Then the favoritetricks of the room were invoked, and when persuaded that the spell had at last taken hold, Tsu followed by injecting the methamphetamine in a larger than usual dosage—6.4 milligrams per kilogram of body weight—needed for introverted neurotics. And then, in an ordinary, nondescript voice, and with flawless inflection of the language of the north, the Prisoner not only spoke but also answered all queries. It might have been better for his captors had he not.
Under questioning, the Prisoner repeated his claim to be Selca Decani, the peddler of cheese and the lover of Morna Altamori, explaining that, in fact, he had never died but had simply vanished, fled away to the West, the reports of his death a deliberate fiction contrived to protect Decani’s family from certain harassment by the State. His return to Albania had been prompted by his fear of the imminent death of his ailing mother. This, fundamentally, was Story Number One.
There were others.
Enemy agents of the deadlier class had been known to use drugs and hypnosis defensively with nefarious “pentothal blocks” so that the subject, under torture or if questioned by this method, would repeat a hypnotically programmed recitation. In the event that his questioners probed even deeper by attacking the block with more drugs and hypnosis, underneath the first story they might turn up a second, which, just as the first, had been scripted and implanted. A third such block had been found, it was rumored, in a rare if not mythical number of cases. Thus everything seemed to be running to form, every paranoid fear and suspicion confirmed when, under much deeper interrogation, the Prisoner’s story drastically changed. While retaining the carpentry of the first it differed in subtle but significant ways. This time the Prisoner admitted that SelcaDecani indeed was dead, and that he himself was named Sabri Melcani and had years ago fled to Yugoslavia, and from there moved on to Greece, to escape a murder charge that had arisen from his actions in the course of pursuing a blood feud: hearing that the man he thought he’d killed had recovered and was happily walking the earth, Melcani felt compelled—“by the sting of conscience,” he said—to return and try again. This, in essence, was Story Number Two which, if left at that, might not have proved so upsetting, except that there were also Story Three, Story Four, and Story Five, while Story Six, to the fury and utter consternation of all, was a faithful repetition of Story Number One, thus announcing—provided the Prisoner could live through the added injections of the dangerous drugs—the prospect of an endless and fruitless cycle. Which was not, as it happened, the most appalling thing at all. This honor was reserved for the polygraph machine.
It corroborated
all
of the Prisoner’s stories.
At this juncture it was difficult to know where to turn, and so the natural direction, by default, and to the immense relief of anyone harboring a longing for the familiar, was directly and immediately into chaos as, desperate, Vlora embraced a new tactic that was neither in his nature nor his power to control. From beginning to end the scenario was Tsu’s.
It began very calmly. In fact, rather pleasantly. The Prisoner was taken to comfortable quarters where, after receiving medical attention, for seven days he was able to bathe, given food and drink and clean clothes, and was permitted to sleep in a downy bed undisturbed until he naturally awakened. In the meantime, Major Tsu had given strict instructions that no one in contact with the Prisoner was ever to speak while in his presence, either to him or to anyone else. On day eight, a Monday,action resumed. The Prisoner was escorted by four armed guards to the room with the T-shaped table where Vlora alone sat waiting for him. The black velvet drapes had been drawn aside from the great high windows along the east wall so that sunlight shattered down in smoky
Under questioning, the Prisoner repeated his claim to be Selca Decani, the peddler of cheese and the lover of Morna Altamori, explaining that, in fact, he had never died but had simply vanished, fled away to the West, the reports of his death a deliberate fiction contrived to protect Decani’s family from certain harassment by the State. His return to Albania had been prompted by his fear of the imminent death of his ailing mother. This, fundamentally, was Story Number One.
There were others.
Enemy agents of the deadlier class had been known to use drugs and hypnosis defensively with nefarious “pentothal blocks” so that the subject, under torture or if questioned by this method, would repeat a hypnotically programmed recitation. In the event that his questioners probed even deeper by attacking the block with more drugs and hypnosis, underneath the first story they might turn up a second, which, just as the first, had been scripted and implanted. A third such block had been found, it was rumored, in a rare if not mythical number of cases. Thus everything seemed to be running to form, every paranoid fear and suspicion confirmed when, under much deeper interrogation, the Prisoner’s story drastically changed. While retaining the carpentry of the first it differed in subtle but significant ways. This time the Prisoner admitted that SelcaDecani indeed was dead, and that he himself was named Sabri Melcani and had years ago fled to Yugoslavia, and from there moved on to Greece, to escape a murder charge that had arisen from his actions in the course of pursuing a blood feud: hearing that the man he thought he’d killed had recovered and was happily walking the earth, Melcani felt compelled—“by the sting of conscience,” he said—to return and try again. This, in essence, was Story Number Two which, if left at that, might not have proved so upsetting, except that there were also Story Three, Story Four, and Story Five, while Story Six, to the fury and utter consternation of all, was a faithful repetition of Story Number One, thus announcing—provided the Prisoner could live through the added injections of the dangerous drugs—the prospect of an endless and fruitless cycle. Which was not, as it happened, the most appalling thing at all. This honor was reserved for the polygraph machine.
It corroborated
all
of the Prisoner’s stories.
At this juncture it was difficult to know where to turn, and so the natural direction, by default, and to the immense relief of anyone harboring a longing for the familiar, was directly and immediately into chaos as, desperate, Vlora embraced a new tactic that was neither in his nature nor his power to control. From beginning to end the scenario was Tsu’s.
It began very calmly. In fact, rather pleasantly. The Prisoner was taken to comfortable quarters where, after receiving medical attention, for seven days he was able to bathe, given food and drink and clean clothes, and was permitted to sleep in a downy bed undisturbed until he naturally awakened. In the meantime, Major Tsu had given strict instructions that no one in contact with the Prisoner was ever to speak while in his presence, either to him or to anyone else. On day eight, a Monday,action resumed. The Prisoner was escorted by four armed guards to the room with the T-shaped table where Vlora alone sat waiting for him. The black velvet drapes had been drawn aside from the great high windows along the east wall so that sunlight shattered down in smoky
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