harsh glare of a single bare bulb, was drawn and pale. A week's stubble gave him the look of a wandering vagrant rather than that of a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy. His mouth was gu mmy and foul tasting. He ran his tongue against the back of his teeth and looked back at Brubaker. He longed for the common decency of a toothbrush, but would be damned if he'd ask.
He stepped back out into the room. He wanted to know the time of day, but was damned if he'd ask for that either. Without waiting for the inevitable instruction, Martel turned toward the table at the far side of the room, and was surprised to see a second person on the other side of it, obscured by the glare of the lamp that was aimed at the chair on the near side. Apparently the new interrogator had come in after Martel had collapsed into exhausted sleep.
Then he recognized him.
"Grierson."
Grierson nodded. Reaching into the pocket of his double-breasted jacket, he produced a pack of Lucky Strikes and held them out.
Forgetting to hide his eagerness, Jim took the proffered pack, put a cigarette in his mouth and inhaled deeply when Grierson lit it with his Zippo, which was embossed with the emblem of the FBI.
"I just want to run over a few questions with you, Martel."
"Your boys tell you I'm ready to break and it's time to come in and get all the credit?" Jim asked, trying to sound calm and invulnerable, knowing he was doing a poor job of it.
"You know the game, Martel. We don't like doing this."
"I just bet you don't." Jim nodded toward Brubaker. "Too bad the Constitution holds back your thug over there from doing a really good job. I can think of at least one country that he'd love to work for."
Brubaker started to reach angrily over the table to grab Martel but desisted at a peremptory wave from Grierson.
Martel smiled coldly at his frustrated tormentor. The man had stayed at least arguably within the letter of the law at all times, but Martel knew that Brubaker would love to be unleashed.
"You're the expert on the Nazis, Martel," Brubaker said.
"Right. I'm the expert. They'd recruit you in a minute."
Martel's gaze shifted back on Grierson. "You know I'm clean. You've had me down here now a month at least, including this last week of nonstop interrogation. And what have you got to show for it? I'm willing to bet the heat's on to clean this thing up, to pin something on me and get me out of the way. But I'm just not cooperating, am I? And if you can't prove I did it, the leak must have happened back here in the States, and that would mean you guys screwed up."
A glance passed between Grierson and his helper. "We're just doing our job, Martel. Nothing personal. There've been leaks, serious ones, and all the little arrows point to you." Grierson paused for a moment, as if mastering impatience. "Aren't you getting tired of this game, Martel? Why don't you just come clean? Admit what you did and I'll see you get off light." He smoothed his features into something like friendly neutrality. "Martel— maybe we've been taking the wrong tack here. Maybe you just overheard something by accident and passed it on without thinking. We could go to bat for you, Martel. There's this place out in Nevada for people who have heard things they shouldn't have. You could spend the next couple of years there, then be on your way. You'd be comfortable, plenty of good food, women even! It's a real nice place, more like a resort than anything else, very pleasant. You could be there in a couple of days, getting fat and tanned. How about it, Martel? Just give us what we need. Medal of Honor winner like you, we could get you that good life easy. After a year or two you'd be free as a bird."
"It was a Navy Cross."
"What?"
"I didn't do anything to deserve a Medal of Honor. But I earned my Navy Cross."
For a moment Brubaker looked confused, then shook his head impatiently. "Look, stop changing the subject, Martel."
"I didn't do it. And you know it."
"We have
He stepped back out into the room. He wanted to know the time of day, but was damned if he'd ask for that either. Without waiting for the inevitable instruction, Martel turned toward the table at the far side of the room, and was surprised to see a second person on the other side of it, obscured by the glare of the lamp that was aimed at the chair on the near side. Apparently the new interrogator had come in after Martel had collapsed into exhausted sleep.
Then he recognized him.
"Grierson."
Grierson nodded. Reaching into the pocket of his double-breasted jacket, he produced a pack of Lucky Strikes and held them out.
Forgetting to hide his eagerness, Jim took the proffered pack, put a cigarette in his mouth and inhaled deeply when Grierson lit it with his Zippo, which was embossed with the emblem of the FBI.
"I just want to run over a few questions with you, Martel."
"Your boys tell you I'm ready to break and it's time to come in and get all the credit?" Jim asked, trying to sound calm and invulnerable, knowing he was doing a poor job of it.
"You know the game, Martel. We don't like doing this."
"I just bet you don't." Jim nodded toward Brubaker. "Too bad the Constitution holds back your thug over there from doing a really good job. I can think of at least one country that he'd love to work for."
Brubaker started to reach angrily over the table to grab Martel but desisted at a peremptory wave from Grierson.
Martel smiled coldly at his frustrated tormentor. The man had stayed at least arguably within the letter of the law at all times, but Martel knew that Brubaker would love to be unleashed.
"You're the expert on the Nazis, Martel," Brubaker said.
"Right. I'm the expert. They'd recruit you in a minute."
Martel's gaze shifted back on Grierson. "You know I'm clean. You've had me down here now a month at least, including this last week of nonstop interrogation. And what have you got to show for it? I'm willing to bet the heat's on to clean this thing up, to pin something on me and get me out of the way. But I'm just not cooperating, am I? And if you can't prove I did it, the leak must have happened back here in the States, and that would mean you guys screwed up."
A glance passed between Grierson and his helper. "We're just doing our job, Martel. Nothing personal. There've been leaks, serious ones, and all the little arrows point to you." Grierson paused for a moment, as if mastering impatience. "Aren't you getting tired of this game, Martel? Why don't you just come clean? Admit what you did and I'll see you get off light." He smoothed his features into something like friendly neutrality. "Martel— maybe we've been taking the wrong tack here. Maybe you just overheard something by accident and passed it on without thinking. We could go to bat for you, Martel. There's this place out in Nevada for people who have heard things they shouldn't have. You could spend the next couple of years there, then be on your way. You'd be comfortable, plenty of good food, women even! It's a real nice place, more like a resort than anything else, very pleasant. You could be there in a couple of days, getting fat and tanned. How about it, Martel? Just give us what we need. Medal of Honor winner like you, we could get you that good life easy. After a year or two you'd be free as a bird."
"It was a Navy Cross."
"What?"
"I didn't do anything to deserve a Medal of Honor. But I earned my Navy Cross."
For a moment Brubaker looked confused, then shook his head impatiently. "Look, stop changing the subject, Martel."
"I didn't do it. And you know it."
"We have
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