A gunshot startled Pia into consciousness. There might have been more than one. She wasn’t shot, the sound had been too distant, but her anxiety rose. Neither her arms nor legs would move. Only her eyelids worked. She was bound with rope. As her mind cleared, her sense of immediate danger receded: they wouldn’t have bound her if they’d planned to kill her. She took a personal inventory: nausea, a killer headache, dizzy. Concussion.
Pia struggled to understand her surroundings. She was in the flatbed of a truck and sensed three men near her. She looked over their silhouettes: Patterson’s familiar form, a new man, and Caldwell joined them as the truck began moving. The passengers bounced through a stormy night. Heavy rain washed over her bruised face. Pia’s captors had her in a seated position, facing the back. Taillights illuminated only a few feet of the dirt track behind them. Everything else was an endless darkness.
They stopped in a courtyard of sorts with a long, low brick building on one side and smaller wooden structures on the other. As Caldwell pulled her off the flatbed, she tried to inventory the compound. It seemed like a leftover from World War II. There was a bunkhouse in the distance and several other small houses. More men appeared from somewhere unseen, and five of them carried her between two buildings, down a long, concrete hall, and into what had once been a command center, a windowless, concrete cube.
Someone clanked open a steel door, and the men brought her inside. Gray and lifeless, the foot-thick concrete had never been painted. It smelled of decades of mildew. Harsh light sprang from bare bulbs fixed to the ceiling. A couple Syrians brought in a large gurney with a steel pivot point in the middle, and chained it next to a heavy table.
The Syrians strapped Pia’s wrists down on the gurney. Her ankles were snapped into braces, and more straps anchored her knees, hips, and chest. A leather belt secured her head to the table. She couldn’t move.
Caldwell checked Pia’s bindings, tugging each one, then nodded to the guards. One man brought in two mop buckets of water and set them on the table next to the gurney.
The guards left, slamming the big steel door. The storm’s incessant howl dropped fifty decibels but still drowned normal conversation.
Caldwell slapped Pia’s face, then stroked her cheek. She refused to respond. He ran his hands over her breasts, past her belly button, and down farther.
“Hey,” she yelled. “Get the … don’t you dare.”
“Wakey, wakey, little princess,” Caldwell said with a growing snarl in his voice. “Your worst nightmares are about to come true because you came to my house and now, YOU’RE MY BITCH.”
He punctuated his statement by grabbing her crotch and squeezing hard.
Pia strained against the bindings, kicking and pushing and twisting. Nothing budged. Her energy dissipated quickly, and she fell back against the table. Her mouth tightened. Her eyes narrowed. All her muscles strained.
Caldwell laughed and moved out of her line of sight. She could hear Caldwell moving around, picking up something up with a sloshing sound. Water.
Caldwell tossed a wet rag over her mouth, pulled a large lever, pushed the table until it reached a fifteen degree angle—head down, feet up—and picked up a bucket of water.
“Count off, Patterson,” he said. “We’ll start with thirty seconds.”
Pia couldn’t see Patterson, but for a long second, nothing happened.
“I said, count to thirty ya dumb fuck,” Caldwell shouted.
Patterson moved into Pia’s peripheral vision. His hand gripped a weapon aimed at Caldwell, his facial muscles flexed. The side of his face was scraped bloody where she’d pounded him into the ground. Dried blood stained the shoulder of his shirt.
Patterson took a deep breath and began counting.
Caldwell poured water onto the rag. At first, the sensation was frightening, but Pia held her breath.
A small amount of water began flowing into her nose. Then more. Holding her breath underwater was simple because no water entered the body. This was different. Water overran her nose and mouth, flooding her sinus cavities. The interior of her head rapidly filled with water—places meant for air only.
Alarm bells rang in her head, and panic began to overtake her as Patterson reached ten. She should have lasted at least thirty seconds. But the sensation of drowning was amplified a hundred times over by the water invading every space inside of her. Her mind screamed for a breath.
She kicked and bucked and writhed against the manacles. Her body thrashed against the restraints. She shook inside with uncontrollable terror. She tried to suck air through her mouth as the bulk of the water went into her nose. The soaked rag stuffed her mouth, and water filled her throat.
