"Sir." A voice came from the doorway.

"What?" A man known only as 'John' said, twisting his neck around.

"The Secretary is here."

"Okay, batter up! You're first in line, mister," John said, pointing at Lockheart. "Watch closely, Marlboro, you're next."

Alex observed with a mixture of satisfaction and regret. She'd prefer handling it her way, though, at this point, Alex didn't know who would enjoy Lockheart's session more, she or John the Inquisitor.

John circled the chair like a shark circling a wounded fish. Lockheart followed him with calm eyes. Alex did the same, careful not to blink and miss the show.

The facility was topnotch, ideal for water sports. John went through the preamble, detailing the amenities: nice clean tiles with proper drainage grills, twenty-gallon water drums, and towels. The lead interviewer spared no detail, explaining to Lockheart what was coming.

"1200 gram Egyptian cotton holds water best. The thicker the towel, the less water passing over the mouth, the better the effect. Does this make you nervous?"

Lockheart gave him a puckered air kiss.

"Tough hombre. Don't worry, no one lasts more than two minutes."

"Arabs could," Lockheart quipped. "I once dunked this Wahhabi sand jockey for half an hour in one sitting. I went through five-forty gallons. They're like camels, they can suck up water like nothing."

"How long did he last?" John played along, grinning.

"Thing is, camels don't drown -- they grow a third hump."

John guffawed and slapped his thigh. "I got to remember that." His smile disappeared. "Let's get started. Why don't we try something simple? You're up for it?"

"Good night, sleep tight?"

"Not yet, not for you. So -- where is it?"

"I wouldn't have opened like that," Lockheart retorted. "You gotta build up the suspense."

"Take him down," John instructed his helpers. Three men converged around Lockheart who didn't thrash or kick. The handlers tilted the metal barber chair. A reinforced neck guard held Lockheart's head in place, his arms secured by thick rubber restraints tied to the armrests. Lockheart gave Alex a taunting wink before the tilt put him horizontally. When it stopped, Lockheart's head was lower than his feet.

A towel fell hard over his face and snapped his neck back. It covered his nose and mouth. Then the heavy downpour began, not giving Lockheart time to catch his breath. His legs kicked. Water filled his stomach, then seeped into his lungs. He was drowning in a dry room.

After twenty seconds of violent flailing and desperate gurgles, reaching the breakpoint, the downpour stopped, the soaked towel taken off Lockheart's face, allowing him a moment of respite. Lockheart wracked and quivered, bubbles frothing from his mouth. He heaved forward, throwing up half a gallon of milky fluid from his stomach. That was the easy part. To expel liquid from drowning lungs proved more painful.

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"Bring him up."

The chair swung upright; Lockheart's head plopped to one side, eyes lolling toward the ceiling, lips hanging limp, a series of guttural snorts emanating from inside.

"Make it easy on yourself," John's tone seemed almost sympathetic.

Lockheart heaved, sucking in precious air. Between fits of shudder, he forced out seven words, "I can . . . do . . . this . . . all day -- asshole!" Then shook violently, his skin goose-bumped, teeth chattering, half-moons darkening under the eyes.

"Brr, gives me the chills just watching you." John's voice seemed to dance. "Damn you're leathery -- six years in the Stans, then Ukraine, seen action in the worst shit holes." John got up close. "I should take a couple of pointers from a legend like you . . . Am I doing things proper? You would tell me, right?"

"F -- ack!" He spat up saliva and phlegm.

John laughed, pleased. "I don't want to do this, Milo. Just give it up. Where is it?"

"S-- safe." Out of the corner of his mouth, a weak but defiant grin appeared.

"Take him down."

The procedure and ordeal repeated themselves, and stopped at the threshold again.

Water flooded the lungs and choked off oxygen transfer. At this point, the clock ran down; half-conscious and enfeebled by oxygen depletion, the captive went slack, head drooping, clear water spilling from his mouth and nose. Lockheart blinked out.

An medic stood over the body, checking Lockheart's vitals. "He's had it. Needs rest before we can work on him again."

John approached and lifted Lockheart's head to examine him himself. Lockheart's eyes had rolled back white, mouth agape, his breathing shallow, his throat and nostrils hissing and gurgling. John slapped the head down with disgust.

And turned toward Alex.

"You ready to go for a dip? Nice and warm."

"Look, this isn't necessary, I told you," Alex stammered. "Whatever you want to know, just ask. I got nothing to hide."

"Now that's downright accommodating." John beamed. "How about you start by telling where he left off. Where is Carnivora?"

"How should I know? I came there to kill that sonuvabitch."

"Liar!" John snapped, then calmed himself. "You need Carnivora to live, isn't that right?"

"You know about our biology," Alex said, avoiding his eye contact.

"More than you know. You came there to take it from him, didn't you? The robber stealing from a thief."

"I didn't steal any damn thing." Her eyes began to water.

"But someone put you on that ship. Someone with means . . . Give me names and contacts. Which fief's bankrolling you? Is it Augustine? You tell me, you walk out of here. Okay?"

"Now who's lying?"

"Fine, I tried to be fair." John shrugged. "Who did you reach out to? Who else knows about Carnivora? That weasel Lemaire from Gulf-Con can't be all there is." John sighed. "I ask again, is Augustine behind you?"

"You know all there is."

"They tell me without the proper meds, you waste away. Horrible death. Tell me who helped you and I'll have the pills brought in."

"I tell you I don't know anything!"

John the Inquisitor lashed out with his left hand, grabbing Alex by the neck, squeezing her windpipe. She gasped for air. Panting, she glared at him with one overwhelming intention, her veins plumped up in her neck and forearms as she thrashed in her chair.

"Who helped you? Give us a name and all this will be over."

"Piss off."

John sighed. "Take her down."

Two men held the broadcloth towel, snapping Alex's head back, and smothered her. A third man tilted a forty-gallon canteen over her face, the force of the downpour pried open her jaw, plunging fluid down her throat and nose. She jerked in panic, arriving at the moment between burning and the calm beyond. The reptilian part of the brain hadn't realized drowning had the same sensation as being on fire. The flailing lasted for what seemed like a long time, an instant that stretched too far. Then the pour ended.

Seemingly from beyond, Alex heard an amplified voice called out, "Report to Control."

They uprighted the chair as Alex went through a wretched cycle of coughing and vomiting.

John mumbled curses under his breath. "Everyone, take five. Get her ready. We resume when I get back." And spun on his heels for the control room.