I removed the scarf and turned him over so the water could pour out of his head. He collapsed into a blubbering mess. Spitting and choking and heaving as his oxygen-starved body convulsed involuntarily. When he was done getting back to life, I turned him onto his back again. He was truly frightened. I figured I might get an answer or two out of him before he got his wits back together.

I said, “Can you hear me?”

His chest heaved. He nodded enthusiastically. “What do you want?”

“I’m just wondering, out of curiosity, who sent you to take out the Afghan guy?”

He looked away from me. “They’ll kill me.”

“I’ll kill you first.”

The kid was streetwise and not that stupid. He eyed me. I could see that cognition was beginning to happen in his brain. The oxygen had returned and he was thinking quick. On the one hand he didn’t want to be waterboarded again, even with a silk Hermes scarf. On the other hand he had other people to worry about. So, the question on his mind was which was the least of two evils, me or them.

He said, “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just a delivery guy.”

I said, “You and everyone else in this town.”

The kid wasn’t half bad as a young and dumb soldier. He’d gone from blubbering mess to clamming up in about ten seconds. He needed to come close to death again. I put the Hermes scarf back over his mouth and nose. He wriggled around some. So I vice-gripped his head with my knees again. I poured river water from the helmet over the scarf, slowly. He lasted five seconds before I had to resuscitate him. When he’d gotten the water out of his head and neck the kid lay there spitting and blowing. He was saying something. I had to lean down to hear it.

“Le Bucheron,” which translates as The Woodcutter.

“Uh huh. The Woodcutter.”

The kid spit to the side and repeated himself. “The Woodcutter.”

“Where does one find The Woodcutter?”

“Le Foxy Kebab.”

I said, “If I have to come back and find you I’m going to kill you.”

“Go to Le Foxy Kebab. They’ll cut your head off, but be my guest.”

I ignored that. “What does Le Bucheron look like?”

“Fat and bald.”

I said, “Do you take clients up to Calais?”

“I haven’t been up there.”

“Dangerous line of work.”

He looked at the river, sullen.