The voice called out from the blackness. “Awake?”
Stone nodded.
“Say it,” the voice commanded.
“Awake,” Stone answered. He would only give them the minimum, nothing more. He had been through this before, albeit three decades ago when a mission had gone awry and he had found himself a prisoner in a land where no American would ever want to be held captive.
“Name?”
“Oliver Stone.”
Something hard hit him on the back of the head, momentarily stunning him.
“Name?”
“Oliver Stone,” he said slowly, wondering if the blow had cracked his skull.
“Okay for now,
“Who?”
Now Stone could feel something grasping his leg. He tried to kick out, but then realized his legs were pinned. The thing was crawling snakelike up his right leg. He took a deep breath and tried to fight the panic. It couldn’t be a snake; they were just simulating it, he reasoned. Then whatever it was started to nudge Stone’s flesh, not bite, but the pressure was growing heavier.
“DeHaven?” the voice said again.
“What do you want to know?”
The pressure eased a bit, but it was still there as not-so-subtle intimidation.
“How did he die?”
“I don’t know.”
The pressure instantly intensified. It was now wrapping itself around Stone’s belly. He was finding it hard to take a full breath. His arms and legs were aching, and his Achilles felt ready to pop from being forced to stand on tiptoe so long.
“I think he was murdered,” Stone gasped.
The pressure released a few notches. He grabbed a quick breath, his lungs expanding painfully.
“How?”
Stone desperately tried to think of what to say. He had no idea who these people were and didn’t want to give too much away. When he didn’t say anything, the pressure fell away completely. Bewildered, he relaxed. He should have known better.
He fell to the floor as his bindings were released. He felt strong, gloved hands seize him. When he instinctively swung his arm out, it struck something hard; it was glass and metal, up near where his captor’s face would be.
Stone was hoisted and carried somewhere. An instant later he was slammed down on a hard object, like a long board, and secured there. Then he was being tipped back and his face covered with cellophane. The water hit him hard, pushing the cellophane into his eyes, mouth and nose. He gagged. They were “water-boarding” him, a very effective torture technique. There were few things more terrifying than believing that you’re drowning; especially upside down in total darkness while bound tightly to a board.
Suddenly, the gusher stopped and the cellophane was ripped off. As soon as he let out his breath, his head was plunged completely into cold water. He gagged again and strained to break free. Stone’s heart was beating so fast he knew he would probably die of a heart attack before he did from drowning.
Then his head was pulled out from the water. He vomited, his retch covering his face.
“How?” the voice said calmly.
“Suffocated,” he spat out. “Just like you’re doing to me, you
That got him another quick dunk. He’d done it on purpose, though, so the water would wash the puke off him. Stone had taken a quick breath before they plunged him in, and he came out in relatively decent shape.
“How?” the voice said.
“Not the halon 1301, something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Stone felt himself being tipped back for another plunge. He frantically shouted, “But I can find out.”
The voice didn’t immediately answer. Stone took that as a good sign. Interrogators hated to be at a loss for words.
The voice said, “We looked at your journals. You were reading up on Bradley. Why?”
“Seemed too coincidental. His death and then DeHaven’s.”
