The Rocket Man (47 page)

The soldier turned to Dmitry. ‘Take off your clothes.'

Dmitry felt his knees continue to shake; he knew now what they were going to do to him. He had heard it was a common means of torture in Latin America; cheap, effective, and leaving no external marks on the body. He said in a low voice, trying to keep it controlled, ‘You do not have to do this. I –'

‘We don't want to do it,' said the soldier. ‘We don't like doing it; it would be much easier if you just told us something. Why don't you just tell us what Vargas wants to hear? Then we will not have to do anything to you.'

The second soldier was more threatening. He said again, ‘Take off your clothes.'

A third soldier came into the room. Dmitry hesitated; then the second soldier, unexpectedly, hit him hard across the cheek with the back of his hand. Dmitry felt a warm, salty taste in his mouth; he felt his teeth gingerly with his tongue, afraid that one was broken. He felt absolutely terrified; bravery had no meaning in this situation; worse even than the thought of pain was the thought of humiliating himself. For a moment he felt like bursting into tears.

He started to undo the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers; he saw them watching intently, as if eager to see what lay underneath. He took his clothes off, one by one, prolonging the process as long as he reasonably could, and folded them neatly into a pile on the floor. He stood in front of them, naked. His body looked unnaturally white in the dark room and compared with those of the soldiers; dark veins stood out against his pale skin; he thought how unattractive white skin must look to other races; it made him feel doubly vulnerable. The soldiers hesitated; they seemed uncertain; he thought for a moment they were almost afraid of him, reluctant to make a direct approach, because he was so much bigger than they were; perhaps they thought he would resist them. Then he saw that they were staring at the huge scar on his chest. One of them pointed to it; ‘What is this?' he asked.

Dmitry clutched at this pitiful straw which had been offered him. He said, ‘It was a heart operation. I have a heart problem.' He thought perhaps if they believed he had a weak heart and might die they wouldn't torture him. The soldiers conferred; one of them went away. Dmitry was left standing in the room.

The second soldier said, ‘Turn round. Put your hands behind your back.'

He did so. They tied his hands and ankles together tightly and pushed him forwards. He could not put his arms or feet out to balance himself, so he fell flat on the floor. He lay there, stunned, the air knocked out of him, listening to the sound of the water filling up the tank It was agony to hear the water and not to be able to drink it. When the tank began to sound full they turned off the tap. Then there was a silence that lasted so long Dmitry wondered if it would ever be broken. He sat up with difficulty and looked at the soldiers.

The door opened suddenly and the colonel came in. He looked at Dmitry. ‘What is this? This is not a heart operation. What are these? They are bullet wounds. You have had surgery to the chest, no? This is interesting. How did you get these? Who has tried to kill you? Why?'

Dmitry didn't know what to say; everything pointed against him. The colonel said, ‘There is nothing wrong with his heart. You can carry on.' He went out. One soldier stood by the door; the other two grabbed Dmitry on each side and pulled him to his feet. He gulped in as much air as he could before they plunged his head down into the water. They were holding him by the hair, by his arms, pressing down on the back of his neck; he resisted, of course, but it was no use. As he went under he swallowed some water; he felt an instant of relief as his thirst was finally quenched; then began the unbearable pressure of wanting to breathe.

He wondered how long they would hold him under the water; he wondered if they ever misjudged and actually drowned somebody; he wondered too about the missing half of his lung, and whether that would mislead them about the length of time he could hold his breath. His head felt as if it would burst; he couldn't hold on any longer; he was going to have to breathe; air bubbled out of his mouth as he was forced to exhale. Now it was agony; he was dying; he was drowning. The water started to rush into his lungs and they pulled him out.

He gasped for air, coughing, choking, gulping; then, before he felt he had caught his breath, they pushed him back under again. He tried frantically to resist, to get more air into his lungs, but he was already hitting the water. This time it was only a short interval before he had to draw water into his lungs; again, just at the critical moment, they pulled him out.

