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is you will believe Father Welner.”
“What you are hoping is that you can turn me. Which is a polite way of saying turn me into a traitor.”
“And you’d rather be a hero? Maybe have a little plaque with your name on it hanging on the wall of that building on Lubyanka Square in Moscow? ‘In Loving Memory of Major Konstantin Orlovsky, who loved Communism more than his wife and children and committed suicide to prove it.’ Maybe, if they don’t shoot your wife and kids out of hand, and if they somehow manage to survive Siberia, she could someday take the kids—by then, they’d be adults—to Lubyanka and show them the plaque. ‘That was your daddy, children. Whatever else he was, he was a good Communist.’”
Orlovsky didn’t reply.
“Well, enough of this,” Cronley said. “I’m hungry. Sergeant Dunwiddie, why don’t you go find out what the hell is delaying our dinner?”
“Yes, sir.”
—
Staff Sergeant Clark and First Sergeant Dunwiddie returned to the room several minutes later, carrying plates of food.
“That will be all for the moment, Sergeant Clark,” Cronley said. “Except for the Tabasco. You forgot the Tabasco.”
“Sorry, sir. I’ll go get it.”
“Please do. I really like a couple of shots of Tabasco on my pork chops.”
Orlovsky looked at the plate of food before him and crossed his arms over his chest.
When Clark returned with the Tabasco, Cronley said, “Thank you. I’ll call for you when I need you.”
“Yes, sir,” Clark said.
Cronley shook the red pepper sauce onto his pork chops.
“I don’t know if you know Tabasco, Konstantin. I really do. But some people find it a little too spicy.”
Orlovsky didn’t reply.
Neither Cronley nor Dunwiddie said another word during the next fifteen minutes, during which they just about cleaned their plates. Orlovsky did not uncross his arms.
“Clark!” Cronley called.
Clark came into the room.
“Major Orlovsky will be returning to das Gasthaus now. Will you assist him in getting dressed?”
“Yes, sir.”
—
Five minutes later, Clark led Orlovsky back into the room. He was again shackled and handcuffed and had the duffel bag over his head.
“Good night, Konstantin,” Cronley said. “Sleep well.”
There was no reply.
Cronley gestured for Clark to lead him away, and Clark did so.
Two minutes later, as Dunwiddie poured coffee into Cronley’s cup, he asked, “Well?”
“I was tempted just now to call him back and ask him if he didn’t think not eating was cutting off his nose to spite his face, but I decided I’d already pushed him as far as I should.”
“Maybe too far?”
