the mountains. The lake at Ouchy below was choppy and bright. The day was a promise of warmth, which, after a long winter, was good enough.It was a day to be with friends and find warm places to drink in and find laughter. Devereaux only knew the old man from Ouchy who played chess as though it were war. All the Swiss men played at war all their lives. And they only took those things seriously that were not war.
He wondered if Hanley had a new game.
He walked up the steep streets to the upper town and was lost in thought and the exertion of the climb. He walked along the Rue Mon Repos and failed to see as clearly as he was trained to see. He was so preoccupied with thoughts of Hanley that the two men in the Saab who followed him had no trouble at all.
7
D R . G ODDARD
H anley was not given clothing. He understood the technique. Everyone in intelligence knew the technique and used it. The naked prisoner is like the naked patient or the naked captive: They are all rendered defenseless by their nakedness.
Hanley sat on the vinyl side chair in the examining room. His naked bottom pressed against the vinyl. He wondered if it was cleaned with disinfectant after each use.
It was the first full day of his captivity. They had given him oatmeal with prunes for breakfast. He had wanted to gag.
And no coffee.
“Coffee isn’t good for you,” chirped the nun who had brought his tray.
“Where is this place? Why am I—”
“When you see the doctor,” she said, smiling and flitting about the room like a nervous bird. She said “doctor” as though saying “God.”
He sat on the vinyl chair and stared at the man at the empty desk. He guessed there was a tape recorder set upsomewhere. On the cheerful blue wall behind the desk was a very bad print of a painting by Modigliani in which a reclining woman is represented in bright colors. Hanley did not like modern art. Hanley did not like sitting on a vinyl chair wearing a ridiculous hospital gown. He wasn’t sick; he was tired. He had felt frightened and confused last night; now he felt anger.
“My name is Dr. Goddard,” began the man with the salt-and-pepper beard and the guileless brown eyes. He had large hands and clasped them on top of the desk. He spoke in a voice that was made for a lecture hall. He smiled at Hanley.
“Doctor of what? And where am I? And why was I brought here?”
“This is St. Catherine’s,” said Dr. Goddard, still smiling. His glasses were brown and round and owlish. He seemed to have all the time in the world. “This is a hospital. Do you remember anything?”
“I remember two goons who came to my apartment and showed me some papers. I said there had to be a mistake but that I would go with them. And then one of them wanted to put me in a straitjacket, for God’s sake. What is this place, a nut house?”
“Unfortunate word,” said Dr. Goddard. The voice was a pipe organ played by Lawrence Welk.
“You don’t have any right—”
“Mr. Hanley. I assure you we have every right. You understand this is a matter of both national security and your wellness.”
Hanley blinked. “What did you say?”
“Mr. Hanley. St. Catherine’s is equipped with all the best medical equipment. We intend to examine youthoroughly for physical causes of your… depression. But I think this will go deeper than mere physical causes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What are the causes of depression?” said Dr. Goddard as though speaking to a classful of students. “Many. A chemical imbalance is certainly involved. Perhaps some trauma that has created a subtle neurological impairment. Perhaps—”
“Who are you, Dr. Goddard? What kind of a doctor are you?”
“I’m a psychiatrist, Mr. Hanley. As you suspected.” He smiled with good humor. “There. I’m not so frightening, am I?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Hanley said. “But you can’t keep me in a place against my will.”
Dr. Goddard said nothing.
Hanley stood up. “I want
He wondered if Hanley had a new game.
He walked up the steep streets to the upper town and was lost in thought and the exertion of the climb. He walked along the Rue Mon Repos and failed to see as clearly as he was trained to see. He was so preoccupied with thoughts of Hanley that the two men in the Saab who followed him had no trouble at all.
7
D R . G ODDARD
H anley was not given clothing. He understood the technique. Everyone in intelligence knew the technique and used it. The naked prisoner is like the naked patient or the naked captive: They are all rendered defenseless by their nakedness.
Hanley sat on the vinyl side chair in the examining room. His naked bottom pressed against the vinyl. He wondered if it was cleaned with disinfectant after each use.
It was the first full day of his captivity. They had given him oatmeal with prunes for breakfast. He had wanted to gag.
And no coffee.
“Coffee isn’t good for you,” chirped the nun who had brought his tray.
“Where is this place? Why am I—”
“When you see the doctor,” she said, smiling and flitting about the room like a nervous bird. She said “doctor” as though saying “God.”
He sat on the vinyl chair and stared at the man at the empty desk. He guessed there was a tape recorder set upsomewhere. On the cheerful blue wall behind the desk was a very bad print of a painting by Modigliani in which a reclining woman is represented in bright colors. Hanley did not like modern art. Hanley did not like sitting on a vinyl chair wearing a ridiculous hospital gown. He wasn’t sick; he was tired. He had felt frightened and confused last night; now he felt anger.
“My name is Dr. Goddard,” began the man with the salt-and-pepper beard and the guileless brown eyes. He had large hands and clasped them on top of the desk. He spoke in a voice that was made for a lecture hall. He smiled at Hanley.
“Doctor of what? And where am I? And why was I brought here?”
“This is St. Catherine’s,” said Dr. Goddard, still smiling. His glasses were brown and round and owlish. He seemed to have all the time in the world. “This is a hospital. Do you remember anything?”
“I remember two goons who came to my apartment and showed me some papers. I said there had to be a mistake but that I would go with them. And then one of them wanted to put me in a straitjacket, for God’s sake. What is this place, a nut house?”
“Unfortunate word,” said Dr. Goddard. The voice was a pipe organ played by Lawrence Welk.
“You don’t have any right—”
“Mr. Hanley. I assure you we have every right. You understand this is a matter of both national security and your wellness.”
Hanley blinked. “What did you say?”
“Mr. Hanley. St. Catherine’s is equipped with all the best medical equipment. We intend to examine youthoroughly for physical causes of your… depression. But I think this will go deeper than mere physical causes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What are the causes of depression?” said Dr. Goddard as though speaking to a classful of students. “Many. A chemical imbalance is certainly involved. Perhaps some trauma that has created a subtle neurological impairment. Perhaps—”
“Who are you, Dr. Goddard? What kind of a doctor are you?”
“I’m a psychiatrist, Mr. Hanley. As you suspected.” He smiled with good humor. “There. I’m not so frightening, am I?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Hanley said. “But you can’t keep me in a place against my will.”
Dr. Goddard said nothing.
Hanley stood up. “I want
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