She might die in that room, not knowing if there was even a purpose to the torture, not knowing if she was holding out, or giving up everything he wanted.

That was all part of the game. The not knowing. She knew the technique as well as anyone.

Most people, if they knew they held some prized piece of information, something specific, would be able to take that information to their graves.

The location of an attack, for example. Countless terrorists had died in black sites taking such information with them.

But if the information was more general, more vague, more dispersed, like what you’d been eating, what the weather was like, what clothes you wore, most people wouldn’t give up their life to hold onto such secrets. They’d give up that information during torture, and in the process give away far more than if they’d been asked direct questions.

That was why the interrogator’s first goal was always just to get his subject to talk. About anything.

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen,” Timokhin said. “Our two countries are going to go to war.”

Laurel didn’t care what he was saying. What he said might be true, or might be completely fabricated. It made no difference to her there, strung up, dying.

But she did want to know what he was looking for. If she could figure that out, she could keep it from him.

“If you go to war with us,” she said, “we’ll pound you into the stone age.”

Timokhin kept smiling. He came close to her again and she was torn between revulsion at his approach, and relief that his hand was further from the red button.

She had to make sure he didn’t press that button. As high as she was now, if he dropped her, she’d never be able to escape. Her legs would be worthless.

He looked up at her.

“My dear, how can we lose a war? When Napoleon brought all of Europe to the gates of Moscow, did we lose? When Hitler launched the largest land invasion in history, did we lose?”

“When Hitler invaded, you lost twenty-seven million people,” Laurel said.

Timokhin smiled. “Some people say we lost twenty-seven million. Some people say we lost forty.”

“What’s your point?” Laurel said.

“My point is, when the numbers pass a certain point, when they’re so big that even the people tasked with calculating them lose track, do they still matter?”

“Of course they matter.”

“Matter to who, my dear? To the dead? Certainly not.”

“You’re insane,” Laurel said.

Timokhin came so close she could feel his breath on her skin. It made her acutely aware that she was hanging naked. He could do anything to her.

“I heard a very interesting rumor about you,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I heard that your face, your lovely, pretty, face, I heard that it’s not really yours.”