ONE

Ice water hit, stinging Jay Ryan's lips and cheeks. The harsh cold ripped through his naked body and forced air deep into his lungs. His heavy breaths jolted his brain into action. Handcuffs dug into his wrists and kept him tethered to a metal chair. He opened his eyes to darkness. Black-out goggles stretched against his cheekbones. His ribs ached and his head pounded from a beating he couldn't remember.

'I will now remove your eye protection, Sergeant Ryan,' a familiar voice said. 'You've been kept in the dark for a long time and the bright lights will affect your vision. I advise you to open your eyes slowly and adjust to your new environs.'

A rough hand forced Jay's head down and yanked off the goggles. The thick elastic band ripped at his hair. Jay thought he knew what was happening: a standard start to any session. He was on the wrong side of his favoured skill: interrogation.

'Would you prefer me to address you as Sergeant or Jay?' asked the interrogator.

Jay raised his head and squinted against the light. A figure appeared in front of him, within reach. He strained against his handcuffs. Metal on metal echoed. Not a bad start, you arrogant prick, he thought. 'I can't answer that question, sir,' he rasped through dry vocal chords.

'I understand that you're very confused and a little disoriented. I will endeavour to explain as much as I can, after you answer just a few questions. Do you understand, Sergeant?'

Jay understood all too well and knew his interrogator's technique. He'd delivered the same speech hundreds of times himself. 'I can't answer that question, sir.' Unable to focus, he lowered his gaze to allow his sight to adjust. He sniffed hard through dried blood.

'You can answer my questions. Look at me.' The voice was calm and measured.

Jay raised his head and narrowed eyes stared back at him. 'I'm here to help you out of an obviously sticky situation,' the interrogator said.

Jay stared at Captain Warren Primrose. The little man dressed in standard camouflaged fatigues stood grinning before him. A man he loathed for all the right reasons. A fellow interrogator with a different code of ethics.

'This should sound familiar, as you've made it famous,' Primrose continued. 'You've always told prisoners who claim that they can't answer your questions that they can; that they just choose not to. As you've often explained, the word can't means it's physically impossible to answer the question. They should be saying that they won't answer the question. Don't you agree?'

Jay ignored the question. He'd used the argument often when interrogating junior prisoners. Logical reasoning applied to inexperienced soldiers full of bravado and of limited intelligence. He glanced past Primrose to identify his surroundings. A room he knew well. One of the three interrogation rooms sunk within the lower level of the Centre, the military's elite academy for training intelligence professionals. His own training base, buried within the subtropical forests of the Gold Coast hinterland.

The cold of the concrete floor raced up through his veins. He shivered and moved his gaze to the little man before him. Primrose's gaunt facial features were smug with gratification. Not a good sign.

'Don't you agree?' Primrose repeated.

'I can't answer that question, sir,' Jay repeated, not remembering the question. He tried to arrange his thoughts into a logical sequence of events. Assumptions were not made – not yet. There were facts and information gaps. Not enough facts. Too many gaps. Primrose interrupted his thoughts.

'You know how this works. I ask questions and you answer them. Surprised to be here? Hangover must be a killer.' Primrose paced the room, his footsteps echoing off the concrete. 'As an interrogator, you've agreed to be interrogated anywhere and any time by your peers and superiors. Are you following what I'm saying?'

Jay tensed as though reacting to fingernails scraping a chalkboard. He knew Primrose was baiting him. Yet the soreness he felt all over didn't match an interrogation training session. Soldiers weren't allowed to hurt other soldiers when training. Then the realisation struck: this wasn't training. Primrose and his tarted-up wife had drugged the scotch they'd bought him at the bar the previous night.

'I can't answer that question, sir.'

'I see. So you want to play games.' Primrose stopped pacing and turned to face the two-way mirror directly in front of Jay. He removed a copper comb from his pocket and ran it through his thinning hair. 'As you're sticking to your training thus far, I'll take it that you do understand me.'

No, Jay didn't understand.

Primrose turned. 'You see, as you think it's necessary to drown your sorrows regularly, the Commander and a few others are concerned that you're becoming susceptible to an approach from a foreign intelligence service. Don't you agree?'

No, Jay didn't agree. The statement didn't ring true. The situation was wrong, very wrong. 'I can't answer that question, sir.'

'Look at me,' Primrose said. A hint of impatience crept into his voice.

Jay lowered his head against the order. Primrose's arm shot out, grasped Jay's hair and yanked his head upward. 'I said look at me!'

Spittle showered Jay's face and he tightened every muscle. His heart skipped a beat as something else out of the ordinary caught his attention. Beyond Primrose's snarl, the small red light on the wall below the two-way mirror was dull. Primrose wasn't recording the session. Jay willed himself to keep hold of his senses. It had to be a ploy. All interrogation sessions had to be recorded. The light should have been on.

Primrose followed Jay's gaze. He let go of Jay's hair and made his way to the light. With a smirk, he produced a small multi-tool from his pocket and released the screwdriver attachment. He unscrewed the light cover, removed the bulb and brought it closer to Jay's eyes. The filament was still in place.

'I know what you're thinking; that it's illegal for us to conduct sessions without recording them. So you're assuming that we removed the bulb to trick you. We wouldn't waste our time. We have simply chosen not to record this session.' Primrose threw the bulb into the corner of the room. It smashed against the concrete wall. He looked satisfied with his tactics.

Primrose pocketed the multi-tool and said, 'Must be eating you up that I keep referring to "we", so without further ado ...'

The heavy door to Jay's right opened and Catherine Primrose's dark hair bounced on her shoulders as she slinked toward him. Her knee-high black leather boots made a disturbing contrast to faded blue jeans and a basic tan shirt. She rolled her tongue across her thick lips and purred, 'Nice to see you again, Jay.'

The sight of Catherine made Jay's anger boil to the surface. 'What the hell is going on, Primrose? You know civilians can't be in here.'

'Now, now. I thought that might get you talking. Couldn't keep up your training, hey? Name, rank, number and date of birth only. Too bad. You were going so well. And I can't remember giving you permission to address me by name,' Primrose added.

Jay turned his attention to Catherine. 'You need to leave here immediately. This is a restricted area. Not a nice place for civilians.'

'You're naked and handcuffed to a chair,' she said. She moved further forward, running her fingernails gently down Jay's cheek. 'I don't think you're in any position to tell me what I should do.' She looked down toward his groin. 'Ice will do that to you.'

'She's right, you know ... on both counts,' Primrose said. 'I suppose you would like to know exactly why you're here, Sergeant Ryan.'

'Don't suppose it's anything legal, dipshit.'

Catherine slashed Jay's cheek with her fingernails. His head jerked back. The shock sent his mind racing, trying to convince himself it was just a training exercise. But he knew the truth. He raised his head, tasted blood and swallowed hard. Catherine's dark eyes drilled into him. If only he could gain the psychological upper hand. He needed to fight fire with fire.

He smiled at Catherine. 'Pity you don't have the same loyalty to your husband when he's away. The boys tell me you have plenty of energy to burn.'

She lashed out again. This time he was prepared and leaned back in the chair. She swung, missed and lost her balance. Jay drove the top of his head straight into her chin. The headbutt lacked sufficient force to knock her out, but sent her tumbling back a couple of steps. He planted his feet and swung the chair and his body around like a baseball-batter.

Primrose kicked out, his boot catching Jay squarely in his chest, sending him flying backward. His head hit the concrete floor, and his cuffed hands lodged tight under the chair.

Jay had been schooled in resisting the torture techniques of the enemy. This was different. His enemy was wearing the same uniform.

He slipped into unconsciousness.