CapturedbytheSS, page 4
“Yes,” I admit.
Apparently fascinated by something, he walks around the nightstand so he can watch me as he works. I can see what he’s doing now since he’s no longer blocking my view.
“I need information from you, American, and we learned decades ago that torture and rape are not reliable methods of interrogation.”
I might feel better about that statement if he hadn’t just pulled a syringe with a needle from the case. I’m not sure what this guy’s definition of torture is, but to me, anything with needles definitely qualifies. I almost wish he was blocking my view again. I’m not sure I want to watch.
Without looking at me, he pulls off the needle’s plastic cap. He sets the cap down on the nightstand, but it rolls off and falls, clattering noisily against the hardwood floor. He doesn’t pick it up.
He pulls a small glass vial from the case before setting it down on the table. While holding the vial steady, he plunges the needle into it. After carefully inverting the bottle, he brings the inserted syringe closer to his face as he expertly draws the clear liquid. There’s no hesitation or uncertainty in his actions. I have the impression he’s done this many times.
“What is that?” I ask, though I know he’s not going to tell me.
He smiles as he looks at me. “You don’t get to ask the questions, American.”
I’ve read the Nazis have spent billions on pharmaceutical research. There are rumors they have potent mind-weakening drugs, but I’m not sure if that’s what he’s going to give me or not.
Since I’m helplessly tied down, I can’t do anything to stop him. His gloved fingers lightly trace a vein in my upturned wrist. The rope securing me to the bed is closer to my hand and doesn’t appear to be in his way. He looks focused. His index finger stops and presses into my flesh. I’m sensing he’s found whatever it is he’s looking for.
He swabs my wrist with something cold and wet. I find it odd he’s sterilizing the injection site. I guess he wants to keep me healthy for my execution.
The tip of the needle touches where his index finger was. I inadvertently tug against the restraints, but he’s holding my arm, preventing any thrashing. I squeeze my eyes shut, fearing the injection will most likely hurt. The needle feels like a sharp pinch, but fortunately there’s nothing really painful about it. When I feel the needle leave me, I open my eyes. Willing myself calm, I study the ceiling.
As part of my training, I’ve actually had several so-called truth serums administered to me. If it’s something my system has been introduced to before, I might have some resistance to whatever this drug is. My experience with most truth serums is that they’re not very effective.
As I study the ceiling, I suddenly feel a bit loopy and sleepy.
I guess my system has never experienced this particular drug before or it wouldn’t be hitting me this hard and this fast. Reality slowly dissolves as my eyes unwillingly close. I hear my captor’s heavy footfalls leave the room. After several minutes, I hear him return. A chair scoots across the floor. I hear paper rustling. “Now,” he whispers, “you’re going to answer my questions.” I sense movement next to me, and I hear the chair being pulled up closer.
Darkness lingers over me, but it doesn’t completely engulf me. My limbs feel heavy and unresponsive. I hear him ask the first question.
“What is your name? Your real name, American.”
I’m not saying anything! Kiss my ass! “Isabel Riley.” What the hell? I can’t believe I just told him that. I had every intention of revealing nothing.
“Spell your first name, please.”
No! “I-S-A-B-E-L.” Damn it!
“Spell your last name.”
Piss off! “R-I-L-E-Y.” Son of a—
“Recite your military issued serial number.”
I want to say no, I really do, but I feel as if a part of my mind has been switched off. “0-2-5-7-9-6-4.” Damn it! I’m completely helpless to censor my answers. This drug is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my training. I didn’t even know the Nazis had anything like this.
“Good,” my questioner murmurs. I hear a pen whispering across paper.
“Why did you come to Berlin?”
Name and serial number I can almost live with, but I really don’t want to tell him the details of my mission. I try to stay silent, but I blurt out the truth.
“I’m here to obtain details on a reported new spy plane that was recently built.”
“Really? What plane?”
The pen is a mad whisper across paper.
“Sources reported that Germany had constructed a plane labeled the C-60, which would be capable of cruising undetected over US soil at extremely high altitudes.”
“How do you know about the C-60?”
“My superiors told me.”
“How did they obtain information on the C-60?”
“I don’t know.”
He pauses for a moment. “Does your agency have informants in key positions within the empire?”
“I think so.”
“Who are these informants?”
“I don’t know.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. I have the impression he’s asked that question to other spies and gotten the same answer. “All right. What did you learn about the C-60?”
“The plane is real but initial tests have been disappointing. The plane is easily detectable on standard surveillance equipment.”
That was actually the highlight of the information I found, the part I knew my superiors would like. As a matter of fact, I found a lot of information on the plane, including a glossy, printed manual. I have a suspicion it was used as part of a presentation. Since it was about the plane, I dutifully memorized all seventy-eight pages, including all photos and graphs. I also memorized the name and address of the printing house, which was stamped on the inside of the front cover.
