The Zebra Network

Chapter 2

The method of interrogation was as simple as it was effective. The Russians had been perfecting the art for many years, and Chief Interrogator Miroshnikov was very good at it.

In the first place, McAllister was denied sleep or even any proper rest. The interrogation sessions, sometimes lasting up to ten hours each, came at any time of the day or night. He would often be brought back to his tiny cell with its strong overhead light that was never switched off, where he might be allowed to lie on his bed which consisted of nothing more than an unpadded stainless-steel shelf hanging off the wall. Sometimes this bed was wet, at other times it was too hot even to touch and he would have to squat against the wall because the floor constantly had water running over it.

As often as not his rest period only lasted ten or fifteen minutes, when he would be hauled to his feet, dragged out into the corridor where he was made to undress and stand, shivering in the cold, at attention, until it was time to return to the interrogation room.

“There will come a point where I will be useless to you,” McAllister said, running a hand across the stubble of beard on his face.” It’s a delicate balance for you, colonel, between wearing me down so I become cooperative, versus wearing me down so badly that I’ll collapse on you. Maybe my heart will stop.”

“Time, I believe you are beginning to understand, is on my side,” Miroshnikov said, sipping his tea, steam rising from the glass.” For you, of course, the actual hours and minutes are of little consequence.” He smiled.” And yes, I agree with you. Your heart might stop. It is something to think about.”

“Then I would be dead, and of no further use to you.”

“On the contrary. We might not let you die. Not yet. But even in death you would be of some use to us. We Russians are frugal with our resources. And you, my dear McAllister, are most definitely a resource.”

“I would like to speak to a representative of my embassy.”

“Such comments are counterproductive at this point,” Miroshnikov said. He opened a file folder on the steel table between them.” Let’s return to Greece, August of 1975. As we see it your cover was as a special assistant in the embassy’s political section. You were the new kid on the block, as they say, but nevertheless you were given the responsibility for product management of a very successful agent network that operated across the border in”

“I was a political officer, nothing more. We were having trouble with the Greek government at the time, as you may recall. I was a troubleshooter.”

“The network was called Scorpius, which we thought at the time was quite imaginative. In fact your little nest of spies was quite effective, until the woman-Raiza Stainov-fell out of love with her control officer, in this case a man we learned was Alfred Lapides, with whom you had regular contact over a period of thirty-three months.”

“I’ve never heard the names,” McAllister said.” It’s of no mind to me now. Lapides is dead, killed in an unfortunate automobile accident in Sofia. We need, however, information on two other men-Thomas Murdock and Georgi Morozov. They were part of your Scorpius Network. Where exactly did they fit, can you tell me at least that much?”

The extent of Miroshnikov’s knowledge was bothersome, but they had known finally that the network had been blown, though they had never suspected Raiza. She had been one of their gold seams. Her husband had been chief of Section Three of the Bulgarian Military Intelligence Service, serving directly under General Ivan Vladigerov. Through Raiza they had learned about troop movements, about the new Soviet-Bulgarian missile pact in which Soviet 55–18 nuclear missiles were placed very near the Greek border, and on the failing health of Bulgarian Defense Minister Petko Dimitrov. How much of that information had been legitimate and how much had been disinformation now was seriously in doubt. Miroshnikov had provided him with a stunning piece of intelligence. Information, however, that was of absolutely no use in here.“I’ve never heard their names either,” McAllister said.” You are lying, but there is time, and I have no doubt that we will finally hit upon a subject of which you will be willing to speak about with me.”

“We can talk about my work with the Greek Government.”

Miroshnikov looked up from the file folder.” I want nothing more than the truth here, Mr. McAllister. Not so terribly much to ask, you know. I have all of the facts, or at least most of them. I’ll admit this much to you; in all honesty we think that your work has been absolutely tops. Just first class. It is, in fact, the very reason you are here now. We don’t arrest second-rate spies.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“Oh, but you are, Mr. McAllister. Of that there can be no doubt. But let’s go back to your record. I show you in West Berlin from June of 1978 until June of 1980. In Czechoslovakia from July of 1980 until June of 1982. Poland from July of 1982 to December 1984. Afghanistan for nine months until August 1985, and then here to Moscow in September of that same year.” Miroshnikov looked up again.” Including your year at the Farm and on the various foreign desks at Langley, a quite remarkable fourteen-year association with CIA.”

