Good, the torturer thought as he saw how the prisoner was shivering.

He adjusted the floodlight as he got to the bottom of the ladder. As he did this, the figure raised a thin arm up as if to ward off a blow. The torturer looked at the bright green of the shamrock tattoo on the American’s hand. He had spent some time in America and knew the symbol was supposed to stand for good luck.

The torturer had to catch himself from tsking at the irony of it, at the cruel difference that often arose between one’s hopeful expectations and the actual brutalities of blind uncaring fate and chance.

The torturer stepped over slowly and looked down at the naked man. He had fought them from the very beginning, raged. You wouldn’t think a man his size could reach such volume.

Now, after leaving him without food or water here in the dark for twenty-four hours, it was time for a new tack.

“My name is Dr. Segurro. I am here to tend to you. Are you awake? Hello?” the torturer said in his excellent English as he knelt beside the American.

The torturer was wearing a nice dress shirt and slacks and had a stethoscope. He warmed it in his palms before he put it to the man’s chest.

“Put out your tongue,” he said.

The prisoner did so, snorting and gasping.

“Yes, very good. Very good,” the torturer said, shining a penlight into the man’s eyes.

“Listen to me very carefully,” the torturer said. “Something in you has ruptured. It’s your spleen. Do you understand? You’re broken inside, and if we don’t get you to a hospital, you’re going to die. These men obviously want something from you. If you tell them, I can get you out of here. But if you do not, you will die. This is your final chance.”

“Okay, okay,” the American said immediately. “I’ll tell you.”

The torturer smiled at the man’s instant reversal. He had seen this happen more than once. Twenty-four hours in the dark with the rats was incredibly effective. One of his very favorite techniques. It was heartening to build up a store of knowledge of his craft.

“I copied the videotape of the dive,” he said. “It’s on my phone. The passcode is 6543. I showed the video to the lieutenant from the navy. She watched it twice. Now, please, some water. Please.”

“I have water outside. I will get it in a moment. Just please speak louder. You’re running out of time,” the torturer said, putting his recording phone to the American’s bruised face.

“The girl fr-fr-from Naval, Naval Safety. The pretty brown-haired girl. I showed her the video,” he said again.

“Lieutenant Everett, yes,” the torturer said, remembering his memorized notes. “You showed it to Ruby. Yes.”

“Yes. Ruby. I showed her. Now help me, please. Please. I don’t want to die. Save me. I need water.”

“Yes, of course, of course. You have done well. What’s your passcode again?”