“As soon as possible,” Cousin declared. “If it depended on me alone, I’d be off tonight.”
Dr. Fog scrutinized him with his inquisitorial eyes, and a vague look of disappointment crept into his expression. He made no comment, however.
“Really?” he merely remarked noncomittally.
Cousin felt that he had somehow made a bad mistake. That special sense of his, which enabled him to follow the variations of other people’s opinion of himself, warned him that his reply, which would have satisfied most authorities, was not to the liking of this new individual. He corrected himself, assuming a more subdued tone of voice.
“That is to say, as soon as I’ve finished the training course.”
“I thought as much,” the doctor muttered. He paused for a moment, then went on, observing Cousin closely again. “I suppose you realize the dangers to which you’re likely to be exposed?”
“I’m fully aware of them.”
Dr. Fog nevertheless insisted on enlarging on the subject. He did so in no uncertain terms and with a wealth of detail that argued extensive knowledge, if not personal experience. For a quarter of an hour he described the various methods employed by the enemy to make an Allied secret agent talk: from plain blows, cunningly administered so as to dull the brain, to the most atrocious tortures, including the water treatment and electric shocks.
Cousin showed a reasonably bold front as he listened to this long list of atrocities. He had never been frightened by words, and these particular ones did not really faze him. Nevertheless, he had to make an effort to withstand the doctor’s piercing gaze right up to the end and, when he had finished, to answer him in measured tones.
“I’m fully aware of all that and I’m prepared to face those dangers.”
“Would you also be prepared to swallow this, if necessary?” said Dr. Fog, opening a small cardboard box.
“What is it?”
“Cyanide. For use in special services, it exists in different forms—pills or capsules. I recommend these tiny glass capsules. If you manage to slip one into your mouth without being noticed, you can keep it under your tongue until you feel the point has come when you can’t stand the pain any longer. I know it’s singularly difficult to tell exactly when this crucial moment has been reached,” Dr. Fog observed parenthetically, “but if you are very tough and don’t lose your head, you still have a chance right up to the very end. If you feel you’re coming to the end of your strength and are about to talk, to betray, then a simple snap of the teeth, and it’s all over. ... I hope you will have no occasion to use it, but it’s an eventuality for which all good agents must be prepared.”
Dr. Fog attached a great deal of importance to this sort of test and made it compulsory for certain candidates. He maintained that their reactions gave him a valuable clue to their character. Cousin had turned pale; he stiffened in his seat for a moment, as though hypnotized by the small glass phial, but quickly pulled himself together. The doctor, who was watching him closely, detected no more than a slight tremor in his hand when he took the capsule and an almost imperceptible quaver in his voice as he replied:
“I won’t forget your instructions, sir. I, too, hope that I shan’t have to resort to this solution, but in case I do I’ll try to make sure when the right moment arrives.”
He had even succeeded in introducing a note of irony into his voice. He fancied his examiner appreciated this, and felt well rewarded for the effort.
“Don’t leave that lying about for anyone to pick up,” said the doctor as he dismissed him.
Dr. Fog, however, did not appear to be completely satisfied. He nervously thumbed through a file that lay before him, nodding his head, reread some notes he himself had scribbled down, then thrust the papers into a drawer and sat back lost in thought. His meditation was interrupted by the entry of the middle-aged man who had interviewed Cousin when he first reported. He had heard the whole conversation from the adjacent office, the door having been left ajar. He knew the doctor well and was aware that he did not like to be hurried. He sat down quietly opposite him, lit a cigarette, and after a minute’s pause observed:
“A good candidate, I think.”
Dr. Fog did not reply.
“Nevertheless,” the middle-aged man went on, as though he had been contradicted, “he’s got a first-class record.”
Dr. Fog still did not utter a word.
“I noticed,” the other man continued patiently, “that you spoke to him in a particularly harsh manner.”
“Really?”
“One would have thought you wanted to discourage him about the job.”
“A noble profession,” Dr. Fog muttered blandly.
“Do you see anything against employing him?”
“As far as special services are concerned,” said Dr. Fog, without answering the question directly, “the Nazi methods have at least one advantage over ours. They don’t stop at theoretical experiments. They test their agents’ capacity of resistance properly, in an ex-
tremely realistic way.”
“That couldn’t happen over here.”