“With the State Department.”

“With the Central Intelligence Agency.” Again Miroshnikov consulted his file and read off a number.” Your agency identification number, is it not?”

It was.” I’ve never heard that number before.”

“There is no use belaboring that point for the moment. Let’s go back to Athens, and the Scorpius network. Specifically to Thomas Murdock, an elusive man by all accounts. Last we heard of him he was running an airline out of Panama. The drug connection. But in this we are not one hundred percent certain. Can you tell me about him? A very large man, isn’t he?”

Murdock had been one of the best, though McAllister had no fond memories about him. He was a large man, six-feet-six at two hundred fifty pounds. He smoked Cuban cigars, drank black rum, and had been really out of place with Scorpius. In those days it was still possible to operate light planes or helicopters across the border well under Bulgarian radar. His job was as network resupply and drop officer, as well as a safety valve should they need to get their people out in a big hurry. He had been a man with absolutely no fear.

“Thank you,” Miroshnikov said respectfully.” He wrote something in the files. “Go on.” McAllister looked at the Russian. Had he spoken out loud? He rubbed his eyes. His stomach was rumbling, his gut tight, and there was a heavy, disconcerting feeling in his chest. He searched the edges of his awareness, mentally exploring his mind and body. It could be drugs, he thought, though he felt nothing, no tingling around the edges as he had been taught might be the case. Miroshnikov, he decided, was playing with him. Testing him.

“Go on with what?” he asked at length.

“With what you were saying about Murdock, naturally. We were finally getting somewhere. You knew him, and you admitted it, though you did not like him. No personal friendships there, such as with Lapides. But can you tell me what he is doing these days? Just a station name. Or even a simple confirmation of my information that he is in Panama. Just anything, Mr. McAllister.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But you do, my dear fellow, you do.” Miroshnikov was beaming earnestly.” We’re making progress and I feel very good about it.” He closed the file folder. “And so should you. We have finally broken down the first barrier which is always the most difficult.” He stood up. “Really quite excellent,” he said.

McAllister looked up at him, his head suddenly very heavy, his eyes burning. What in God’s name had he said? Had he actually given voice to his thoughts?

“I will now give you a piece of information. A bit of stimuli for you. Today is Wednesday, Mr. McAllister, and do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“You have been with us for one week and a day,” Miroshnikov shook his head in amazement.” A record, I think. We usually come to this first stage much sooner. Sometimes within hours, certainly never in my memory as long as a week.” *

In the second place McAllister was denied proper food. His meals, when they came, consisted of little more than tepid water, a very thin Del or sometimes a potato soup and occasionally a slice of dark, stale bread. It was enough nourishment to keep him alive, barely, and of course his food was laced with chemicals which at times caused him severe stomach cramps, at other times nausea so that he would vomit what he had just eaten, and at still other times, diarrhea. There was no toilet, or even bucket in his tiny cell. Water constantly ran over the concrete floor, draining through a hole in the corner. He was forced to take care of his bodily functions while leaning against the cold wall, sometimes remaining in that position for an hour, the thin, watery stool running down his legs. He would then cross to the opposite side of the cell where he would wash himself as best he could.

Once, after one of these sessions, when he was hauled out of his cell and made to strip and stand at attention in the corridor, his legs would no longer support him, and he had collapsed on the floor. They had allowed him to lay there, resting for a few minutes, until one of the guards came back with a big Turkish bath towel which he soaked in a bucket of ice water. For the next twenty minutes he proceeded to beat McAllister on the back and legs, and even the bottoms of his feet with the towel, the pain exquisite without the danger of inflicting serious injury.

His interrogation sessions seemed to come more often then, and with greater intensity, as if Miroshnikov sensed that time was finally running out for him. During these sessions he often thanked McAllister for various bits of information, until McAllister began to seriously doubt his own sanity. Was he speaking when he believed he was merely thinking? Or was it simply another of Miroshnikov’s techniques? Through it all, McAllister began to have a respect for the Russian that at times bordered frighteningly on friendship and even gratitude. His only stimuli became the interrogation sessions and the occasional beating, so that he came to look forward to his time with Miroshnikov.

