“You must confess,” he’d tell them.

“But I am innocent,” they’d sob to him.

“Then why are you here? We don’t arrest innocent people. Confess. It will be easier for you.”

Of course that was a lie. Confessions resulted in more torture, rigged trials, deportations, executions. How could they release a confessed enemy of the state?

But during the tortures, the interrogations, even the regular staff meetings, he would look around him, peer into the eyes of his comrades and wait for them to see his fear. He was always waiting for someone to call his bluff. He believed they all knew how afraid he was inside, beneath the outer shell of nervelessness. When they weren’t looking, he trembled. At night, he’d vomit silently into his shirt, which he washed before morning, thus developing a reputation for manic cleanliness.

And always, always there were the unbidden, unpredictable outbreaks of sweating. It could happen anywhere, anytime, and he’d have to do something, react quickly, so the others wouldn’t notice. He’d grab a prisoner and flog him. He’d drop to the floor and do push-ups—anything to explain away the flood of sweat

After a while, his comrades understood that he was different from them: zealous, tough, superior. They didn’t know he was afraid, and had been since childhood. Whoever carried the biggest stick, whoever had the vilest reputation, whoever would use violence and terror as means to an end—those were the ones with whom he allied himself. If he were their friend, they couldn’t hurt him.

And then he would live in fear that they would discover his weakness.

Stop!

All that was over, Balaton told himself as Badger Rock Island came into view. He had buried that absurd, cowardly creature he’d been. There was no need to worry about him—to be him.

Ah, but who can stop you? Who knows you better than you know yourself?

No. He smiled to himself: the orült szerzetes had been trying to destroy him for decades. And had he ever succeeded? Of course not. And now he himself was strong. Confident. Without fear. Not as in the old days.

Sarah...

He shut his eyes and breathed deeply, calming himself. If he acted quickly, surely, none of this would touch Sarah. It couldn’t. She was his life, and she would never, never know the terror and violence and horror he had known.

33

J. Land Crockett had grown tired of sitting. With his morning tea finished and Roger, after providing no additional information, dismissed, Crockett stood looking out the screens. The fog had abated, but a light drizzle had started to fall; he hoped Ashley’s flight wouldn’t be impeded. He wanted her here, where he could see her, keep her safe and not fail her as he had failed Judith. He should have guessed how desperate she had felt during the last months. Instead he thought she was being selfish and cruel, acting the spoiled brat.

He had amends to make to her.

Balaton should be arriving any moment with David, the twin brother. The son. The grandson. My grandson, the old man thought with a slight shudder.