sat beside him. 'Sergei Orlov, Major, 31st Regiment of Engineers.'
'A Russian?' Manning said in amazement.
'Georgian,' Orlov corrected. 'There's a difference, you know.'
'So I've heard.' Manning held out his hand. 'I'm Harry Manning. We may differ in politics, but it certainly looks as if we're in one hell of a spot together. Where are we exactly?'
'They call this cell the Hole,' Orlov said. 'It's rather unpleasant. Set in the thickness of the fortress walls. If you think it's cold now, wait until the small hours of the morning. No food, no lights, no mattress.'
'A sort of preliminary softening-up?'
The Russian nodded. 'I'm afraid so. Pity you can't see how elegant it all is. You'll have to wait till dawn for that pleasure.'
Manning's hand instinctively went to his breast pocket and found his lighter. 'Surprised they didn't take this,' he said and flicked it on.
The face that leapt out of the darkness at him was wedge-shaped, the skin drawn tightly over high cheekbones. The eyes were black and flecked with amber and seemed constantly to change colour in the flickering light. The mobile mouth and dark fringe of beard both combined to give an extraordinary impression of vitality.
'They probably forgot to search you in the excitement of beating you up,' he said. 'I don't suppose you happen to have a cigarette to go with the light?'
Manning tried his other pocket and found his leather case. There were half a dozen cigarettes in it and he took one himself and gave another to the Russian. He moved into the centre of the room, flicked the lighter again and held it above his head.
The cell was perhaps fifteen feet square with rough stone walls and a flagged floor. The long narrow slot in the wall which was the window measured no more than nine inches across. The two iron cots were the only furniture and the wooden door was plated with steel. There was a small grille and he peered through into the dark corridor.
'Seems quiet enough.'
'Until someone breaks down and starts screaming.'
'And then I suppose our friend Cienaga goes in and beats hell out of them.'
Orlov shook his head. 'He never enters a cell without an armed guard, and on the night shift he is on his own.'
'So the poor devils just scream themselves into the ground?'
'He likes it that way. Often goes along to the cell and watches them through the grille.'
Manning turned from the door and held the lighter high above his head. It was then he noticed a couple of stout oak beams running from wall to wall about ten feet above the ground. At spaced intervals along their length steel hooks jutted out.
'I wonder what that little lot's for?'
'One can imagine,' Orlov said. 'I must say I prefer to be elsewhere when Colonel Rojas demonstrates.'
Manning slipped his lighter into his pocket and sat down again. 'What in hell are you doing here, anyway?'
'About three months ago, I was motoring to a staff conference along the coast road in Camaguey Province, when the car skidded over the cliffs into the sea. I managed to get clear and tried to swim for the shore. There was a strong tide running and I was carried out to sea.'
'What happened then?'
'A fishing boat picked me up and brought me here. When Rojas got in touch with Havana and informed them I was still alive, they told him to keep quiet about it and to hang on to me.'
'But I don't understand?'
'I'm a missile engineer. A scientist in uniform. That's why they sent me to Cuba in the first place.'
'I get the idea,' Manning said. 'If they can't keep the missiles, at least they'll have an expert in constructing the damned things?'
'Exactly,' Orlov said. 'But I'm afraid Colonel Rojas and I don't see eye-to-eye on the matter.'
'You know, somehow I don't think Moscow would be very pleased about this,' Manning said.
'The understatement of the age.' Orlov sighed and shook his head. 'I shall never understand why we had to become involved with these miserable people in the first place. One of Nikita's more inspired
'A Russian?' Manning said in amazement.
'Georgian,' Orlov corrected. 'There's a difference, you know.'
'So I've heard.' Manning held out his hand. 'I'm Harry Manning. We may differ in politics, but it certainly looks as if we're in one hell of a spot together. Where are we exactly?'
'They call this cell the Hole,' Orlov said. 'It's rather unpleasant. Set in the thickness of the fortress walls. If you think it's cold now, wait until the small hours of the morning. No food, no lights, no mattress.'
'A sort of preliminary softening-up?'
The Russian nodded. 'I'm afraid so. Pity you can't see how elegant it all is. You'll have to wait till dawn for that pleasure.'
Manning's hand instinctively went to his breast pocket and found his lighter. 'Surprised they didn't take this,' he said and flicked it on.
The face that leapt out of the darkness at him was wedge-shaped, the skin drawn tightly over high cheekbones. The eyes were black and flecked with amber and seemed constantly to change colour in the flickering light. The mobile mouth and dark fringe of beard both combined to give an extraordinary impression of vitality.
'They probably forgot to search you in the excitement of beating you up,' he said. 'I don't suppose you happen to have a cigarette to go with the light?'
Manning tried his other pocket and found his leather case. There were half a dozen cigarettes in it and he took one himself and gave another to the Russian. He moved into the centre of the room, flicked the lighter again and held it above his head.
The cell was perhaps fifteen feet square with rough stone walls and a flagged floor. The long narrow slot in the wall which was the window measured no more than nine inches across. The two iron cots were the only furniture and the wooden door was plated with steel. There was a small grille and he peered through into the dark corridor.
'Seems quiet enough.'
'Until someone breaks down and starts screaming.'
'And then I suppose our friend Cienaga goes in and beats hell out of them.'
Orlov shook his head. 'He never enters a cell without an armed guard, and on the night shift he is on his own.'
'So the poor devils just scream themselves into the ground?'
'He likes it that way. Often goes along to the cell and watches them through the grille.'
Manning turned from the door and held the lighter high above his head. It was then he noticed a couple of stout oak beams running from wall to wall about ten feet above the ground. At spaced intervals along their length steel hooks jutted out.
'I wonder what that little lot's for?'
'One can imagine,' Orlov said. 'I must say I prefer to be elsewhere when Colonel Rojas demonstrates.'
Manning slipped his lighter into his pocket and sat down again. 'What in hell are you doing here, anyway?'
'About three months ago, I was motoring to a staff conference along the coast road in Camaguey Province, when the car skidded over the cliffs into the sea. I managed to get clear and tried to swim for the shore. There was a strong tide running and I was carried out to sea.'
'What happened then?'
'A fishing boat picked me up and brought me here. When Rojas got in touch with Havana and informed them I was still alive, they told him to keep quiet about it and to hang on to me.'
'But I don't understand?'
'I'm a missile engineer. A scientist in uniform. That's why they sent me to Cuba in the first place.'
'I get the idea,' Manning said. 'If they can't keep the missiles, at least they'll have an expert in constructing the damned things?'
'Exactly,' Orlov said. 'But I'm afraid Colonel Rojas and I don't see eye-to-eye on the matter.'
'You know, somehow I don't think Moscow would be very pleased about this,' Manning said.
'The understatement of the age.' Orlov sighed and shook his head. 'I shall never understand why we had to become involved with these miserable people in the first place. One of Nikita's more inspired
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