“We have come a long ways together, you and I, Mac,” Miroshnikov said.” Although it has taken an inordinate amount of time.”

“How long have I been here?” McAllister asked, shocked at how weak and far away his voice seemed in his ears.

“Twenty-seven days,” Miroshnikov said proudly.” And now the first phase of our work together has finally been completed.” He took a cigarette out of his tunic pocket, lit it, and held it out across the steel table.

Without thinking, McAllister took it and brought it to his lips, inhaling the smoke deeply into his lungs. His stomach turned over and he threw up down the front of his thin prison coveralls, his head spinning so badly that he nearly fell off his chair.

Miroshnikov was smiling again.” Very good. It is time now for us to begin the second phase for which it will be best if your system is completely purged. It will be easier for us, and certainly far easier for you. In some extreme cases our subjects have even choked to death on their own vomit. We wouldn’t want that to happen to you. Not now, not after we have come so far together.”

“What are you talking about?” McAllister asked after a long time.

It seemed nearly impossible for him to focus on anything but Miroshnikov’s face. When he tried to look elsewhere across the distance of the suddenly large room, nausea rose up again, bile bitter at the back of his throat.

“We have completed the first level. You have been cooperative, but there is nothing else, at this stage, you will be able to tell me. Your very fine conditioning precludes that. It is time, then, as I was saying, to probe deeper, much deeper, and for that another method is indicated.”

“I won’t be able to take much more of this,” McAllister heard himself saying.

“Oh, but I think you can and will. You are a very strong man, Mr. McAllister, and for this I greatly admire you.”

“Fuck you.”

Miroshnikov was momentarily startled, his eyes wide. But then a huge smile crossed his face, and he threw back his head and laughed so hard that tears began to stream down his cheeks. “Oh, my,” he gasped.” Oh, dear, that is rich, Mr. McAllister. I love it, I honestly love it and you.”

“Let me speak with my embassy.”

“It’s time now,” Miroshnikov said rising. He came around the table and took McAllister’s hand, helping him up. “It’s not far in distance, Mac, but it will be light years in conception. Believe me, we are going to have a splendid time together, you and I. Simply splendid.”

The torture chamber was a very small room, laid out much like a hospital’s operating theater. A steel table with stirrups for his feet and leather straps for his arms and legs, was situated beneath a large, focused light fixture in the center of the spotlessly clean room. Electronic instruments were clustered around the head of the table. A stainless-steel roll-about cart held several trays, each covered with crisp white towels. Video cameras were set on each wall so that not one single aspect of a prisoner’s interrogation could possible be missed on tape. Two stern-faced nurses in starched white uniforms removed McAllister’s coveralls and slippers and helped him up on the table, where he was strapped in place, his legs bent at the knees, open as if he were a woman about to give birth. There was no value, at this point, for active resistance, he had been taught at the Farm. Now is when you will need all of your strength. The course of training was called Pain Management. Cancer specialists were on the staff, instructing them how to “go with the flow.” Allow the pain to wash through your body. Don’t resist it. Don’t fight it. Scream your bloody head off, in fact, because when you consider the alternative to pain death you’ll learn to endure.

The nurses placed an electroencephalogram headband around his forehead, EKG pickups on his chest, a pulse counter on his left wrist, and a blood pressure cuff on his biceps. They also attached metal clips to his nipples, and soft, almost sensuous suction cups on his testicles. When they were finished they left the room, the door closing quietly after them.

Miroshnikov sat on a tall stool behind and to McAllister’s right. He leaned forward and adjusted a knob on one of the electronic instruments, and immediately McAllister could hear the sounds of his own heartbeat and respiration over a loudspeaker. He willed himself to relax, to accept whatever would come.

They will break your will sooner or later, of course, his instructors had told him. So one might rightly ask: What is the value of resistance of any sort? Simply that the enemy knows we will treat his captured spies exactly the same as they do ours. Treat ours with respect and we will do the same. Treat ours with punishment, and we will respond in kind. The more you take, the more they know will be inflicted on their people.

So where was the twin of this room back home? Look to Washington. Look to Moscow. Zebra One, Zebra Two.

“What?” Miroshnikov asked, his face overhead. McAllister smiled.” Fuck you,” he said good-naturedly.” Thomas Murdock, let us begin with him. It is all that I want this evening.”

