“Bullshit!” he said. “You work for the agency. Why else would they have me train you? They don’t do that for reporters.”

“They did in my case. I can’t explain why, but they did.”

“Who’s your case officer, then? It has to be that asshole, Tom Rubino.”

“I don’t have a case officer.”

“It’s Tom Rubino. This would be typical of him, this kind of half-baked Twinkie of an operation. I’m not letting you out of here until you tell me it’s Tom Rubino.”

We went on this way for another twenty minutes, with Frank badgering and me struggling to keep him at bay. The more he asked about Rubino, the tighter I became. I had a powerful desire not to tell him anything. I didn’t know whether he was crazy, or playing games, but I felt as if I were fighting for my life.

And then it was over. Frank stood up, kicked his chair back and walked out of the little room. I was deliberating whether to run away, when I smelled the aroma of food. Frank reentered the room carrying two bags, one from Pizza Hut and one from Burger King.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You have now completed hostile-interrogation training.” He handed me the bags of food. “I didn’t know which you liked—pizza or burgers—so I told them to get both.”

“You fucker! That was a game?”

“It was a simulation, junior, not a game. And it wasn’t half as nasty as The Farm, where they put you in the box for twenty-four hours. But it had its moments. Sorry I got a little carried away with the pistol. Is your cheek okay? Your mother would be proud of you, son. You did a good job today. I thought you’d be peeing in your pants by the end, but you toughed it out. Put ’er there.”

He stuck out a meaty hand and gave me a shake.

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a very believable homicidal maniac.”

“Damn straight! The lesson here, my boy, is: Stick to your story. Don’t change it as you go along. If you’re telling them a cover story, think of real people and places. If you should actually be tortured—God forbid!—don’t give it all up right away. Let it go in pieces. Think of it like undressing. Give ’em one piece of clothing at a time, maybe you’ll still have your jockey shorts on at the end, who knows?”

Frank looked at his watch. It was after 3:00. “We have one more session,” he said. “Let’s go back upstairs.” He led me up a stairway and across a catwalk and we soon found ourselves back at the basement elevator. All that time we had been in the bowels of the Insurance Building.