An involuntary gag reflex blew the water out but emptied her already oxygen-starved lungs.
I’m drowning.
Patterson reached twenty.
Horror filled her as she felt her ankle cut against the binding. The inside of her nasal cavity filled to overflowing. Still Caldwell poured.
Her need for air overruled her logic—her lungs expanded. Water rushed into her windpipe. She forced another gag and exhale. There wasn’t an ounce of oxygen left in her. She had to breathe now, or she would die.
Inhaling involuntarily again, she felt the rag slip into her nose. The resulting sensation felt like a large hand suffocating her and drove her to the edge of madness. She had no idea whether she were breathing air or water, in or out. Her mind slowed and darkened.
Patterson said, “Thirty.”
The water stopped.
Something metallic banged, and the gurney flipped upright. Gallons of water poured out of her. She threw up.
Caldwell loosened the straps around her forehead, allowing her head to tilt forward. More water came out.
But she could breathe air.
She wanted to scream at Caldwell, threaten him, bite him, but all she could do was breathe in giant gasps.
She looked at Patterson, who cowered against the wall with his hand on a gun tucked into his belt. He looked green and shrunken, as if he’d turned into a cowardly troll. She tried to say, “Shoot Caldwell.” Nothing came out. Patterson’s eyes met hers for an instant. Then he broke it off and turned away, like a child giving himself a time-out.
Caldwell pulled the straps back into place. Pia’s head hit the board hard. The gurney tilted back to the previous position, Pia’s head down. Caldwell said, “Hey, bitch, we having fun yet?”
She spat on him.
He backhanded her.
She heard the slosh of water and then Caldwell. “This time, to sixty.”
Patterson said, “Aren’t you going to ask her some questions?”
“Are you deaf?”
Patterson moved deeper into the corner of the room and started counting, his voice faltering.
Caldwell poured, and the spillage flushed her eyes. Patterson paused his counting to take a deep breath, then stepped up the speed of his count.
Pia held out until twenty-four seconds, then exhaled and gasped. Water filled her head and mouth and throat. Gurgling and choking and gulping became involuntary. She writhed and flailed helplessly against the restraints. Caldwell kept pouring.
Darkness closed in around her, and Pia lost consciousness.
As if in a dream, she heard Patterson’s voice shout, “Sixty!”
There was a metallic bang again, and the gurney flipped upright. Once again, she threw up bile. Her body was exhausted, her muscles spent, her mind fast losing focus. All she wanted was to grab Patterson’s gun and shoot Caldwell and Patterson both. She managed only a scream.
She gasped and gurgled and spit more water.
Caldwell tossed the rag into the corner and pulled a piece of plastic wrap from his pocket. He fixed it over her mouth, leaving her nostrils exposed, and duct-taped it in place. Once more, he tilted the table back and locked it in position.
“That’s enough,” Patterson said. “Let’s ask—”
“I think you’re missing the beauty of this little game,” Caldwell said. “Waterboarding is slow-motion suffocation. It gives the brain enough time to contemplate death. The mind knows the inevitability of a blackout. A lot of times the person goes into hysterics on the board. I know it’s hard to watch the first time, but don’t worry. I did this to a guy down in Guantánamo 183 times, and he lived. But you can never tell. Sometimes, it can lead straight to what they call terminal hypoxia. That means zero oxygen in the blood cells. But when that happens, I figure—hey, Darwin was right—only the strong survive.”
Caldwell laughed.
“My grandfather was an Australian commando who led the Double Tenth Incident,” Patterson said. “Singapore, 1943. He and fifty-seven others were waterboarded by the Japanese Kempeitai. After the war, he went back to watch the men responsible hanged for war crim—”
“Shut up, you little faggot. This is nothing compared to what McCarty’s got going on out there.” Caldwell nodded at the door and stared at Patterson for a long time. “I’m supposed to keep this site from being exposed. But that’s not what TGW’s really worried about, is it? No, sir. He wants to know if this rich punk has any idea what she stumbled into. But then, why not just have McCarty and me take care of it? We could just skip the whole interrogation and toss her into the sea and everyone would be happy.”