Since it’s about the plane and because he asked me what I learned, the drug compels me to start reciting the manual. I repeat the German words in German, alternating to English only to explain what I found. It feels weird for this information to pour from me like this, but I can’t stop it.
Loosely translated, I say, “Manual located, title, The Spy Plane of the Future. Printed by Shultzer and Gaines, 641 E Rhonesburg Street, Berlin, Germany, 10115. Printed by permission.” The rest of the manual quickly follows as his pen frantically moves across paper.
I know to some outside observer, it might seem a bit odd that I memorized such minute details such as the name and address of the printer. But one has to understand, it’s never been my job to determine what is and isn’t valuable information.
My orders were to get into the Echelon, a secure military building in Berlin, locate all files on the C-60, memorize everything and then report to my superiors what I found. Besides, the name and address of the printing house could be important. In the future, our agents may slip into that facility in an attempt to locate valuable files and other pending print jobs by the German military. Well, we could have if I hadn’t been captured.
So, there’s really no such thing as worthless information, as long as it’s accurate.
The manual also contained a lot of technical details, such as the plane’s weight and wingspan as well as maximum air speed and fuel capacity. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t stop me. He just lets me talk. When I come to a graph or a picture, he tells me to describe it, which I do. His pen frantically moves across paper during the interrogation.
I only wish I could’ve gotten this information back to my superiors before I was captured. It would have been nice if I could have sent an email or called my agency at some point, but the Gestapo is good at keeping a firewall up and even better at blocking signals and phone lines.
The Gestapo is essentially a sister agency of the SS. Both departments handle cases of treason and espionage, but the Gestapo serves as the empire’s tech police where the SS handles apprehension and interrogation.
Because of the Gestapo, it’s virtually impossible to contact the States from anywhere within the empire…well, maybe not impossible. I think my superiors may have a way to communicate with informants, but I think that’s one of those ultra-secrets I’m not allowed to know.
Finally, I come to the end of the manual and stop talking. I’m actually a little hoarse from talking for so long.
“How did you learn all this?”
“Test results and plane specifications are on file at the Echelon, which is located in Berlin.”
“I know that. I mean how did you get into that facility?”
“The building has security weaknesses.”
“Really?” He sounds eager. “And you’re going to tell me these weaknesses.”
Somehow, I manage to break through the ether. Although it takes a great deal of effort, I force my mind to focus. But I don’t want him to know I’m a bit more lucid. This is my opportunity to give him bogus information.
My instructors taught me that misinformation or disinformation can sometimes be better than silence, and it can also make legitimate information appear less reliable. It’s basically a philosophy that truth mixed with lies makes for shoddy information at best.
Keeping my eyes closed, I try to think of a plausible-sounding story without giving away important details. But my mind is a bit foggy from the drug, and I’m having trouble thinking of a lie.
“There’s a broken security camera on the building’s west side.”
That’s actually an older piece of information. For months, our agents were able to slip in undetected because of that broken camera. I wish I could have thought of something better, but that was the best I could do under the circumstances. I know that camera has been fixed, but I’m hoping he doesn’t.
“That camera was fixed,” he mutters. There’s something about his tone that concerns me. I hear his heavy footfalls approaching. A gloved finger raises my right eyelid, and I inadvertently look up at him.
“You’re awake,” he declares. “You were trying to feed me disinformation.” He sounds impressed. “I’ve never even heard of a prisoner being able to do that with this drug, and we’ve been using it for years.”
I only study him.
He turns and retrieves the empty syringe before drawing more fluid from the bottle. “You are a willful subject,” he mutters.
“I’m not telling you anything else,” I declare, willing my mind to stay focused. Although this particular drug is new to me, I do have some experience resisting the effects of potent narcotics.
Standing over me, he only smiles as he pushes the needle into my wrist. “Yes, you will, American…although, I am impressed. Most prisoners respond quite well to just one dose.”
Again I feel the heaviness on my eyelids. I force myself to stay focused. Unlike the first time, it doesn’t completely sideswipe me. I may be a bit odd to my instructors, but damn it, I’m good at what I do.
Inhaling deeply, I refuse to let the drug knock me out. I won’t let this overtake me. I won’t tell him anything else. I won’t let him win!
“I am not going to cooperate,” I insist angrily.
He chuckles darkly as he sits down next to me. “Stubborn as you are, American, I think you will.”
Despite my best efforts to fight the drug, I once again slip under the surface of darkness. Pulling against my restraints, I feel the back of my head sinking back down into the pillow. My limbs turn to mush before my eyes unwillingly close.
I hear him slip closer to me. His fingers touch my right eyelid and cheek. I think he’s checking to see if I’m under by raising my eyelid. Oddly enough, I don’t see any light. There’s only darkness. I think my eyes are rolled up. It’s weird…it’s as if I’m unconscious but still aware.
He actually repeats all of his previous questions, and I give the same answers I gave before, except he stops me before I repeat the manual again. Apparently satisfied, he picks up where we left off.
