I snap several pictures, then continue along the perimeter.

In the far corner there is a smaller table. A metal tub directly behind it, knocked on its side. Five dry, brittle rags littered about. A droplet of water drips from a water spigot in the wall.

The waterboarding station.

I imagine Abdul on his back, the rag over his head, a CIA man pouring a jug of water over his face as he coughs and sputters and prays to Allah for strength.

I snap three shots.

I check my watch.

I’ve been down here nine minutes already.

Directly above the table are two chains hanging from thick bolts in the concrete ceiling eight feet above. I push one of the heavy steel manacles and watch as it sweeps back and forth, crashing into its twin restraint, their echo ringing through the chamber. To strap someone up like that you have to hate them. There is no other way. I thought back to that day when the towers fell down. I hated that it happened. I even hated those men who did it. But it was a generalized hate. Of course, all of those guys died in the respective crashes, but what if they survived? Would I have been okay with the CIA chaining them up and doing only God knows what to them?

I didn’t know.

I run the flashlight over the dark stains on the concrete.

“There’s no drain.”

I snap my head, my last breath caught somewhere in my throat.

I shine the flashlight on a man striding toward me.

“When we built this place, they said they wouldn’t be able to put in any plumbing in the floors, which means no drain. So when the prisoners bleed — and they do bleed, trust me on that — the blood just has to dry.”

“You’re sick,” I say.

Director LeHigh shrugs.

“I prefer results-driven.”

“You killed my mother,” I say.

“I didn’t pull the trigger, but yes, I had your mother killed.”

“Who was it?”

He shrugs. “It could have been any number of our more advanced operatives.”

“Assassins?”

“Call them what you like.”

For the first time I notice the bulge on LeHigh’s hip. I scan the room. He is standing in the middle, directly in my path to the stairs.

I pull up the camera and take a couple pictures of him. If I had my phone, I could have bluffed that I was uploading them online, but I would be surprised if there is cell service.

I flip off the flashlight, sending the two of us into icy blackness.

Thirty seconds of silence go by. I wait for LeHigh to turn on a flashlight of his own.

He doesn’t.

I take three silent steps to my right.

He says, “The chains were your mother’s idea.”

I wonder if he can hear me gulp.