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ways, and in general anything was possible. Suddenly he had the worried feeling that perhaps his interrogation mightn’t have been so gentlemanly after all.
    “Let’s have a look, then,” Kazhakin said. He motioned for McCain to sit on the edge of the cot, then inspected both his eyes, his tongue and mouth, and dabbed around on his chest and back with a stethoscope while the assistant prepared a blood-pressure gauge. “And we’ll want sample bottles for some blood and urine,” Kazhakin told him.
    Tattered remnants of recollections were beginning to float back. He saw the image of a man in a Russian major general’s uniform, with black, crinkly hair showing gray streaks, bright, penetrating eyes beneath puffy lids, and a craggy, heavy-jowled face. “Of course it’s obvious you’re not a journalist . . . Did you know what the file contained? . . . Which organization sent you? . . .” There was another Russian there, too, inseparable from the general as part of the image swimming in McCain’s memory, but the details remained obscure.
    Kazhakin was watching McCain’s face as he inflated the bulb of the sphygmomanometer. “Brain starting to function again now, is it? Some things coming back?”
    “What day is this?” McCain asked.
    “May fourth. You abused your guest privileges on the first, you fell sick the day after, and you’ve been out for two days, as I said.”
    If that were so, there ought to have been one notch in the book, not three, McCain thought. It was strange that he had woken up remembering to update his tally of days—or at least awakenings—and yet had no recollection of having done it before. It pointed to his having been out of control of his faculties for longer than Kazhakin was claiming. That would have been consistent with potent drugs, which was not exactly a reassuring thought.
    “You probably feel a bit heavy and weak, but in fact you’ve lost a little weight,” Kazhakin said. “I’ll give you some pills to pick you up—no tricks, I promise—and we’ll put you on an enrichment diet to build up your strength. I’m sure that General Protbornov wouldn’t want you thinking of us as inconsiderate hosts.” He saw an involuntary flicker in McCain’s eyes. “Ah, so you remember the name, eh? That’s good.” Kazhakin unwound the bandage from McCain’s arm and smirked at him with undisguised sarcasm. “Yes, we’ll soon have you back to normal, Mr. Earnshaw of Pacific News Services, California. I do hope your readers won’t be too upset if they have to put up with your being out of circulation for a while.”
    McCain watched expressionlessly as Kazhakin handed the sphygmomanometer back to the assistant and wrote some numbers onto a chart. It was obvious from the circumstances of his and Paula’s capture that the cover story had capsized immediately. He wondered how much more—that he didn’t even know about—might have started taking water since, or already have foundered completely to join it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    “You were apprehended in a place you had no right to be, in the act of obtaining misinformation fabricated to discredit the Soviet Union—and not trivially, but on a scale that would have had the gravest international repercussions. You were in possession of specialized espionage equipment, and you came here under assumed names, carrying false papers.” Major General Protbornov paused to allow the gravity of his words to sink in. The action was for effect—this was hardly the first time he’d been through this. He continued, “We can all admire loyalty—indeed, we take justifiable pride in our own—but there is a point beyond which it turns into unreasonable stubbornness. At least tell us who you are and the name of the organization that sent you. You must agree that we are entitled to know that much.”
    Paula Bryce squinted against the light at the vague form outlined on the far side of the desk. At least they had turned the brightness down from the