“There’s a senator looking for her.”
“McCarty knows how to handle those types. When politicians threaten him, he always out maneuvers them.”
Patterson took a step back. “Just … get on with it.”
Caldwell stepped close to Patterson.
The smaller man lifted his weapon, holding it between them, and the big man pushed it away.
In a low voice Caldwell said, “Don’t ever threaten me again.”
Caldwell turned his back on Patterson and picked up his water bucket. He looked over his shoulder at the navy man and said, “Now when you’re ready, Tinker Bell, we’re going for two minutes. Can you count all the way to 120?”
Patterson counted.
Caldwell poured.
Pia coughed and choked and gagged. She couldn’t last as long the third time. Her body spasmed and strained so hard that it sounded as if the table were cracking. Her heels pounded, and her head shook in the restraint. Her arms flailed in place, and her back banged against the table. Her stomach muscles ached, and her arms felt as if they were breaking.
She faded to the edge of consciousness but heard Patterson speeding up his count. He passed ninety before the darkness overtook her.
When the light came back into her eyes, a blurred version of Caldwell stared at her from inches away. She sensed her condition. There were new injuries: her right eye was swelling, her cheek was bruised, and her jaw was scraped and bloody. He’d been hitting her to wake her up.
He slapped her. “Did ya hear me?”
She tried to spit on him but couldn’t muster the energy.
“I said we’ll start with something simple, to make sure you’re telling me the truth.”
Pia felt her head nod and realized the head restraints were loosened. She said, “I know about the third location. I’ll destroy it too.”
Caldwell stared at her blankly, checked Patterson for a second, then back to her. “What’re you talking about? This is the only place where we waterboard punks like you.”
She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but the thought of one more session made her throw up again. Unfortunately, Caldwell managed to get out of the way.
He stepped back with a sick, sadistic smile. “That’s enough screwing around. Time for your first question. What was the name of the man who killed your mother?”
Pia glared at him, but her body wasn’t helping. She was exhausted and hurt and barely conscious. She could lie to him about everything, and maybe she’d escape more torture. But his first question was a matter of public record—no big deal. She took a deep breath.
“Leroy … Johnson,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“And what became of Mr. Johnson?”
That wasn’t part of the public record, but Pia didn’t mind answering because she was proud of it. “I sliced the femoral artery in his right thigh. He bled out.”
She felt a little strength return and concentrated on breathing away the fear and adrenaline.
“Were you ever tried for that crime?” he asked.
“I’ll kill you too, Caldwell.” She felt a little stronger.
“I asked you a question,” Caldwell bellowed. “I said—were you tried for the murder of Leroy Johnson?”
Pia started coughing until she coughed up bile.
“No,” Caldwell said, his voice rising above her cough. “You weren’t because you were a minor. Do you know the name of Johnson’s associate, the man who watched your father commit suicide?”
Pia stopped coughing. She stared at Caldwell, and everything else fell away.
“That’s right,” the big man said. “You heard me. Your father wasn’t murdered. He committed suicide.”
Patterson stepped forward. “What the hell is this—some kind of family therapy session? We need to start with Nakdali.”
Caldwell broke off his staring contest to give Patterson a nasty look. He turned back to Pia. “Now we have something to trade.”
Pia said, “You don’t know anything about—”
“What did they tell you—that Leroy’s associate killed your father?”
“How do you—”
“I’ll make you a trade. I’ll tell you the man’s name. All you have to do is tell me what Nakdali looked like.”
“I came here to find Khelemba,” she said. “I know what happened to him. I’m going to find Safwan next.”
“If I knew who they were, I’d tell you where to find them. Now answer my question.”
Pia breathed hard through her nose, her face drawn tight. Her eyes stabbed into Caldwell’s. Her hands clenched into fists in the clamps.
Caldwell said, “Or I can send Patterson out for more water.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“Oh no,” Caldwell spread his arms wide, palms up. “I’m going to rape you and dump you in the Seraphim. Dead or alive depends on how well you perform. Now, are you ready to answer the questions?”