A Soviet citizen must wait years for surgery such as this, if he is lucky enough to have access to a hospital at all! What have you done to deserve such treatment? Nothing!

Nothing!"

Luger's weakened right leg jumped when he felt the cold steel of the shears against the side of his knee and the razor-sharp edge digging into a suture. "By God, I will not stand for this! I don't care if I'm punished for this, but a dead man does not need a kneecap!"

Luger cried aloud as he felt the first stitch rip free. He tried to shake his foot free to kick the man away, but his captor held the leg like a carpenter holding a piece of lumber.

"Give us back what you stole from us, you American pig!"

His leg began convulsing, flopping against the restraints.

The man ripped open a second suture, and Luger screamed-not from the pain, but from the fear that this guy was going to open up his entire leg...

This time, though, his scream was answered by a shout from the doorway as the doctors and nurses rushed into the room. The shears were

pulled from sight, and the man was escorted from the room. Luger heard him shouting,

"Seven days, you filthy pig! Seven days and you're dead! Seven days!"

The doctors and nurses were frantically examining Luger's right leg. To Luger's surprise, the doctor said in English, "Do not worry, Comrade. He did no serious harm. There is danger of infection, but we have the bleeding under control." Luger was urged to lean back and ignore the pain as antiseptic and sutures were brought to the bedside.

"Is . . . is he crazy?" Luger gasped. "Will he kill me?"

The doctor appeared not to be surprised to hear Luger speak. The doctor looked behind himself as if to check to see that the door was securely closed, then said quietly, "He is in charge here . . . I cannot say more.~~

"That sonofabitch," Luger muttered. "Sonofabitch." He was shaking. The touch of those blades, the sound of his flesh ripping, the eerie feel of his warm blood running over his skin .

"Relax, Comrade, relax," the doctor said soothingly. "My mission is to heal, not to harm."

Luger failed to notice that the physician's English was just as precise as the interrogator's.

He held up a syringe of clear fluid. "This will help you to relax ..."

"No!" Luger rasped. "No drugs! I don't need drugs . . .

The syringe disappeared from view. "Very well, Comrade," the doctor said. "If you insist. But you really must rest. Can you relax?"

Luger's chest was heaving, his eyes wide with anger and fear, but he managed a nod.

"Yeah.., but no drugs, though. And wipe this stuff from under my nose. I think he tried to drug me."

"As you wish," the doctor replied, wiping away the jelly, all the while making mental notes about his patient. If Luger was concerned about drugs in the jelly, that indicated a couple of things: he was lucid and he was already paranoid, concocting grim scenarios about his