Sleeper Agent Read Free Page B

glass once more and held it out to the young lieutenant. “Here,” he said. ‘To your health!” He smiled.
    The young man shook his head. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve had enough.”
    The smile suddenly vanished from the interrogator’s face. “Drink it!” he snapped, the friendliness gone from his voice. “ Drink!"
    An icy shock of realization surged through the young man. With grim certainty he knew the intentions of his tormentors. Oh, God, no! Please, no!
    “Drink it!”
    With shaking hands he took the glass of water. He drained it. He felt nauseated. His empty stomach rebelled against the sudden flooding. He fought down the rising bile.
    With deliberately elaborate gestures the Gestapo man refilled the glass, dwelling on every move. “I do not wish to be thought less generous than my colleague,” he said. “Here. I, too, must insist you have a second glass.” There was unmistakable menace in his mockery.
    The young man took the glass. His hands trembled, and water slopped over the edge.
    “Careful, Lieutenant. We do not want to waste a drop of it, do we?”
    He drank. He forced the liquid down. He was bleak with despair. All of a sudden he was desperately conscious of the pain caused by his swollen bladder. So fast? Perhaps he only imagined it. But he knew with absolute certainty that he could not continue to control himself. That’s what they wanted. The ultimate humiliation. The degrading moment when he was forced to relax and let his bladder empty itself. Where he stood. At attention. Faced by his disdainful tormentors.
    The glass was empty.
    He was hardly aware that it was again refilled—"One more for good measure!"—and once again he managed to drain it.
    He was waiting. Waiting for the moment when he was finally beaten. As he must be. He knew that his defeat would be not merely the inevitable debasement, the total humiliation. That was only window dressing. No. His defeat would be absolute.
    The two Gestapo men returned to their seats. For a while neither said anything. They merely watched the young man standing before them. Their faces were intent as they observed their specimen.
    Finally the older interrogator spoke. “Have you had enough? I think you have. Tell us your true identity.”
    “Robert . . . Kane. First lieutenant. United States Army.”
    Was that his voice? He did not recognize it
    The two Gestapo officers looked at each other. They glanced toward the two unseen men in the shadows, but nothing was said. Finally the older interrogator broke the silence. “Lieutenant, the charade is over. You have done well.”
    He stood mute.
    “Do I understand you correctly, Lieutenant?” The Gestapo officer’s voice was ominously low. “You are challenging us to . . . to proceed?”
    He made no reply.
    For a moment the interrogator stared at him. His expression was enigmatic. Then he shrugged. “Very well. The choice is yours.” He picked up the receiver from a black phone on the table. “ Wache antretenl” he ordered curtly.
    He replaced the receiver. He looked somberly at the exhausted young man before him. He sighed. “You know what to expect.” His voice was flat
    Yes. He knew. They’d told him they had one final way to break his spirit. They had advised him to avoid being forced to endure it. For his own sake.
    Behind him the door opened. He heard the clicks of two pairs of heels snapping to attention.
    “Take him,” the Gestapo interrogator said. His voice was totally dispassionate.
    He felt his arms being seized in firm grips. Dimly, through a mist of fatigue, he was conscious of two SS men, one on each side of him. His burning eyes rested for a brief moment on the two black-uniformed interrogators at the table. They sat erect, motionless, like two figures in a wax museum chamber of horrors.
    Before the two SS guards turned him away, he glanced at the big round lighted clock on the wall. But he couldn’t make it out. The numerals, the clock hands, the second sweep swam