SERE was the military’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape program. The purpose of the question was twofold: first, to bring forth memories that would trigger anxiety; second, to suggest that Hilger knew a great deal about Dox, that he was in complete control.

“You tell me,” Dox said, and Hilger thought, Touché.

“They did,” Hilger continued. “You held out for almost five minutes. Your instructors were impressed.”

Dox smiled. “They gave me a gold star.”

“It’s different when it’s not in the classroom. Worse.”

Dox glanced up at his bound feet. “You know, just because the latest chickenshit legislation says it’s okay to do this sort of thing doesn’t mean you should be doing it. Shame on y’all.”

Pancho laughed. “Why not? The legislation even promises to indemnify us, if we get in trouble.”

Dox looked at him. “Especially shame on you, son. You’re a disgrace to the Marines.”

Pancho startled for a moment, then glanced at the Semper Fi tattoo on his forearm, realizing where Dox had gotten his information.

Hilger could almost have smiled. Dox was playing the same “I know more than I’m letting on” game Hilger was.

“And where’s that accent from?” Dox said. “You from Mexico?”

Pancho’s eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with that?”

Dox turned his head and spat. “Well, it explains a few things.”

Pancho started to move forward. Demeere stepped in front of him and said, “Easy, easy.”

“Go ahead,” Dox said. “You might be able to take me, tied up as I am.” Then he added something in Spanish that made the blood drain from Pancho’s face and scalp. Pancho tried to move around Demeere, but the big man kept him back.

Hilger was impressed. Dox was using what he could to control what he could, and steadying himself in the process. Before he could manipulate the environment any further, Hilger said, “You’re right, it’s strange there was such a fuss over these…what did the president call them? ‘Alternative interrogation techniques,’ that’s right. Because mostly they’re ineffective, it’s true. You haul in a fishing trawl’s worth of field-level jihadists? You don’t know who they are, much less what they know? Hook up the alligator clips and crank the generator and they spew so much bullshit that even if there’s some real intel mixed in with it, you’ll never know, much less be able to make use of it.”

He paused as though in thought. “But when you know who you’ve captured? And you know he’s got the information you’re after? And you can immediately verify the quality of that information as soon as you extract it? Well, when you’ve got all that, alligator clips and a generator are pretty much a man’s best friend.”

“Listen to what you just said,” Dox said. “Really, listen. Alligator clips and a generator are a man’s best friend? You’ve been out in the field too long, amigo. All of you have. You’ve got to get yourself some help. You need it.”

Hilger was getting irritated despite himself. “What I need,” he said, “is information. Tell me how I contact Rain.”

Dox chuckled. “Yeah, I thought you might be pissed about Hong Kong. How’s the back, by the way? That was a heavy chair.”

Hilger cautioned himself not to take the bait. He had to be smarter than that. If he reacted like Pancho, they’d all just wind up beating the shit out of the subject and get nothing of any value.

“The back is fine,” Hilger said. “Thanks for asking.”

“What do you want with Rain? You mad at him for killing that guy Al-Jib? Boy wanted to make an atomic bomb for Al-Qaeda. And you were going to give him the matériel. I’ll tell you the truth, it’s hard for me not to be sick just talking to you from this close.”

“What you don’t know about Al-Jib,” Hilger said, “would fill a book. And when AQ does get a bomb or a radiological device, you and your friend can thank yourselves for it. You fucked up an operation that would have stopped it.”

“That what you tell yourself when the Ambien’s not working and you’re lying awake at night?”

It was strange. Initially, seeing Dox helpless had eclipsed Hilger’s anger at the man’s previous interference, at the long recovery Hilger had endured after getting hit with that chair. But now that brief and improbable moment of sympathy was receding so quickly, it almost seemed not to have happened at all.

Hilger was beginning to accept that this wasn’t going to be an easy one. True, the information he wanted from Dox would entail only a minor betrayal, but the man’s honor and self-image required him to part with nothing without a fight. And, although his repeated requests now were likely to prove as futile as Dox’s resistance later, Hilger had his own reasons for trying one more time. It would make the memories of what happened next easier to deal with.

“I’d prefer a phone number,” he said, his tone still reasonable. “Or an e-mail address. Or the URL for a secure electronic bulletin board. Why don’t you give me one of those instead?”

“I don’t know how to contact him,” Dox said. “He contacts me.”

“How?”

“He calls me. Always from a different number. But I haven’t heard from him in months.”

“Not true, Dox. You saw him three months ago. In Barcelona.”

Dox blinked, then instantly recovered. “I was in Barcelona to take in the Gaudí architecture and meet some nice Spanish ladies. You’re fishing and you know it.”

Hilger had been fishing-he knew from customs records Dox had spent four days in Barcelona, and had no idea whether he’d seen Rain there. But the gambit had paid off with that single, involuntary blink.

A long moment went by. Hilger said, “Last chance. Do you have something you want to say?”

Dox glanced at his feet again, then turned his head to Hilger and smiled. “It looks bleak for our hero, I’ll say that.”

Pancho smiled and picked up a bath towel. He started to move in.

“No,” Hilger said. “You’re running too hot, and you know it.” He nodded to Demeere. “Do it.”

Demeere took the towel from Pancho. Pancho looked at Dox and said, “You’re lucky, pendejo. This time.”

Dox smiled and said something in Spanish again. Pancho’s nostrils twitched and he strained forward like a Doberman on a leash.

“Outside,” Hilger said.

Pancho shook his head. “No, I’m okay. If you’re not going to let me do it, at least let me watch. I want to hear him blubbering with his voice as high as a little girl’s.”

“Out,” Hilger said again.

Pancho shot one more glance at Dox, then nodded and started to head for the door. Dox said, “I’m going to miss you, Uncle Fester. Y’all come back and visit, you hear?”

Then Demeere was lifting Dox’s head, wrapping the towel around it with clinical ease. Dox tried to twist away, but the reflex was useless. Guthrie stood astride him on the table and turned on the hose. He looked at Hilger. Hilger nodded.

Guthrie aimed the hose onto Dox’s chest. The cold water hit the towel and immediately soaked through it. Dox twisted his head left and right, but Guthrie kept the water flowing onto the towel. A minute passed, during which Hilger knew Dox was holding his breath. Then suddenly the big man was choking and coughing, his body bucking against the table and the restraints around his wrists and ankles. Guthrie kept the water flowing for a few more seconds, then diverted it to the side.

The advantage of the towel was that it modulated the amount of water the subject could actually swallow, while still causing suffocation and thus the sensation of drowning. The sensation was what you wanted because that was enough to produce the panic response. Actual drowning was counterproductive because when you’re unconscious, you’re no longer panicking, and being revived from drowning can sometimes produce euphoria-not exactly the goal of a hostile interrogation. Actual drowning was also risky: if the subject died, you sure as hell couldn’t interrogate him. Besides, performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to save Abdul the terrorist suspect you were torturing a minute earlier wasn’t considered good form in the community.