Tin Sky by Ben Pastor Page B

strong-armed others” (he didn’t say, but Platonov understood he meant more politically inclined colleagues, or the SS) “in order to keep themunder Army care. Since we speak of guarantees, let me repeat: I cannot guarantee their permanence in Army-controlled territory, under Army custody, as time progresses, whether or not you collaborate. But if you collaborate now , I promise you the ladies will be in this building by mid-morning tomorrow, and I’ll do everything in my power to secure their future comfort. It’s true, I did argue with colleagues over them. I stuck my neck out, as they say, and all for nothing until now.”
    Platonov lowered his eyes to the sheet in front of him. He’d regained his frowning hardness through God knows what effort, but he looked so careworn and pale that Bora felt he ought to say something to be on the safe side. “Kindly do not fall ill on me, sir. I won’t accept it. Think of the matter this way: if you hadn’t succeeded in destroying the papers you carried when we captured you, we’d have the information already.”
    “Has someone new arrived this afternoon?” Taking time was an old technique: Platonov must be running out of ideas if he resorted to it. He tried to change the subject. “I heard steps. Who else is here?”
    Bora took out a pencil. “I’m sure you’d like to know, General.” He laid it on the table. “We’ll promptly and thoroughly check anything you mark off, so please do not offend us by jotting down the first thing that comes into your head.”
    “I need to think.”
    “No. You need to give me what I want. Tomorrow I’ll give you what you want.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    “If you don’t, my part of the bargain is off, and I certainly will not risk another disagreement with my colleagues on account of your relatives. I am not walking out until you start writing. I could stay in this room all night if I have to; I’m used to losing sleep. But I won’t. One hour is the time I will give myself to call about your family coming. I won’t offer twice. It’s now ten minutes to eight.”
    Most of the options on Platonov’s sheet were numbered. All the prisoner had to do was to circle the right number. With all the appearance of calm, Bora sat in front of him, right elbow on the table, resting his chin on the knuckles of the same hand. Oddly, compassion had dwindled to nothing inside him. Faster and faster, impatience rose and strained in its place.
    “You’ve seen enough of me by now, Major, to perceive that I cannot —”
    “It’s seven minutes to eight.”
    “And using this – this method…”
    Bora thought of the hours he’d spent cajoling him, reasoning with him, trying to convince him, and now that he was so near to breaking Platonov his irritation bordered on physical pain. Platonov sweated, and stared at him.
    “I cannot, Major.”
    “Six minutes to eight.”
    A cornered animal can grow stiff or collapse, bite or crawl. Desperate cleverness can be resorted to and bring success, or utter failure. Platonov’s eyes seemed to burrow into his interrogator, sounding him for heartlessness or hesitation. “But maybe I could – I could give you —”
    “What? You could give me what ?”
    “I could give you” – Platonov’s face was a skull covered with sad flesh – “something else.”
    It was empty blather; Bora had heard corralled prisoners drivel on before. The attempt to divert his attention infuriated him. You will give me what I want , he was about to shout, but then he held back. A drowning man will promise anything to be saved, to be thrown a rope; and there are moments when anything may be even more than what you were looking for. “Define something else .”
    “How much does a German major earn?”
    Bora didn’t think he’d heard right. A senseless urge, like a blackout of reason, brought him to within an inch of taking out his pistol and shooting the old man in the face, seatedwhere he was. Only the pinprick of a