operative, used methods of testing
that were quite unique. Those who arrived at the Villa under pretense
of defection, always suspect, were kept alone in a basement cell, of
drab cement, for two days and nights without food or water. Their only
contact with the world outside was a tiny, barred window that looked
out on a beautiful garden, filled with birds. This window was kept
shuttered, blocking out all light and sound, but for five minute
periods twice daily. At all other times the cell was dark, cool and
silent. There was no bed, nor any comfort to be found.

On the third day a single cup of water was brought, and the steel
shutters remained closed. At intervals, moving pictures were projected
from a square opening onto the opposing wall of gray: scenes from the
Holocaust, the American bombing of Hiroshima, the torture and later
execution of a 'dissident' during the Stalin era. Grim portraits with
no clear political message or theme, except that of human suffering.
Always suffering.

After two more days of this an evening meal was brought, along with
water and wine, by one of the women (or men) of the allegiance. A
comfortable bed was made of a mattress against the hard floor. The
window was opened and she (or he), the deliverer, remained for the
night: kissing, massaging aching limbs, making love. The entire
ritual was then repeated. Afterwards, the pledge was sent to a small
cabin in the woods, given food, drink and writing materials, and told
to return in three weeks time.

The final test, after the writing had been studied by. . .was making
love to Sonya Semenov. . .the group..... Making love. . .and love. . .
kissing, massaging..... Sonya Semenov.....

"Sonya."

The man stirred, but did not wake, in his sleep. The sensations,
physical, of his love seemed to fade. They faded. And as he sank back
the dream began again, at the beginning. But this time he was Sonya
Semenov, a man, and a dark-haired Hungarian woman had come to them,
escaped from the life of concubine to a ranking member of the
Presidium, as she explained to the others. Wearing a deep melancholy,
whose depth was still greater for the pain in her large eyes, which
could hide nothing of what she felt, whom he trusted instantly, or
would have, except that he was Sonya Semenov, and life had taught him
not to trust.

She was put to the test, and every minute he hovered like an angel
above her, seeing her pain, in the merciless