The cell was small and chilly, with a single lightbulb for illumination. In one corner were a sink and toilet, both thoroughly bolted down. A wool blanket, haphazardly folded, was sitting by the door. Through the barred window embedded into the door, Spalko watched the guard walk his beat, footsteps echoing through the hallway. He passed by her cell approximately every three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. She filed this information away as potentially useful, then leaned back against the wall, letting her eyes fall shut. Her broken arm throbbed, and her fingertips were raw and stinging where the nails had been removed. Her nose was broken, and she felt the trickle of drying blood down her chin.
Suddenly, she noticed that the footsteps in the hall had gone silent. Craning her neck, she watched two figures make their way towards her cell. One was the guard, of course, but the other…
"The prisoner will stand." The voice of the guard was muffled by the door, and she heard the faint jingle of keys in the lock. Shakily, she got to her feet and squared her shoulders. Her mouth was set in a determined scowl.
"Have you not troubled me enough?" She called out bitingly.
The door swung open. The guard stepped in, followed by a troublingly familiar figure.
"Hello, Colonel-Doctor." Jones tipped his hat, and Spalko wasn't sure if it was a gesture of respect or mockery. She flinched under his gaze.
"Dr. Jones. Such a surprise to see that you have survived also."
He grinned, but there was no warmth behind it. Then his expression fell. "Hey, what happened to your fingers?"
"Your countryman, Marino." Spalko lifted her fingers so he could get a good look at her torn and bloodied nails. To her surprise, a look of genuine horror and pity crossed Jones' face. Good – perhaps she could use this to her benefit.
Jones waved to the guard, then pointed to the hallway. "A word, please?"
Spalko watched as they disappeared through the doorway, and the heavy steel door slammed shut.
Jones cradled his head in his palms, leaning in the shadows of the passageway. Beside him, the young guard was staring, hands in his pockets.
"What's the problem, sir? Should I go find General Ross?"
"Please do."
The man scurried off, and Indy heard him clatter up the steps. Indy prided himself on being thick-skinned – two tours in World War II had taught him that much – but he was troubled by what he had seen in the cell. Spalko had looked terrible, gaunt and weak, with blood on her face and fingers ripped to shreds. He had little love for Spalko; she was cruel and arrogant, and her deranged pursuit of Akator's treasures had put his family in danger. Still, Jones believed that what distinguished his countrymen from the Soviets was moral character. He'd been on the receiving end of torture a few times himself, and he felt a twinge of empathy for his former enemy.
Perhaps a talk with Ross would clear things up. The general was a busy man, and it was simply not possible for him to closely supervise everything that went on in the prison. Nodding to himself, Jones started down the passageway, squinting in the dim light. He met Ross at the stairs.
"Indy, is something the matter?" Ross looked slightly rumpled, and his suit coat was tucked over one arm. He flashed a tired smile.
"Yes, general. Who has been conducting Spalko's interrogation?"
"Agent Robert Marino. He was transferred here from Cartagena – the field office recommended him highly."
"He tortured her." Indy crossed his arms and stared at Ross, waiting for his reaction.
"Yes, he told me. This matter must be resolved quickly, and she wasn't responding to our questions."
"You're kidding me..." Indy scowled in disgust and took a few steps back. Ross clapped a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off.
"We have to be practical, Indy. You waste your pity on her."
"I won't be part of this."
"Ah, but you will. Your trouble with the Bureau will only go away if you help us."
With a pang, Jones imagined Marion and Mutt waiting for him back in Connecticut. More than anything, he wanted to get back to them. If he didn't play ball, the investigation would go on forever, and Indy would be stuck in some cramped cell for months, trying to convince the Bureau that he had no foreign allegiances. He might lose his tenure, and Marshall College would need to find a new archeology instructor. His life would be in tatters.
Ross noticed his hesitation. "All you need to do is ask her questions. Marino will handle the more rigorous interrogations."
Indy sighed in defeat, already feeling disgusted with himself. Fixing Marion in his mind's eye, he opened his mouth: "Fine. Damn you all."
Ross shrugged off his outburst and started back up the stairs. "Excellent."
"What do you want?" Spalko leaned back in her chair, pale eyes fixed on his face. She had wiped the blood from her chin, and her expression was cold and defiant.
Indy matched her posture, propping his notebook on his knee. Taking a pencil from his pocket, he tapped it absently on the tabletop. The interrogation room was small and bare, and the walls offered no distraction from his task. The guard stood beside the door, stone-faced. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the woman.
"Have you had anything to eat?" He hoped his offer would start them off on the right foot. Ross had shared the questions with him, but he thought better of beginning the interrogation immediately.
Spalko shrugged noncommittally, letting her gaze wander. Indy stood up and waved to the guard.
"Captain Blaine, will you fetch food for the prisoner?"
The young man snapped to attention, eyes nervous. "Sir, General Ross said-"
"-This is my interrogation," Jones said firmly. "Don't worry about Ross."
With a hesitant nod, the guard disappeared. Jones returned to his seat. Spalko still seemed uncooperative and surly, as if the prospect of food meant nothing to her. Despite the cell and handcuffs, she acted as if she were still in command.
