to force them into conceding they lied about another. He had used the same technique a thousand times. Now it was being used against him. And, to his great discomfort, he was discovering he could not resist. He wanted to confess to Captain Valdez.
He wanted to regain her trust.
"You are now, by your admission, in considerable trouble," she said.
"The penalty for lying to an official of the government can be severe."
Her amazing emerald eyes were glittering. He thought: She's the lepidopterist, I'm the insect. Now she's going to pin me to the board.
"If you insist, I will telephone your consul. In that case this interrogation will be terminated. You will be tried, perhaps as early as tonight. The immigration inspector and I will serve as witnesses.
This photocopy of your police identity card and the tape recording of your confession will be placed in evidence. The judge will find you guilty. The sentence will be"-she shrugged-"three years, perhaps four."
She stared at him, licked her lips, then smiled. "Our prisons are well known for their conditions. Perhaps you've read or heard." She paused.
"That is one way we can proceed. "
She wasn't bluffing; that was her message. She was using all the leverage she had gained to force him to assist in his own destruction.
Janek looked at her. "There is another?" She nodded. "What do I have to do?"
"Simple," she said. "Tell me truthfully why you have come to Cuba.
Think about it." She rose, picked up her file and tape recorder, then nodded to the guard. "It would be best to decide before we speak again."
She started toward the door. When she reached it she paused. For a moment Janek thought she was going to say something, but she left without looking back.
Head bagged, roughly shoved into a room, he felt the presence of other men. He heard them shuffling, and then, without a word, one tore off his smock and others began to rough him up.
They were methodical. One would hit him then shove him at another, who in turn would pummel him then shove him on to a third. This went on for approximately five minutes. Because he was blindfolded and was turned around many times, he lost his balance and fell.
When he was on the floor, they stood around him and kicked his body with their boots. But they were careful, he noted, not to strike him in the face or groin. In fact, he realized, after his initial terror, their kicks, like their blows, were light and not injurious. It was a symbolic beating. I They were not trying to hurt him; they were working to increase his sense of helplessness and fear.
How arrogant of me to think I could just come into this country and do as I liked. I came for you, Kit. Where are you now?