Target 5 by Colin Forbes Page A

where the pedestrian had tripped on the ice, and Papanin went on asking the same questions he had asked ever since Gorov had come in. 'We want to know his name,' the Siberian repeated. 'That's what it's all about. We want to know his name.'
    'I don't know the American's name ...'
    Gorov stopped speaking. He knew instantly that he had made a fatal blunder. Papanin let him sweat it out for a minute. They hadn't said anything to Gorov about Winthrop being American, and Winthrop had worn clothes which made him look like a Russian. And Winthrop hadn't spoken to the seaman: Gorov had stated this time and again. 'Take him downstairs,' Papanin said, and then waited until he was alone with Kramer. 'Find out what he knows - quickly.'

    Because their suspect was a seaman, and because a seaman's nightmare is drowning, they used the water treat ment.
    In the basement cellar - which was as Gold as Papanin's room had been torrid - they strapped Gorov to an adjust able couch and blindfolded him. He was stretched prone on his back, strapped by his neck and his wrists and his legs to the couch. Somewhere out of sight water slopped in a container. 'What message did the American pass you?' Kramer asked.
    'No message ...'
    One man gripped Gorov's jaw, another man thrust a huge rubber funnel into Gorov's mouth, the third man started pouring water down the funnel. The choking sensation began immediately, the drowning sensation came later. On a stool beside his patient, a doctor sat with a stethoscope pressed against Gorov's naked chest.
    For Gorov, flat on his back, blindfolded and unable to move, the world was water - water flooding into his mouth, water pouring down his throat, water surging into his lungs.
    Desperately he tried to lift his arms, his chest, to hold his breath, and then he was spluttering, choking, retching painfully, and his whole body seemed to swell up, to be on the point of bursting. His eyes bulged, his neck muscles taut ened, collapsed. He tried to scream and the scream was strangled and he knew he was dying, drowning. They kept on pouring in water until the doctor looked quickly at Kramer. The Bait nodded. A foot pedal under the couch was pressed and hands lifted the rear of the couch swiftly, elevating Gorov to a sitting position. The seaman choked, spewed, gasped for air. Then he lolled, head down, panting irregularly. Kramer pulled up the blindfold, lifted Gorov's head under the chin.
    'What message did the American pass to you?' Blurred eyes stared back at Kramer, eyes full of hate. He tried to speak twice, looked down at his left wrist, and twice only a hoarse crackle emerged, a hardly human sound. They had taken away his wristwatch. For Gorov this was the worst ordeal: now he had no idea of the time, nothing to tell him how long he must hold out. The third time he managed to get the words out, glaring at Kramer. 'No message . ..' Eyes full of hate, the Bait noted, so resistance was high. It would take half an hour, he estimated, maybe less. When the hate vanished, was replaced by agony, they would be getting somewhere. He nodded and they renewed the treatment. Gorov guessed that a good twenty minutes had gone. In fact, it was less than five minutes since they had brought him to the cellar.

    The Locomotive moved into action, driving people as though he had only got up an hour ago - whereas in fact he had been twenty-two hours without sleep. It was not the in formation which Kramer burst into his room with which generated this explosive activity, and once again he deflated the fat Bait.
    'Michael Gorov is defecting to the Americans . . .'
    'It took you two hours, Kramer.' Papanin looked at the clock on the wall which registered 5.30 am. 'That deputy mate is a courageous man - and you're too late with your news - this signal has just come in from North Pole 17.' He handed the signal form to the Bait who was already sweating from the temperature change as he read it. Michael Gorov left North Pole 17 with dog team