Requiem for an Assassin

calculated to affect the interrogator like that of the beggars and blusterers, either. Its function instead was self-referential. What Dox was doing, although Hilger wasn’t sure if he was even conscious of it, was proving that if he could still crack jokes, he was still himself. If he was still himself, he was still in control, and things couldn’t be that bad.
    Which was what made breaking men like Dox so hard. It wasn’t just a question of pain. Pain was a surface thing. To break a man like Dox, you had to break him down deep. Even with a jihadist, it was an unpleasant thing to have to do. With an American, a former serviceman like Dox, it could be grim.
    “I know from your file you’ve been through SERE,” Hilger said. “Did they waterboard you?”
    SERE was the military’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape program. The purpose of the question was twofold: first, to bring forth memories that would trigger anxiety; second, to suggest that Hilger knew a great deal about Dox, that he was in complete control.
    “You tell me,” Dox said, and Hilger thought, Touché.
    “They did,” Hilger continued. “You held out for almost five minutes. Your instructors were impressed.”
    Dox smiled. “They gave me a gold star.”
    “It’s different when it’s not in the classroom. Worse.”
    Dox glanced up at his bound feet. “You know, just because the latest chickenshit legislation says it’s okay to do this sort of thing doesn’t mean you should be doing it. Shame on y’all.”
    Pancho laughed. “Why not? The legislation even promises to indemnify us, if we get in trouble.”
    Dox looked at him. “Especially shame on you, son. You’re a disgrace to the Marines.”
    Pancho startled for a moment, then glanced at the Semper Fi tattoo on his forearm, realizing where Dox had gotten his information.
    Hilger could almost have smiled. Dox was playing the same “I know more than I’m letting on” game Hilger was.
    “And where’s that accent from?” Dox said. “You from Mexico?”
    Pancho’s eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with that?”
    Dox turned his head and spat. “Well, it explains a few things.”
    Pancho started to move forward. Demeere stepped in front of him and said, “Easy, easy.”
    “Go ahead,” Dox said. “You might be able to take me, tied up as I am.” Then he added something in Spanish that made the blood drain from Pancho’s face and scalp. Pancho tried to move around Demeere, but the big man kept him back.
    Hilger was impressed. Dox was using what he could to control what he could, and steadying himself in the process. Before he could manipulate the environment any further, Hilger said, “You’re right, it’s strange there was such a fuss over these…what did the president call them? ‘Alternative interrogation techniques,’ that’s right. Because mostly they’re ineffective, it’s true. You haul in a fishing trawl’s worth of field-level jihadists? You don’t know who they are, much less what they know? Hook up the alligator clips and crank the generator and they spew so much bullshit that even if there’s some real intel mixed in with it, you’ll never know, much less be able to make use of it.”
    He paused as though in thought. “But when you know who you’ve captured? And you know he’s got the information you’re after? And you can immediately verify the quality of that information as soon as you extract it? Well, when you’ve got all that, alligator clips and a generator are pretty much a man’s best friend.”
    “Listen to what you just said,” Dox said. “Really, listen. Alligator clips and a generator are a man’s best friend? You’ve been out in the field too long, amigo. All of you have. You’ve got to get yourself some help. You need it.”
    Hilger was getting irritated despite himself. “What I need,” he said, “is information. Tell me how I contact Rain.”
    Dox chuckled. “Yeah, I thought you might be pissed about Hong Kong. How’s the back, by the way? That was a heavy chair.”
    Hilger cautioned himself not to take the bait. He had to be smarter than that. If he reacted like Pancho, they’d all just wind up beating the shit out of the subject and get nothing of any value.
    “The back is fine,” Hilger said. “Thanks for asking.”
    “What do you want with Rain? You mad at him for killing that guy Al-Jib? Boy wanted to make an atomic bomb for Al-Qaeda. And you were going to give him the matériel. I’ll tell you the