Albadi mumbled through his gag.

Drummond leaned over him. “What’s that, too tight?” He laughed. “That’s the least of your troubles, my dear.” He walked to a shelf and drew out a book. He flipped it open. “Wow, this looks old…and expensive.” He looked up. “Is it rare?”

Albadi’s face was red and he mumbled more frantically.

Drummond opened the book, and ripped out a page. He snorted. “Oh what the hell.” He ripped out page after page, getting faster and faster. Many of the ancient leaves crumbled in his hand. At last the spine split and the book fell to pieces. “Oops, bet I get a late fee for that.”

He dropped the remains and wiped his hands together. “So, dear Doctor, let’s get down to business. We know that you have assisted six Americans – four of them military, and two specialist civilians. We also know you sent them out into the desert, after showing them fragments of the first existing copy of the Al Azif. A very valuable copy, given it has clues regarding the whereabouts of the original. But you already knew of its value and its secrets, didn’t you? That’s why you burned it up.”

Drummond sighed. “What makes a man who has given his entire career over to books consciously destroy something of such rarity and value?” He grinned down at the doctor. “Oh, I can’t tell you how irritating I found that. Irritating, but of no matter.” He reached out to stroke Albadi’s head. “Because we now have you, and all the wonderful secrets locked away in your brain.”

Drummond patted Albadi’s balding head, grinned and then reached under the plastic apron he wore to take another item from his pocket, which he placed with the others. He looked along the neat arrangement of scalpels, calipers, pincers, and bone saws and nodded approvingly. They were all gleamingly new and terrifyingly sharp. All would saw, open and slice though flesh like butter.

Drummond ran his hand along the line of reflective steel. Albadi whimpered and stared up at the ceiling, tear streaks marking his cheeks and temples. He was stripped to his underwear, with large nails pounded into the palms of his hands, his elbows and ankles, pinning him to the wood.

Drummond lifted a single instrument, a scalpel, and held it delicately like a conductor would a baton. “Beautiful.” He spoke softly, catching sight of his own reflection in the polished steel. “Where did you send them?”

Albadi whimpered, and then mumbled. Drummond snickered and reached across to pull down his gag. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“You fool. You have no idea what you’re doing. I know you don’t want the Book; you want to find the gates. Do you know what will happen if the Old One rises? Do you?”

Drummond turned. “Why yes.” He held his arms wide. “I’ll be king…and you and your kind will be nothing more than grist to the mill, so to speak.” He looked at his wristwatch and his lips compressed. “This is taking too long.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Kroen, and nodded once.