‘I don’t like torture, son. So be kind to me. Don’t make me do it.’
‘That’s not torture. That’s execution.’
‘I don’t think so, son. 110 volts won’t kill you. Of course, if I pour this here jug of water over y’all, that could be real bad. But keep talkin’, son.’
The American had tied Fless’s hands with exposed live flex and plugged the end into a mains socket beneath a shelf of garden tools. Behind the American, aluminium steps led up to the three-car garage at the side of al-Qasr’s house.
Fless looked around the utility basement – anything to give him an edge or an idea.
‘So wha’d’ya think, son? Feel like talkin’?’
Fless shook his head.
‘Sorry to hear that, ’cause the way I see it, either a) you came to spy on Professor al-Qasr, b) you came to abduct Professor al-Qasr, or c) you came to kill Professor al-Qasr.’
The American agent hauled his meaty thighs off the toolbox he was squatting on.
‘Nice here, ain’t it, son? Bet you wished you lived here. Swell place. Swell view. Folks real friendly round here too. Not like Israel, huh?’
The agent reached into his suit pocket and pulled out Fless’s passport. ‘I see here you’re in your early thirties. Good time to be alive. Shame to die here for something no one will ever know about.’
Fless shrugged his shoulders. ‘We all have a job to do.’
‘What are you, Suicide? I’ll never understand why you fellas don’t keep us informed of your fun and games. I guess y’all think we’re dumb. Come on, son, give me something!’
‘You’re not gonna hurt me. Your boss will want to speak to me first.’
‘Just you keep those knees tight like a belle at the ball. Good boy!’
The American, agitated, looked up to the ground floor of the garage.
Fless stared quizzically at the tuber-faced American agent. The guy wasn’t for real.
‘Do it, officer. Give yourself a guilt trip.’
Agent Buckley looked at his watch. ‘Excuse me a second, son… Don’t you go changin’ now.’
He laughed to himself and dialled a number on his cellphone. The signal was weak. Buckley stepped backwards up the metal stairs.