As Robert swung his leg over the bike, the officer shoved him hard, knocking him down. Caught off guard, Robert cursed loudly. Their cover was blown. Everyone froze. Then all hell broke loose.
Even outnumbered four to two, the partisans weren’t about to go quietly. Titon lunged at the ranking officer and struck him down with a fierce right hook, while Robert wrestled another to the ground. The third soldier kicked Robert in the ribs, knocking the air out of him, then stunned him with a boot to the chin.
Titon leaped in to push the man off Robert, landing a solid uppercut, when shots suddenly rang out. The fourth soldier had drawn his gun and fired three shots, killing Titon instantly. The soldiers dragged his corpse off into a ditch, leaving a long trail of blood on the road. They handcuffed Robert, threw him into the back of their van, and took him straight to the police station.
Robert’s clothes were torn off and he was tied to a chair, naked. Three militiamen kept watch over him. Another prisoner, a woman who had been tortured, was hunched over on the ground, writhing in pain. Robert had never seen such brutality. The filth and the stench of blood mixed with urine were entirely new to him. One of the militiamen strode over to Robert and gave him two thunderous slaps across the face, knocking the chair straight over. The two other men set Robert upright once more so the militiaman could rear back and strike him again. This game lasted a full hour. Not a single question was asked. Robert fainted twice, both times brought back to consciousness by a bucket of ice water thrown over him.
Next, as the men dragged Robert toward a small cell, they passed another prisoner huddled on a straw mattress, his torso and legs covered in wounds. Robert looked at the man long and hard, until the militiaman barked, “You two know each other?”
The Resistance fighter threw Robert a surreptitious glance, silently pleading with him not to reveal their connection.
At noon, Robert was brought back to the torture room for another round of beatings. The blows rained down on him, until a policeman strolled into the room and ordered the militiamen to stand down and leave.
“My name is Inspector Vallier,” he said. “Allow me to express my regret for the treatment that you have been forced to endure here. We thought you were English . . . but you’re American, are you not? I don’t have a thing against Americans. On the contrary—Gary Cooper, John Wayne . . . doesn’t get any better than that! My wife fancies Fred Astaire, who is maybe a little effeminate for me, but I have to admit, the man sure knows how to move those feet!”
Vallier did a quick little dance move, clearly trying to lighten the tension still hanging over the room.
“Now, I am a curious man by nature—call it an occupational hazard. So, I have to wonder: What on earth is an American doing riding a tandem bicycle with a terrorist? Don’t answer, not yet. First, let me share two hypotheses with you, two explanations that spring to mind. First: you were hitchhiking, this scum picked you up, and you had no idea he was a traitor. The second explanation is that you were working with him. Of course, the two don’t carry the same consequences. Don’t speak, please, not yet. I’m still working it out in my head. Ah, there. You see, it just doesn’t fit. Why ride a tandem bike alone? But let’s say he did . . . he just happens to run into a hitchhiker? You see, it doesn’t add up, which is unfortunate. Because if my colleagues make this same connection, I honestly wouldn’t know what to tell them. You’d be at their mercy. It seems we still have a little while before they’re done with their lunch break. So, I’ll let you in on a little secret.