"Now – Ross told me that you refused to cooperate."
"I have nothing to say to the Americans."
"We'll start with something simple, then. How did you survive the collapse of the temple?" He supposed it made a good enough opening to the interrogation, but Indy was genuinely curious about the answer. He and Marion had watched the temple collapse into the lake, sending up clouds of dust and rock fragments. Between drowning and being crushed to death, remaining in the temple was hazardous indeed.
"I…don't recall." Something darkened in her gaze.
"Come on, Dr. Spalko."
"I tell you the truth. I woke up under the rubble and your countrymen found me a few hours later. I suppose I was lucky." She chuckled darkly, not missing the irony in her statement.
"Fair enough. I'll settle for the last thing you remember."
She paused for a moment, and Indy wondered if she was going to stop cooperating. Then:
"…The platform began to rotate," she said softly. "I saw you go through the door, along with Mary Williams and her son. I heard my men screaming behind me…"
"…And then?"
"I awoke under the rubble. It was very dark and dusty."
Indy nodded and made a mark in his notebook. Something in him was inclined to believe the Soviet agent. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and the guard entered.
"As you requested, sir." He placed a plate of food on the table before them and returned to his post by the door.
Indy nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to Spalko. He pushed the plate towards her. "Here. No conditions."
She gave him an evaluative glance. Then, taking a fingerful of the mash, she placed it carefully on her tongue. Jones watched her with confusion.
"What, you think I'm going to poison you?"
"It's possible, no?"
"Suit yourself." Indy crossed his arms and looked at her. "Although I swear it isn't poisoned."
"Allow me to wait. If I'm not convulsing on the floor presently, I will believe you."
In spite of himself, Indy chuckled. He has forgotten what a strange character Spalko was. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then she nodded her head slightly and picked up the fork.
While she ate, Jones flipped through the dossier provided by Ross. It was the same one he had seen in Nevada a few weeks before, with data sheets and a blurry polaroid of Spalko in a Soviet army uniform. Turning over the photograph, he noticed a message scrawled on the back.
Subject #240924671. Spalko, Irina Matveyevna. Second World War ca. 1944.
Spalko pushed the plate away, interrupting his thoughts. "Interesting reading, Dr. Jones?"
He made a noncommittal noise and closed the cover. "Where were we?"
"Poisoning."
He pursed his lips. "Yes. Now, let's go back to when the temple collapsed."
Pulling the blanket tightly around her shoulders, Irina leaned back against the cell wall. Near the door, a spider scuttled from shadow to shadow, and she watched absently as it disappeared into the darkness. The only illumination came from the crack below the door, thin beams of light that made a grid pattern on the floor. Spalko knew she should try to sleep; Marino made a habit of summoning her for questioning in the dead of night, hoping to capitalize on her grogginess. Even now, she could hear the tap of footsteps in the corridor beyond.
Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the distractions. Her broken arm still ached, and there were new burns along her back and shoulders that made moving uncomfortable. She was nowhere near to breaking, but fear was a constant, heavy presence. Every jangle of a lock, every heavy footstep outside of her cell squeezed her chest with anxiety. Her superiors would be waiting back on Moscow, ignorant of what had befallen her. Perhaps they would find the bodies of her men at Akator and assume she was dead. There was also the problem of the men who had been captured – if they were still alive. The Americans could torture them, but they knew nothing.
It had been three days since Spalko's first interrogation with Jones, and he had asked her nothing of importance. The first day, he had asked her to recount the collapse of the temple and her rescue from the rubble. The next, he had questioned her about her theories related to the thirteen skeletons they had found in the throne room. She had been happy enough to discuss it with him, and she noted with interest his apparent pity for her. He had offered her food each time, and he had even called a medic to set her arm. Spalko didn't enjoy being the subject of pity, but she saw the practicality of accepting these gestures.
Marino, on the other hand, was losing patience with her. She responded to his questions with arrogance and bore up under the beatings with stoic silence. Sometimes Ross was present, hovering in the back of the room with a clipboard and pen. At other times, it was only Marino and his assistants. Several times, Marino had threatened to harm her men if she didn't cooperate, but the threat meant nothing. Spalko knew they would be executed with or without her cooperation. She dreaded informing their families of what had transpired, but it couldn't be helped.
Irina was confident in her ability to escape. She had memorized the schedule of the guards, mapped the layout of the prison in her mind, and carefully studied the locking mechanism on her cell door. When she saw an opportunity, she would take it. Once free, she planned to contact her supervisor and arrange for extraction.
A clicking noise startled her from her thoughts. Her cell door swung open, and a thin-faced guard appeared. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his pale hair was tousled.
"The prisoner will stand." His tone was flat, and he put a hand on the pistol that hung from his utility belt.
Folding her blanket, Spalko stood up slowly. There was no point in struggling, but she couldn't resist remarking, "Do you not know how late it is?"
He scowled. "Marino has ordered you to the interrogation room. Comply."
She shrugged, pushing down the dread that rose inside her. "As you wish."
A/N: Feel free to leave a review!