“You’ll die screaming!” Auma said, his voice gaining strength and desperation. “If you touch me, your flesh will rot from your bones and your soul will burn forever.”

“I appreciate the Shakespearean flair, Gideon, but I’m not some illiterate eight-year-old whose parents you just murdered. On the list of pieces of shit I’ve skinned alive, you barely rank in the bottom third.”

Rapp picked up a garlic press, thought better of it, and instead selected a meat tenderizer.

“Who gave you the information on Nicholas Ward’s compound?”

“What?”

Rapp walked up and rammed a knee up between the man’s legs. Auma let out a low moan, gagged a few times, and then vomited what little his stomach still contained.

“That was not an acceptable answer. So, let’s try again. Who told you how to attack Nicholas Ward’s compound?”

“A Saudi,” the man choked out, spit and vomit drooling from his mouth as he tried to keep his feet under him.

Rapp frowned. Saudi Arabia was a convenient ally for America’s politicians, but also a major thorn in the side of the intelligence community. It made good TV to say Iran was the world’s number one sponsor of terror but, in truth, it was the Saudis by a country mile.

“Name?”

“Muhammad.”

“Yeah, I figured. Last name?”

“I don’t know.”

All probably true, so Rapp took a half step back. The secret to interrogations was restraint. It couldn’t be all stick. There had to be some carrot, too.

“Tell me about him.”

When Auma didn’t respond, Rapp cycled the meat tenderizer in his hand. The subtle swish of stainless-steel blades brought the terrorist back into the present.

“I first met him perhaps five years ago. He’s given me money. Some weapons. Information on the Ugandan army. That’s all.”

Also likely true. The Saudis maintained a quiet relationship with pretty much every terrorist organization on the planet. Auma had started hitting the radar about six years ago, so the time frame seemed right. As did his description of what they’d provided. Just enough to keep a channel open in case he could be useful, but not enough to draw attention.

“Description?”

“There’s nothing to say. Not tall or short. Not dark or light. Not fat or thin. His beard is neither long nor short…”

His tone suggested that he was leading to something. “And?”

“I have pictures. At my camp. I had my people take pictures of him. Many pictures.”

Again, everything he was saying rang true. If you worked as a liaison between the Saudi royalty and scumbag terrorist groups spread throughout the world, best not to have a lot of distinguishing features. And if you’re a terrorist who might one day want something from the Saudi royalty, not a bad idea to collect information that could be used for blackmail.

“Tell me about the information he gave you.”