had developed for fighting World War III.

He was, Luger realized, more than a prize. He was their guinea pig, their lab rat .

The Russian civilian saw Luger's reflective eyes and struggled to repress a smile. He knew what the American was thinking. There he was, helpless in a hospital bed . . . Weighing his options, considering his chances, evaluating his life. Dependent on them. Yes, he decided, Luger would eventually talk. He might have been one tough bastard at Anadyr Base, but everyone has their breaking point. Even the Americans. Sometimes especially the Americans. And Luger would break.

And after that? The brainwashing would begin. The civilian was looking forward to that. It was, after all, one of his specialties, with a stellar record of success.

"If you talk to me, explain your circumstances, and agree to cooperate in our investigation,"

the man droned on, "the tribunal may be inclined to show you some leniency, perhaps commute your sentence to one of imprisonment. They may decide to notify your government that you are alive so a prisoner exchange can be arranged. I cannot guarantee any of this-it all depends on your willingness to cooperate.

"But I will tell you that this is no time for silence, bravado, or misplaced heroics, Lieutenant.

You are alone and far from home. Even your crew has given you up for dead."

Luger's eyes narrowed at that-he knew that was a lie. These bastards weren't as smart as they thought.

"A court of law in a land foreign to you has sentenced you to death. You are alone, Lieutenant Luger. Remain silent and you remain alone. Speak to me, Lieutenant. If you do not, you will lose your identity-and eventually your life. Is life worth so little to you?"

Still no reply.

Stone-faced, the man continued. "I am not asking you to reveal mili tary or state secrets, Lieutenant David Luger. We already know quite a bit about you.

Frankly, I doubt if you have anything of real value to tell us. It would be a pity for you to undergo any . . . hardships for nothing."

Again no reply. Luger licked his lips and tried to move his arms-they were securely fastened to the sides of the bed. This man had just given away his real intentions, Luger reminded himself-they were going to torture him. All this talk of execution was bullshit

"We can start with your date of birth, Lieutenant. How old are you?" Silence. "Come, come, Lieutenant. Surely your age is of no military value to the Soviet Union. Your code of honor says you may reveal your date of birth, as does the International Red Cross. What is your date of birth, Lieutenant?" No reply.

The man's mood suddenly turned dark. He moved a few inches closer to Luger's face. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small round metal container and held it up so Luger could clearly see it.

"Do you know what this is, Lieutenant?" the man asked in a low, rumbling, menacing tone. "It is mentholated jelly. You place some of it under your nose, like so." The man unscrewed the cap, dipped on index finger into it, and roughly smeared a small blob of it on Luger's upper lip. Even through the jelly, the man's finger felt ice-cold. The jelly smelled like stale, pungent grass-undoubtedly a drug mixed with it, perhaps a mild hallucinogen such as LSD. The scent was strong enough to make Luger's eyes water-or was it from the jelly? "This is given to those who must work in this place because it filters out the stench of death. Prisoners come here to die, Lieutenant. Few prisoners leave this place alive . . . or as whole human beings. You can spend the last seven days of your life here, just another one of the breathing corpses, or you can stop this childish John Wayne game and speak to me."