McAllister closed his eyes, the faint traces of a smile at the corners of his mouth. It was very possible, he told himself, that he would not come out of this alive. It was ironic that they wanted him to tell them about Murdock, of whom he knew nothing. Voronin, on the other hand, had been the gold seam. Had been, that is, until their last evening together. When? Had it been days, or weeks… — or had it been only hours ago.

A blindingly massive pain reached up from his groin, raced through his body, and rebounded in his armpits. From a long ways off he heard someone screaming, the sound animal, not human. As the pain receded he could hear his own heartbeat coming from the speaker, fast but still strong.

A second pain came, this one across his chest, and although the hurt of it was much less than the first, it was more frightening in that while it was happening he could clearly hear that his heart had stopped. When it began again he nearly cried in relief.

“Do you know Thomas Murdock, Mr. McAllister?” Miroshnikov’s voice was close in his ear.

No he did not. In the old days of Scorpius, of course, he had worked with Tom, but not afterward. Not in ten years.

The pain at his groin came again, this time more intensely, as if hot pokers had been rammed into his armpits, penetrating all the way inside his skull. Once when he was a young boy he had hit his finger with a hammer, and he couldn’t understand why the pain had been the most intense and most lasting in his elbow.Again the pain shot up from his groin, followed almost immediately by the more exquisite torture across his chest, his heart stopping, then beginning raggedly, and frighteningly weaker than before.

Tom had been a womanizer, a boozer, the network’s resident high roller. McAllister decided that he wouldn’t put it past the man to be involved down in Panama as a mule-a delivery and drop man. The cocaine connection, the pipeline back to the States, supposedly measured in the billions of dollars. Tom would be drawn to it, yes. But was there an Agency connection? We needed the hard currency, beyond the prying eyes of Congress. But how far?.

Again the pain came, this time unbelievably bad and his heartbeat stopped again. He listened. He was reminded for some insane reason about the guillotinings during the French Revolution. The man whose head had just been cut off had a few seconds to look up from the basket at his own mutilated torso flopping in the stock before the dark veil of death descended over him. McAllister found the same thing happening to him; the lights in the room began to fade, faster and faster.

“Mr. McAllister, Mr. McAllister,” someone was calling to him from an impossibly long distance.” Mac.” He opened his eyes to find that he had been unhooked from the electronic instruments, and had been unstrapped from the table. He was sitting up. There was little or no pain remaining, only a detached feeling, as if he were floating a few inches off the table. Miroshnikov stood at his side holding his arm, a big grin on his face.

“Splendid, really quite splendid, you know,” he was saying. Everything was coming back into focus for McAllister, and in some strange, almost indefinable way he felt even better for his experience. As if he had been cleansed. It was the same feeling, he supposed, that a marathon runner must feel after completing his race. Terribly tired and strung out, but with a feeling of inner strength coming from a Herculean accomplishment. They’d not told him about this at the Farm.

He also felt an exceedingly odd bonding with Miroshnikov. As if they had been, until just this moment, Siamese twins. The connecting tissues had been severed with the removal of the electronic probes and the electrodes from his chest and testicles, but he still felt as one with his interrogator.

“You should have felt the pain,” McAllister heard himself say, and he was no less astonished by his statement than Miroshnikov was.” But we’ve made progress, my dear fellow. So much wonderful progress that there cannot possibly be any animosity,” Miroshnikov said.” Here, let me help you down.”

McAllister allowed himself to be helped down from the table at the same moment the two nurses from before entered the room. He stood for a second or two, wavering slightly on his feet, then he leaned left away from Miroshnikov, as if he were about to fall.

The Russian stepped forward, his legs spread at that moment, his right hand outstretched, when McAllister turned back, bringing up his right knee with every ounce of his strength into Miroshnikov’s groin. A look of pain and disbelief spread across the interrogator’s face, and he started to rear back, his mouth opening in a bellow of pain.

The two nurses started forward, giving McAllister just enough time to roll left, then right again, the side of his right hand driving into Miroshnikov’s throat, then they were on him, shoving him roughly back against the tall torture table.

“Bastard,” one of them hissed.

“Fuck your mother, ” McAllister replied in Russian.