As Davis sat down opposite Riduan, he inferred that the bearded, filthy detainee was beyond the point of being psychologically demolished. It angered Davis. Any student of interrogation knew that people are inherently positively motivated. Offer them a win, and they will give you one as well. But in the years after the Towers fell, the desire to hurt the people who hurt us won out over giving our enemies wins. So instead of relying on decades-old knowledge about the psychology of extracting information, America had indulged its more primal impulses and been left with mountains of garbage intelligence. And many detainees who had been potential vaults of actionable information were now sealed with their locks broken.

“As-salamu alaykum,” Davis muttered, his voice cracking unsteadily.

His greeting of respect fell on deaf ears.

“There is nothing left to take from me,” Riduan proclaimed indignantly.

“I am not here to take anything. I am here to offer you something.” Davis set his briefcase on the table.

Riduan slammed his palms on the table and lunged forward against his bindings. Davis recoiled, a jolt of adrenaline spiking through his system.

“You have nothing to offer! No charges have even been filed against me! This is illegal! This is American soil. I have rights!”

Davis gathered himself, breathing a sigh of relief. The fact that Riduan was still angry, still fighting, was good. It meant he wasn’t completely broken. His lock might just still work.

Davis responded coolly, as if informing a customer that an appliance warranty had expired. “There will be charges soon, and you will be convicted and executed. There is nothing I can do about that.”

Riduan was speechless at the news. Davis continued, “What I can offer is this . . .”

Davis withdrew a single sheet of paper from his briefcase and laid it on the table.

Riduan studied the grid of numbers, some of them highlighted. Davis watched as the prisoner furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of it. There were a handful of dates, but none of them meant anything to the detainee.

“It’s a bank account for a shell company in Jakarta,” Davis explained.

Riduan’s body language shifted. He was clearly shaken at the unwelcome revelation. As Davis laid all his aces on the table, he could almost see the detainee’s options racing through his mind.

“The money was intended to finance a terror plot,” Davis said. “One you were planning but that never happened, because you were captured. Now the money’s just sitting there, two million dollars that nobody knows exists. Nobody except me . . . and your wife, who has been drawing down on it every month to raise your children.”

Davis pulled out his phone and began scrolling through photos of Riduan’s children, smiling and laughing. “Found these on Facebook. They look happy and healthy.” He made sure Riduan got a good look at the photos. He wanted the knife set before he began to twist.

Davis put away his phone, returning his attention to the sheet with the bank account information. “That kind of money can last a long time.”