Dmitry thought, I can't stand much of this, it's no use, I will have to tell them something. But what could he tell them? The truth would only make it worse, and they would probably not believe him. He started to say something, but again, before he could get the words out, they plunged him into the water. This time he had hardly any air in his lungs; he discovered it is much harder to hold air out than to hold it in. He made a desperate effort, tried to thrash his head under the water; he felt the strength of the soldier's hands gripping him and his own strength ebbing out of him. He heard a roaring in his head, then he must have had a moment of unconsciousness; then he was lying on the floor, coughing water up out of his lungs. He heard himself make a dreadful retching noise; he was vomiting water. They let him lie there for a moment. Then they pulled him up onto his knees against the side of the tank and slammed his head down into the water.

He could do nothing but endure it. They hardly even gave him a chance to beg for mercy. When he was out of the water he was gasping for air, unable to speak. Once or twice they asked him, not unkindly, if he had anything to say, but he did not know how to answer them. He had no idea how long this went on for. At one point he passed out again. He came to his senses lying on the floor which was now wet and slippery with water. He needed to urinate, but couldn't bring himself to tell them; sooner or later he would have to do it on the floor and then he would have to lie in it.

He looked across the room, his cheek pressing on the cold floor. The soldiers were talking. One of them had lit a cigarette; the smell of the smoke gave Dmitry a strange sensation, like a flashback to a former world. They were talking mostly in Guaraní; the sound of their voices was almost soothing.

For some reason he got the impression they were talking about fishing. One of them was holding out his hands as if to show the size of his catch. He heard the names of various rivers: the Paraná, the Pilcomayo, the Paraguay. He looked across the room to them; two of them were drinking
yerba maté
while the other smoked. They glanced in his direction, saw that his eyes were open, laughed and continued to talk. Dmitry felt himself drifting in a kind of daze. He saw in his mind's eye the vast sweep of the wide South American rivers, the patches of water hyacinths rotating slowly on the surface as they drifted downstream, the huge fish that swam sensuously beneath the surface. It was like a dream that lasted for a moment in the brief interval between unconsciousness and full awakening; then he could not escape the reality of the bare, dirty floor, the pain in his tightly-bound hands and feet.

After a few moments the soldiers came over and pulled him to his feet. The thought of going back into the water was unbearable. Dmitry said, ‘Please, no more. You don't have to do this to me. I will tell you what you want to know.'

‘Go on then,' said the soldier, ‘Tell us.'

Dmitry heard one of them open the door and shout something. He heard footsteps from along the corridor. Everything seemed to come out of Dmitry in an unruly jumble. He said, ‘I am Russian. It is true I am employed by the United Nations. I was at a conference in Buenos Aires, on nuclear energy in the Third World.'

The colonel came into the room. The second soldier said, ‘
El es ruso
.'

The colonel looked impressed. ‘
Ruso
?' he said. ‘The Russians too are interested in rockets, isn't that so? So you admit you are a spy?'

‘I am not a spy,' said Dmitry, ‘I am a scientist.'

‘What kind of scientist?'

‘A physicist.' Dmitry did not know if he had used the right word; perhaps
fisico
could also mean doctor, physician. He tried to make it clearer. He said, ‘I am a specialist in atomic energy.'

‘Atomic energy?' The colonel was clearly astonished; he turned to the others and muttered something. Dmitry only heard the one word, ‘
Bombas.
'

He jerked his head up. ‘No,' he said, ‘Not bombs. I am not an expert in bombs. On the contrary, I work for the International Atomic Energy Agency. We are an agency of the United Nations dedicated to promoting the peaceful uses of atomic energy.'

He had heard the phrase so often at the conference last week in English, in Spanish, in every language, that it rolled easily from his tongue. The colonel stared at him. If the situation had not been so desperate, it might almost have been funny, for the colonel's stare combined the most perfect mixture of amusement and disbelief. He asked one of the soldiers something, who left and returned a few minutes later with the commandante.

‘
Existe, esta organisación
?' the colonel asked him.

‘
Sí, existe
,' Vargas replied.

