Sleeper Agent Read Free Page A

comfortably.
    The young man stiffened. Slowly he withdrew his hand. He stared mesmerized at the glass of water. His face was a waxen mask.
    “My colleague has given you an order, Kane,” the older Gestapo interrogator continued. “ I have given you an order. Now, obey!”
    He wanted to scream. He knew if he did he’d never stop. Why didn’t they shout at him? Yell, bellow, red-necked with rage, as they did before? It would be easier. This disquieting calmness confused him. It forced him to think. And he did not want to think. He hated their calm, their restraint, their composure. It was so different from the destructive turmoil raging in him.
    Do nothing. Just do . . . nothing.
    No. If he did, they had beaten him. And he would not be beaten. He knew that it took just one tiny crack in the defensive armor he’d built around his mind. One small defeat, and the collapse would soon be complete. He hated them. He’d never known hate could be so all-consuming, so . . . stimulating. He had to best them.
    Imperceptibly his hand moved toward the glass. He felt it quaver. He clenched it as hard as he could—and once more reached toward the glass.
    “Of course, this time it is not a question of . . . eh . . . seniority, is it. Lieutenant?” The older Gestapo man smiled pleasantly at him.
    His hand hesitated only a fraction of a second. Then he closed his fingers around the glass. He was startled at the cool, smooth feel of it. Carefully he lifted it off the table. With rapt fascination he watched the tiny waves ripple on the water’s surface as he held the glass in his unsteady hand. He stared at it. It was no longer a glass of water. It was the deadly weapon in a grueling duel of wits. He meant to use it. He had to. He meant to win.
    With a quick, determined motion, as if he were afraid his own hand would not obey him, he poured the water back into the carafe. For a brief moment he stared at the empty glass. His sense of loss was overpowering. Then he placed the glass on the table.
    The older man sighed, much like an exasperated parent over a recalcitrant child. “Now, Lieutenant. Who ordered you to do that?” His voice was mildly reproving.
    He stood silent. He knew he’d need time before he could trust his voice. Then he said, “Sir . . . sir, I was ordered to take the glass. I did. I was ordered not to drink. I did not:”
    He was certain that at that moment he’d never felt more physically exhausted, more mentally spent—or more triumphant. He had not given up. He had acted.
    The younger Gestapo officer rose from the table. He walked around it to stand in front of the young man. He was smiling. “You think you are very clever, do you not?” He nodded amiably. “Well, Lieutenant, we think so, too. I think we shall reward you.”
    He turned to the table. Once again he poured a full glass of water. He held it out to the young man. “Here. Take it. Drink it!”,
    For a moment their eves met Then with a sudden fierce move the young man grabbed the glass. He’d give them no time for counterorders. In the same jerky motion he brought the glass to his mouth. Water spilled over the rim and ran down his fingers. Down his chin.
    But he drank.
    He imagined the effect to be immediate. Perhaps it was.
    The Gestapo man took the empty glass from him. He looked closely at the young man. Their eyes locked briefly. ‘Fine,’ the interrogator said with a smile. “Very fine!” He turned back to the table and refilled the glass from the carafe. Again he held it out to the young man. “Here. Have another glass.”
    He took it. This time he drank slower, enjoying every drop of the cool liquid as it soothed his parched lips, his mouth, his throat. And again he emptied the glass.
    The other interrogator joined them. He smiled agreeably at the young man. “My colleague is most generous. is he not?” he asked. He took the empty glass. “Perhaps I, too, should . . . eh . . . reward you, no?” He turned to the table, filled the