Doctor Who_ Just War - Lance Parkin [60]
Kitzel jabbed Summerfield’s arm with a hypodermic needle. The prisoner managed not to cry out.
‘Thank you, nurse. How long does the drug need to take effect?’
‘It should be effective now, sir,’ Kitzel declared.
Summerfield was glaring at the nurse with unrestrained hostility. There was no such thing as a ‘truth drug’, but simple relaxants like the one that they were using on Summerfield would loosen tongues, break down some mental barriers. He had tried a more civilized version of the same technique on the Doctor, trying to get the little man drunk. The Doctor’s metabolism didn’t seem to be affected. Normally he would try to relax his prisoner in some small way, offer her a cigarette, make a joke. He didn’t feel any need to tread so softly with Summerfield.
‘We shall begin. Are you married, Professor Summerfield?’ The prisoner shook her head. Steinmann wrote this down.
‘What is your religion?’ he continued.
‘I’m not religious.’
Steinmann noted this down. Interrogation of this nature always started with standard questions like this. Begin by establishing a few basic facts about the prisoner’s life. Learn what makes her tick.
‘Have you ever belonged to a political party or trade union?’
‘No.’
Steinmann made a note of her answer. ‘Are you proficient in any languages other than English and German?’
‘Quite a few: French, Egyptian, Hebrew, Ancient and Modern Greek, Latin, most of the Martian dialects, Old English, Old Norse. I can get by in a number of others. There was quite a heavy linguistics component of my degree, and I’ve got the knack.’ It wasn’t a boast, if anything Summerfield was apologetic.
‘What do you hold your degree in?’
‘Archaeology.’
Steinmann looked up from his notebook. ‘Really? A friend of mine, Hans Auerbach, is writing the history of the islands. It will contain a catalogue of the prehistoric sites.’
‘Yes, I’ve read it.’
Steinmann made a note of this lie, but didn’t challenge Summerfield with it. Slips of the tongue, blatant lies, factual errors and the like could all be brought back into play later in the questioning, used to pull holes in an agent’s cover story.
All these inconsistencies would mount up and come back to haunt her. For the moment, he wanted to retain the prisoner’s cooperation. So Steinmann continued the interrogation with a new question. ‘Where did you acquire your degree?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ the prisoner said curtly. It would be unprofitable to continue this line of questioning, Steinmann decided. She had seemed talkative, but the last question had put
her on the defensive for some reason.
‘When were you born?’
‘The twentyfirst of June.’ This response was a little more promising. By carefully watching a subject’s Adam’s apple and eyelids, it was a simple matter to tell if they were lying.
Summerfield was not.
‘Which year?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Are you shy about your age?’ But she laughed at his suggestion: either the drug was having more of an effect, or she was genuinely beginning to relax. Whichever was the case, he ought to be able to get a few more answers now.
No, no. I know I’m in my mid-thirties,’ she was saying. ‘If I had to name a figure I’d say thirty-three, but I’m not sure.’
She was very strong-willed, still capable of holding back the whole truth.
‘But you can tell me what year you were born?’
‘No,’ she said quietly. She seemed convinced she was right. She was also trying to keep her answers as short as possible. Forcing an interrogator to fight for every last bit of information was a standard technique used by captured agents. He had won many such battles of will in the past.
‘My dear, you must know which year you were born.
1909? 1908?’ He was trying to jog her memory. Odd that she could forget such information. It must be a side-effect of the sleep deprivation.
And then the words came pouring out. ‘It would be quite difficult to give you the precise date the way you understand it. Time is a relative concept, and when