Second, they had had only two opportunities to find his police ID: at the airport during his long wait for his luggage, and during the short period when he was out walking La Rampa. The airport was the more likely possibility had searched through his things before he went through immigration. Which meant that the moment he had lied to the inspector he had become a suspect. But of what " he wondered. Why are they so concerned? Why do they think I'm here? Finally, he was disgusted by his reactions to what was happening to him-his detachment, curiosity, admiration of' their technique. It's like I'm on a danin busman's holiday. But then, considering the gravity of his situation (My God.!
I'm in a stinking Cuban jail!), he decided that his professional interest might be the one thing that was keeping him from panic. I "Hey!
Gringo!" Tap-tap-tap. "Gringo? You there'?" Tap-tap-tap. i The whisper and the tapping cut to him through the wall. The voice had a rasp. The speaker was in the adjoining closet, head down near the floor. "I'm here."
"Shhh! Not loud, gringo! Be careful. If they hear us they will beat us.
I have been beaten enough today."
Janek pressed his ear against the wall. "What's your name?"
"Ernesto. Yours?"
"Frank."
"You are all right, Franco?"
"Yes.
You?"
"Not so good." Pause. "Who is your interrogator?"
"Valdez."
"The woman? Dark skin? Green eyes?" Ernesto sounded excited. "Yes."
I "Ah, my friend, you have bad luck. Her name is Violetta. She has no lover-this is what they say. Be careful. She is dangerous. She will never touch you herself but will order others to hurt you. They say she likes to give such orders. Everyone fears her here."
"What did you do?"
"They will not tell me. They wait for me to tell them. This is their method. They break you and then you tell them everything."
"I don't-"
"Shhhh!"
Janek heard steps approaching down the corridor. They stopped in front of Ernesto's closet. The guard yelled something in Spanish, kicked the door, then strutted back. After a while, Janek heard a cautious tap-tap-tap. He pressed his ear against the wall again. This time Ernesto's whisper was faint.
"Safer not to talk. Good luck, gringo. God keep you!"
Janek settled back against the wall. Of course it was a scam-well executed, too. Plant a fellow convict in the next closet, then have him tap-tap-tap you a message after you've been left to simmer after a beating for-how long had it been? Another twelve or fourteen hours?
With the right prisoner it could be effective. The question now was what was the message-what had Ernesto really meant to convey? It had to do with Violetta, he was sure-that she was not to be trifled with, and that, since he was certain to be broken sooner or later, he would do well to come clean with her at once.
Many hours later the muscular black guard opened his closet, threw a hunk of bread at him, then slammed the door shut.
Janek sniffed the bread. It smelled all right so he ate half of it. He wondered what time it was. He guessed it was night. He figured he'd been confined for at least two days. He curled up as best he could on the tiny floor.
I came here for you, Kit, he whispered to himself. Then he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
"Stand! "
The black guard stood in the doorway. Janek raised his head and blinked.
The harsh light that broke around him hurt his eyes.
The guard kicked him. "Fast!"
Even before Janek had fully risen to his feet, the guard grabbed the back of his smock and yanked him out.
"Move! "
The ignominious shoving and bagging routine began again.
Violetta didn't bother to look up when the hood was removed from his head. She was reading her dossier and continued to read even as he sat facing her, waiting for the interrogation to begin.
Since she refused to acknowledge him, there was nothing to do but try to read her document upside down. It was in Spanish, so he gave up. But then she turned a page and he felt heat rising to his cheeks. There was a color Polaroid stapled to the page-a photo of himself, head bagged, lying naked on the stained tile floor. They must have taken it just after they beat him.
He glanced at the image, then, burning with anger, turned away. He looked terrible, like some kind of thing lying there, naked and exposed, red splotches over his body. To be photographed like that, in such a state of vulnerability, and then to have the picture examined by this woman while he sat before her in this ridiculous revealing smock… it was too much. He thought of what Ernesto had said: They break you and then you tell them everything.
He told her everything. There was no need to withhold a single detail.
His only need was to convince her that he had not come to Cuba for any political purpose and was no threat to its regime.
As the Mendoza story poured out of him, he gazed steadily into her cold green eyes. They revealed nothing, which only spurred him to be more truthful, more precise, more sincere.
Occasionally she interrupted to ask a question, but most of the time she simply listened. When her tape ran out she held up her hand, flipped the cassette, then motioned him to continue. He guessed that he had spoken for nearly an hour before she signaled that she had heard enough.
Again, just before she left the room, she paused as if she had something to add. He watched her back as she stood still in the doorway. Then, as before, she left without a word.
Perhaps he spent another full day in his closet. There was no way to know. He ate the bread they threw at him and drank the water, and sat on the floor trying to imagine how, if he were a Cuban investigator, he would go about checking out his story. The only way that he could think of was to go straight to Tania Figueras.
Later, he thought about Sarah, the way she'd looked through the window of the Praha-so calm, svelte-and then the glow of greed in her eyes when she'd told him she needed more money. He thought of the way she'd snickered when she boasted that "a little bird" had told her he was being sent to Cuba, and the sadness in her eyes when she'd warned him about Mendoza: "It will only bring you pain… He was dozing when he felt a prod. He opened his eyes to find Fonseca bending over him.
"Your story is true, Lieutenant Janek." Fonseca spoke without expression, without severity. "We confused you with someone else, someone who might have come here with a less innocent purpose. You must understand, the moment you lied to our immigration officer we had no choice-we had to find out why you had come."
Janek nodded.
"Your clothes will be brought to you and then you will be taken to your hotel. Even now they are sewing back your buttons. Tomorrow you will meet with a detective from the Urban Police. I have spoken to him and he is ready to assist you." Fonseca offered his hand. Janek took it.
"Enjoy your stay in Cuba, Lieutenant." For the first time Fonseca smiled. "I doubt we will meet again."
Janek felt cleansed as he rode back to the Habana Libre in an unmarked Seguridad car driven by a silent driver. The deserted night streets were dimly lit and the bay of Havana, smooth as glass, reflected the light of a three-quarter moon.
Yes, he felt cleansed, although he was not physically clean at all; his body was sore, he had not shaved or washed and the stink of imprisonment was still upon him. Rather, it was the sensation of having come clean that suffused him. For years he had employed the purgative effect of confession in his work, holding it out, in interrogations, like a cool glass of water, telling suspects how good they would feel and how clean, once they owned up to what they had done. Now he was experiencing that sensation. How else could he explain his feelings of calm and innocence?