The mind, Hurley knew, could only take so much before it simply opened up and let the secrets spill out. They said everyone eventually broke, but Hurley didn’t think of himself as everyone. He was a mean, nasty man who might have lost a step, but he was still very much in control of his mind. Under the smelly hood he smiled at the challenge ahead of him. He went through the long, nasty list of the things they would do to him. He committed himself to fighting them every step of the way, and if he was lucky they’d either intentionally or accidentally kill him. And that was a victory he would take in a heart-beat.

Hurley sat there for at least an hour. He was bored, because he knew what they were doing, and he’d just as soon get on with it. Isolation was a standard interrogation/torture technique, and while it worked on most people it was useless on Hurley because of the simple fact that he really didn’t like people all that much. There were a few here and there that he’d met over the years who could hold his interest, but most others were either boring or irritating.

There were noises on the other side of the door. Footsteps, some talking, but nothing he could make out, and then the door opened. Hurley tried to count the different steps. His best guess was three or four men. They spread out around him. Someone approached him from behind and Hurley resisted the impulse to flinch. The man grabbed the burlap bag and yanked it from his head. Hurley blinked several times and took a look around the room. An industrial lamp hung from the ceiling, a brown extension cord snaking its way to the door. Hurley looked at the three men he could see. Two were familiar.

“Gentlemen, there must be some misunderstanding here,” Hurley announced in an easy tone. “I thought hostilities in Beirut were over.”

The two men in front of Hurley shared a brief smile. The older one said, “Mr. Sherman, I have been looking forward to this for some time.”

“So have I, Sayyed.”

“So you know who I am?” Sayyed asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I sure do. You’re the GSD goon here in Beirut.”

“And you, Mr. Sherman, are a CIA assassin.”

Hurley looked as if he had to think about that for a second, and then he nodded and said, “That would be correct. I kill people like you for a living. In fact, I killed your boss, Hisham.”

Sayyed nodded. This was going to be very interesting. “It really was a shame that you weren’t at the embassy that afternoon. We planned the entire operation with the hope that you would be there.”

“Yeah … it was a real shame. Although I’ve tried to make up for it over the years by killing as many of you assholes as I can.”

Sayyed gave him an affable smile. “It looks like your killing days have come to an end.”

“Possibly.” Hurley surveyed the dank room. “Things don’t look so good, but I’m always up for a challenge.”

“This is a challenge you will not win, and you know that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. You see I’m a fucked-up guy. I’m not okay in the head, and I pretty much hate you limp dicks more than I love life, so this is gonna be a tough one.”

“Really, Mr. Sherman, your false bravado is so American … so Hollywood.”

Hurley winced at the word Hollywood, as if it pained him to be associated with the town. “No false bravado here, Sayyed. I am going to fuck with you until I take my last breath. I’m going to feed you so much disinformation, you won’t know what to believe. You’ll be killing your own people before it’s all over. You won’t sleep at night, and when you do you’ll be dreaming of traitors around every corner. Spies in your own camp. This is going to be a blast.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Hurley gave him a nod to confirm his conviction. “The two of us are going to take a little trip into the bowels of my sick mind, and trust me, you won’t make it out unscathed.”

“Ha,” Sayyed laughed. This was a first. “Fine. I think we should begin our journey. Don’t you?”

“Absolutely! The sooner the better … that’s my motto.”

“Why have you decided to come back to Beirut after all these years?”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Let’s not assume I know your motives.”

Hurley smiled. “You have something I want.”

“And what would that be?”

Hurley had thought about this while he had sat under the putrid hood. Ivanov was due to show up the day after tomorrow and he would be desperate. They were all desperate because Hurley himself had drained their little secret bank accounts. He just hoped they hadn’t gotten their hands on Richards, and if they had, that he would be smart enough to leave Hamburg out of his interrogation. He needed to make this seem to be about exactly what it was without the money coming up. “I am here to negotiate the release of John Cummins.”

“And why would I give him to you?”

Hurley tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, let’s think about that. If you give him back to me, I won’t kill you.”

This elicited laughter from all, including Hurley.

Sayyed stopped laughing abruptly and snapped his fingers. He looked at one of his men and pointed at the door. The men left and came back a few seconds later wheeling the small stainless-steel cart. Sayyed took it from him and positioned it next to the subject. He smiled at Hurley and picked up the pliers, opening and closing them.

“Manicure?” Hurley asked.

“I like to call it Twenty Questions.”

“You’re so clever, Sayyed,” Hurley said, his voice dripping with mock admiration. “Kind of like a game show. I can’t wait to get started.”

“Good. Let’s start with your real name.”

“Jack Mehoff,” Hurley offered, straight-faced.

“Jack Mehoff,” Sayyed repeated. “That is your real name?”

“Of course it isn’t, you fucking moron. Jack Mehoff … jack me off. Come on, let’s go. Off with the first fingernail. You win. I lose. Let’s go.”

Sayyed searched the subject’s face for a sign of stress. He had never had a prisoner ask to have his fingernail torn off. His demeanor would change in a second, though. Sayyed chose the forefinger on the left hand and wedged the grip of the pliers in under the nail bed. “Last chance. Your first name?”

“Don’t change the rules on me. Very confusing for your subjects. You said Twenty Questions. I blew the first one, come on, let’s go,” Hurley said with a smile.

Sayyed clamped down hard on the pliers and began to rock the nail back and forth.

“Oh, yeah,” Hurley announced. “Let’s get this party started.”

Sayyed gave it one good yank and ripped the entire nail off.

“Holy Mary mother…” Hurley unleashed a string of swear words and then started laughing. “Damn, that stings. If that doesn’t wake you up nothing will. This is great!” His laughing grew to the point where he couldn’t control it. He was shaking so hard his eyes started to tear up. “Oh … I can’t wait for the next one. This is fucking great.”

Sayyed remained undeterred. “Your name?”

“Bill Donovan.”

“Really?”

“Nope.”

“Really, Mr. Sherman, what is the harm in your telling us your first name?”

“Probably nothing at this point, but it’s my nature to fuck with guys like you.”

“I will ask the question again.” Sayyed stayed steady. “What is your real name?”

“Ulysses S. Grant.”

“You are lying?”

“Of course, you fucking idiot. Don’t you read history?”

Sayyed moved in for the second fingernail. He wedged the pliers under the nail bed, wiggled it again to make sure he had a good enough grip, and then looked into Hurley’s eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. It was the wild-eyed look of a crazy man.

“Do it. Come on,” Hurley egged him on. “What are you waiting for? You’re not turning into a pussy on me, are you?”

Part of Sayyed knew he should stop and come back later when he could control the situation. The men were here, however, so he needed to pull this second nail, and then let this lunatic sit and stew for a while. Probably come back and use electricity. He tightened his grip and yanked the second nail free.