‘I see,' said the colonel. ‘So you were sent here to stop Señor Richter, is that it? To see if he is making any bombs?'

Dmitry said, ‘No, that would be impossible. He could not make bombs here, it is a very sophisticated process. I have reason to believe that he may have supplied missiles to Brazil, and that the Brazilian military may be trying to make a bomb.'

Vargas, sitting on the chair, leaned over him. He said, ‘How do you know this? Where did you hear it? Tell me; this is very interesting.'

Dmitry said, ‘I heard it from a Brazilian journalist in Buenos Aires, Jaime dos Santos. He was investigating it. He was killed within ten minutes of telling me. I myself was shot two months ago because I knew about the plot to remove highly enriched uranium from the Valadares Centre in Brazil.'

The two men conferred for a moment. Vargas went on. ‘What did this journalist tell you? Tell me everything he said.'

Dmitry told him. When he gave the names of the men at the secret meeting Vargas sat upright. He said to the colonel, ‘Hería Prieto – I know him. He is very right-wing. I know he has contacts in the Brazilian army. His daughter lives in Brazil. But this is unbelievable. Have you any evidence to support this claim?'

‘No, but there will be evidence – if I am allowed to communicate with anyone. Haynes admitted it to me. He knows…'

‘Where is Haynes?'

‘I don't know. I left him in the hotel.'

Vargas spoke again to the colonel. He said, ‘But the United Nations didn't send you here. They do not operate this way, they would go through the government. I cannot believe you would come alone. Were you sent by your own government? Are you an agent of the KGB?'

‘No, I swear it, I came alone.'

‘But there must be others with you – the ones responsible for this attack on the rocket site.'

‘No.'

The colonel moved nearer. He said, ‘He is still lying. Let us try him again in the
pileta
.'

Dmitry said, desperate, ‘This attack has nothing to do with me or my country. I can tell you who has blown up the rocket range; it is the CIA.'

The colonel laughed unpleasantly. He said, ‘Of course, you would say this. It is a nonsense. The Americans have other ways of influencing things, they do not have to resort to such crude tricks. On the contrary, this is the sort of thing that would be done by communist agents. You, I take it, are a communist?'

‘I am a scientist; I am not interested in politics.'

The colonel shrugged. ‘Where you come from you are all communists.'

Dmitry shook his head. ‘Why are we talking about communism? Communism is over, finished.'

‘You think so?' The colonel leaned forward. ‘You think communism is dead, do you? You, a Russian?'

‘Oh, communism has been dead for some time,' said Dmitry, ‘It's just there are some who don't realise it yet.'

Vargas laughed. He said something to the colonel and he laughed too, loudly and unpleasantly. Vargas leaned forward, cupping Dmitry's chin in his hand and forcing him to look up at him. ‘Why did you say it was the CIA? Where did you get this information from?'

Dmitry, not knowing what to say, said feebly, ‘I can't remember.'

The colonel hit him in the face. Blood poured into his mouth. He felt he had no dignity, sitting naked on the floor, still bound, blood dribbling from his mouth.

‘I heard it from an official at the Russian Embassy in Buenos Aires.'

‘Ah,' said the colonel. ‘Finally. You will give me his name?'

‘Anatoly Makushkin.'

‘He is a high ranking officer?'

‘He is First Scientific Secretary. He is a real diplomat. He is not in the KGB.'

‘Then where did he get his information?'

Dmitry said, dully, ‘Embassy gossip. I suppose, in the end, from the KGB.'

‘So,' said the colonel, ‘Now we have it. Do you think I am not aware that the United Nations has always been used as a cover for spying by your country? You are an agent sent by the KGB. You have been caught in the act of espionage. In the course of carrying out your duties you have murdered a Paraguayan soldier. Who are the others working with you?'

‘There are no others.'

‘Then who carried out the attack on the rocket range? I want their names. I want all the details. Come on, tell me. Tell me or I can assure you things will get even more unpleasant for you.'

Dmitry's voice shook with utter desperation. He had nothing more to tell them. He said, ‘No, this is the truth. I have told you the truth.'