Budnick rolled to the floor and went to sleep on the spot. I sank down in an armchair, tired, but too tense to sleep, and waited.
Three hours later Armstrong's reply came. I ripped the yellow envelope open.
CANNOT GET INFORMATION YOU REQUESTED BECAUSE OF NEW SECURITY REGULATIONS.
Armstrong.
I slumped back into the chair, swearing silently at every bureaucrat in Washington. Served them right if we let Chetzisky fry them. But it meant being fried ourselves; I looked over to the snoring Budnick and decided on a trick I had seen Army interrogators work during the war.
"Come on, Budnick," I said shaking him. I called to his wife to bring some fresh coffee. After he had gulped down two steaming cups, I opened up on him again.
"Abeles, Aberon" ... For two hours I shot names at him from a telephone directory without let-up. My voice turned hoarse. Budnick's eyes went sick and he began to turn green, the color of corroded copper.
This was the moment.
I stopped my staccato fire and walked over to the window. Silence settled in the room like a velvet hush. It was soothing, like cool cloth on a fevered forehead.
I went over to Budnick, offered him a cigarette, and lit it for him. He took a long, contented puff. Casually I placed an ash tray at his elbow.