“Now, American, tell me about these security weaknesses at the Echelon.”
I want to say no, but whatever he’s injected me with makes it impossible for me to hold anything back or to lie.
I rattle off details about the cameras’ blind spots, known times when patrolmen change shifts and certain air and maintenance ducts. I hate telling him these details. These security flaws are our lifeline for our intelligence department, though we always seem to find ways around their updates. His pen frantically whispers across paper.
After about a million questions, he finally stops, mostly because I start answering everything with, “I don’t know.”
“Hmm. You’ve certainly given me a great deal of information, American. Now I wish to know more about you. I need to create a thorough profile, especially since you tend to behave differently than other American spies.”
It doesn’t surprise me that he wants to know more. The Nazis are notorious for being thorough and meticulous record-keepers. By the time he’s finished, he’ll probably know my shoe size and the names of my childhood pets.
“What do you do when you’re not behind enemy lines?”
“Study, train, work out.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“A lover perhaps?”
“No.”
I don’t like these questions, but I’m not surprised he’s asking.
“Hobbies?”
“I study, train and work out.”
He lets out a sigh. He almost sounds frustrated, as if I’m withholding something. Hell, I never said I was interesting.
“When was your last sexual encounter? And who was it with?”
Jeez, these guys really wanna know everything. “I was about twenty, I think. It was with Steven, my boyfriend at the time.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Twenty-four.”
“American, how many lovers have you had?”
“One.”
“One!”
I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I really hate these questions, though I guess it’s not exactly a threat to US security.
“A female American spy is supposed to be promiscuous. One lover does not constitute promiscuity.”
Well, excuse me! Honestly, what does this guy want from me?
“You are not fitting the profile, American,” he mutters angrily. I hear his pen tapping his notepad.
It’s not a question, so I don’t say anything. But I can tell he’s not happy about my answers. I’m not sure I understand why he thinks I’m supposed to be promiscuous. Is there a rumor that US girls are slutty?
“Didn’t you like sex?” He sounds a bit exasperated.
Yeah! “No.” No? Why the hell did I just say that?
“No? Why didn’t you like it?”
“It didn’t feel good. It hurt. I tried to like it, I really did, but I never could. I always faked it with my boyfriend. I faked it for years.”
“Why didn’t you try another lover?”
“Because it felt like such a chore. Sex was always so hard for me.”
In all honesty, I kinda forgot about all this. Over the last few years, I just got used to my fingers. He and this drug are really starting to piss me off. Information is one thing, but this is personal.
“Did you ever consider that you had an incompetent lover?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I studied sex in school. He did everything that the books and films said to do.”
“Like what? Tell me what he did.”
Oh for heaven’s sake, do I have to draw a freakin’ picture here? “He would lie on top of me like in the films and he would push his erect cock into my cunt.” Hmm, a bit blunt but true. I guess this drug doesn’t allow any purple prose.
“That was by far the briefest description of sex I’ve ever heard. Is that all he would do?”
“Well, yes.”
“How would he fuck you? You talked for hours about the plane, yet I get one sentence on how your lover would fuck you. Give me details.”
I’m not certain what exactly he wants to know, but the drug compels me to answer. “He would take off his clothes, ask me to lie on my back, naked, and then he would lie on top of me while pushing his erect cock into my cunt.”
“And how did he kiss you? I’m looking for passion here, American.”
“I didn’t like it when he kissed me.”
He only lets out a tired groan. “I’ve had a very long night, American. And your answers are starting to give me a headache.”
I hear him put down the pen and the notepad. His footsteps come closer to me and then stop. I feel the distinct sharp pinch of the needle on my wrist. “Go to sleep, American. I have no more questions for you tonight.”
Blissfully, the world dissolves.
Chapter Two
When I wake up, the room is brighter. The sun is up. I can tell it’s either late morning or maybe early afternoon. I’m hungry and I have to pee, but unfortunately, I’m still tied down. Vaguely, I wonder where my captor is. I don’t have to wonder long when he suddenly walks up beside me. He’s dressed once again in a crisp, black uniform. He’s also wearing his hat and gloves. I’m not surprised. What little I do know of the SS, I do know that appearances are paramount.
He doesn’t look tired as he did last night. I also smell soap on him. I’m not sure why, but he doesn’t have his sidearm. Like he did last night, he has on a black Sam Browne belt, which is specifically designed to hold the weight of either a saber or a firearm. But both the holster and weapon are missing. I guess he figures I can’t go anywhere tied down. I hear his boots hitting the hardwood floor as he moves next to me.
He doesn’t say anything as he retrieves another needle. I turn my head away before I feel the familiar sharp pinch on my wrist. Damn it, aren’t we done yet? I don’t even try to fight the effects of the drug this time. What else does this guy want to know?
“Are you gay?”
Well, good morning to you too. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure? Have you ever been with a woman?”
