'What did they do to him?' 'They took him away.' He looked at me quizzically. 'I told you, they -' 'I mean before. Before he was brought here.' 'Ah. That.' He screwed his face against the smoke and pulled a drawer open, putting a thick file on to the desk and opening it. 'I have had some experience with these things, you understand. I am a member of Amnesty International and the World Medical Association. We study these phenomena.' I looked at my watch and he noticed, but didn't hurry. Floderus sat snuffling in his handkerchief. 'We questioned the patient, and his answers were consistent with the trauma we noted on his body.' He studied the file. 'He was subjected to the "wet canvas" treatment. Do you know what that is?' 'Yes.' But they wouldn't have started off with that one. They risk losing you, that way, because panic sets in. 'They used falanga, and we found extensive ecchymoses and edema, with some degree of irreversible ischemic changes in the intermetatarsal areas of the foot. There were -' 'What was he walking like, before they took him away?' 'His feet were still rather painful. He tended to hobble.' 'All right. What else?' He looked at the file again. 'He said they had suspended him from the arms for prolonged periods, but we found no evidence of cervical dislocations. We took X-rays, of course. He could use his arms perfectly well, after about eight weeks. We found hematuria and some bleeding from the ears, but again we were able to treat these symptoms successfully. This kind of thing is found extensively in Chile, by the way, and Uruguay.' 'You'll find it everywhere,' I said. I heard Floderus swallowing saliva. 'So we are beginning to discover.' Steinberg nodded, and dropped ash on to his dressing-gown. 'There was, in Herr Schrenk's case, local infiltration of anaesthetics into the eyelids.' Floderus was leaning forward. 'What for?' he asked the doctor. 'I beg your pardon?' 'So that he couldn't shut his eyes,' I told him, 'against the light.' I wished I hadn't let him stay; he was getting on my nerves. 'Did they use drugs?' I asked Steinberg. 'He described certain phases of mental disorientation, including hallucination, but of no great significance. It might have been induced by reaction to the physical trauma. If they used drugs, they may have used thiopental or one of the amphetamines; he exhibited no lasting evidence of this.' He closed the file and put it in the drawer. 'Can you tell me anything else?' He drew on his cigarette, leaving a shred of tobacco on his lip. 'I think that is all I can give you. As to his present state of mind, it depends upon how they have treated him since they took him away.' He spread his thick white hands. 'We can only hope that by some good fortune . . .' 'Did he tell you he'd revealed any information?' 'I heard nothing about that.' 'Would you have heard?' 'It would be in the records.' 'Taped records?' We record conversations with patients, yes. It is routine, an essential part of the therapy.' 'Can I hear some of the tapes?' 'That is quite out of the question. Such matters are strictly confidential. We -' 'Did he mention any names? Names of people in Moscow?' 'I cannot say. It would be in the records.' He began fidgeting with a pen-holder. 'Did he scream any names in his nightmares?' 'Herr Matthofer, I am not at liberty to -' `Did he make any threats?' 'Of what nature?' 'Any nature. Any threats against anyone at all.' I got up and walked past his desk to the window and back. 'You said he was bitter, and bore a grudge. Against whom?' 'There was nothing specific.' He stubbed out his cigarette, annoyed by the way things were going. He was the top kick in this place and he'd found me on the doorstep washed up by the night.