Chapter 5
Shane was beginning to feel the first stirrings of despair. It would be enough to sink his boat in an ocean of shame for long into the future. He was now a marked man. The interrogating officer's place was taken by the two crew-cut giants who had escorted him from the hotel. They made him stand up, at attention, pulled his hands behind his back, then snapped on a pair of handcuffs. "Them's to protect you from yerself," one of the hulks murmured as he clicked them tight. Did he imagine it or did the man's lips briefly brush across the lobe of Shane's ear as he spoke? Were they crazy? Did these two think Shane would do something stupid, as they say? Maybe that was how the Intelligence world got rid of problems like him. He kept thinking, "Perhaps this is the way they handle it. Why not? They could say I was depressed. No, we don't know why he took his own life, must have been 'while the balance of his mind was disturbed'. So sorry for all the inconvenience." On the other hand, of course, they could make arrangements for some kind of 'an accident'. "Yes, Dawson was on official duty on a flight to Paris or London or Rome or Tehran, anywhere would do. Shame the plane came down like that - the pilot was probably to blame." Cover up. End of story. Shane's mind was filling with innumerable appalling possibilities; try as he might, he could not stop the thoughts from invading his sanity. He was steadily working himself into hysteria by the time the Naval officer reappeared.
"Listen to me, son, and listen good. You can help yourself in this situation, or you can do nothing and let things take their course. I can tell you, if you do nothing - well, I think you know what happens, right?"
Shane knew exactly what would happen. He would be charged, held in a military jail until his Court Martial, followed by a long, long term in a notorious military prison, then dishonourably discharged from the Air Force. His Service Record would carry the reason for his discharge as: Engaged in homosexual acts with foreign nationals whilst serving in potential enemy territory. He would be branded with the disgrace for the rest of his life. That much was crystal clear to him. It was the only thing he had been thinking about for the past few hours since he had been taken into custody.
"Yes, sir," he began, hesitantly, "but I do not quite understand what you meant by saying I could help my situation."
"It is very simple, son, all you have to do is to give us the names and other details of . . . uh, of your . . . shall I say, 'friends'?"
"Do you mean the cabbies, sir? I don't know their names, they were just anonymous cab drivers to me."
"No, not those. I mean the names and details of any other military men you have had intimate relations with."
"There aren't any other names to give you, sir. I mean . . . I haven't . . . you know . . . haven't done IT with anyone else. I don't know any others."
"Are you telling me that you've never had - I mean, you've never done anything sexually with another man, other than the cabbies?"
"Yes, sir. I have not done anything with a Serviceman since arriving in West Germany."
"You expect me to believe that?
"It is the truth, sir."
"You willing to prove that by taking a polygraph test?"
Shane was stunned. He had no idea they had that sort of equipment where they were. As far as he knew, that was something you read about in American pulp fiction or saw on a Zee-rated TV show. This guy really meant what he had just said. He was offering Shane a possible way to try and beat the rap - or was he? The polygraph was notoriously unreliable and the results could damn him even further. However, it could be a straw to a drowning man. Shane decided to accept the officer's offer. After all, what did he have to lose?
"Yes, sir."
The officer helped Shane to his feet and led him out of the Interrogation Room, down a dimly lit passage to another small room. This appeared to be a disused storage room, with boxes and files piled all over the place. In the centre were two chairs and beside them a table on which was a complicated looking piece of recording apparatus with wires and straps hanging down from it. He sat Shane in one of the chairs and connected several of the straps to him: to both wrists, a band around his chest, and sensors on the palms of his hands. The officer told him to relax and settled himself into the other chair and sat down beside the machine. Turning it on, he waited until a strange buzzing sound stopped. Shane remained still and attempted to relax.
"OK, I'm going to ask you a series of questions and I want you to answer yes or no. Nothing more than yes or no. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine." With that he began with a harmless enough series of questions. Is your full name Shane Wilkins Dawson? Is your age 27 years and ten months? Is your substantive rank corporal? Have you served nine years in the Air Force, including time as an air cadet? Is your home town S******* in the UK? and other questions of a similar pattern. Shane supposed these questions were designed to separate a truthful answer from a lie. After what seemed to him to be an eternity, the officer's questions began to bear down on the subject he was really interested in.
"Are you a homosexual?"
"I . . . uh, I don't . . . I don't know, sir."
"Yes or no," said the interrogator, firmly.
"Yes," came a quietly spoken reply. Shane guessed there was only one right answer to that question.
"Truth." He had scored one point, but hardly one that would help him out of his perilous situation.
"Have you ever engaged in homosexual acts with other men?"
"Yes."
"Truth. Were any of these acts committed before you joined the Armed Forces of your native country?"
"Yes."
"Truth. Have you engaged in homosexual acts since you joined the Armed Forces of your native country?"
"Yes."
"Truth. Were any of these acts committed in locations other than in West Germany?"
"No."
"Truth. Have you engaged in homosexual acts with any male person other than local German cab drivers?"
"No."
"Truth."
At this point, the officer paused and put the machine on hold, warning Shane that his answer to the next question might determine the outcome of this interrogation. Not receiving any kind of reply from Shane, the officer switched the machine back on and continued his questioning.
"Do you know of any Service personnel, either here or at any other location where you have been, who are practising homosexuals?"
"No."
. . . and so it went on . . . and on . . . and on . . . until they came to the final question.
"Do you know of any Service personnel, either here or at any other location where you have served, who are practising homosexuals?"
"No."
"Truth." The officer sounded a little disappointed that Shane had passed the test, he had not fucked up despite the mental anguish and pressure he must have been under.
"OK, young man, that's it. Let's get you out of this paraphernalia." With that, the officer removed the wires from Shane and together they returned to the Interrogation Room, where the officer resumed his seat across the table from Shane. "Well, it seems you were telling us the truth. That is a real shame. If there's nothing you can give me, I can't help you." Shane's heart sank like a lump of lead as he realised that his one straw had failed him - he was going to be discharged in a blizzard of shame. The officer sat silently watching him. Shane could not look him in the face, look him in the eyes. Silent tears trickled slowly down his flushed face.
"Sit up straight, man!" The order rapped out, jerking Shane back to reality. "I will go and talk to The Boss. He may have something to offer that I have no authority to." Shane guessed 'The Boss' was a superior officer, possibly a full General or Air Marshal or even an Admiral!
The interrogator stood up, took his papers and left Shane sitting in silence and despair, alone again with his thoughts and self-pity at what was happening to him. After what seemed to be hours, the door opened and a tall, slim blond man in an immaculate civilian suit came into the room, walked to the table and took the seat recently vacated by the interrogating Naval officer. Shane could not meet the new arrival's gaze and turn aside to stare at the floor as the man spoke. He had a heavy American accent, which Shane thought might originate from Boston, Massachusetts as he sounded like a young John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
"OK, you filthy tyke, we all know the trouble you're in. We all know what is going to happen to you. Do you have anything more to say in your defence?"
"I . . . no, sir," Shane stuttered. He simply could not think of a single thing to say.
"Men like you are exceptionally vulnerable to influences of the worst kind. Given the sensitive nature of the work you do for the Air Force, of the highly classified information you handle day by day, you are marked down for treatment by every kind of low-life element working against the Free World. If you think I'm blowin' smoke, take a look at this."
With that he flung down an eight-by-ten glossy colour print on to the table.
Next: Chapter 6
Laurie, 24/03/17