From the inner recesses of his mind, the words of Emerson that Demarest so often quoted returned to him: Whilst he sits on the cushions of advantages, he goes to sleep. When he is pushed, tormented, defeated, he has a chance to learn something.

And another day passed. And another. And another.

His innards cramped powerfully: the fly-ridden gruel had given him dysentery. He desperately sought to defecate, hoping he could rid himself of the agony that now convulsed his very guts, but his bowels would not move. They harbored their pain greedily. The enemy within, Janson thought mordantly.

It was either evening or morning when he heard a voice, once more, in English. His bonds were loosened, and he could now sit up straight once more—a postural shift that initially caused his nerve endings to scream in renewed agony.

“Is that better now? It soon will be, I pray.”

A new interrogator, no one he had seen before. It was a small man with quick intelligent eyes. His English was fluid, the accent pronounced but with clipped, crisp articulation. An educated man.

“We know you are not imperialist aggressor,” the voice went on. “You are a dupe of the imperialist aggressors.” The interrogator came very close; Janson knew that his smell must be offensive to the man—it was foul even to himself—but he evinced no sign of it. The Vietnamese touched Janson’s cheek, rough with stubble, and spoke softly. “But you disrespect us when you treat us like dupes. Can you understand this?” Yes, he was an educated man, and Janson was his special project. This development alarmed him: it suggested that they had figured out that he was, indeed, no ordinary soldier.

Janson ran his tongue over his teeth; they felt furry and somehow foreign, as if they had been replaced with a set of choppers carved of an old balsa raft. A noise of assent came from his mouth.

“Ask yourself how it was you were captured.”

The man walked around him, pacing like a schoolmaster in front of a class. “You see, we are actually very similar, in a way. Both of us are intelligence officers. You have served your cause bravely. I hope the same might be said of me.”

Janson nodded. The thought briefly flickered: In what demented scheme did the torture of a defenseless prisoner count as bravery? But he quickly stowed it away; it would not help him now; it would cloud his composure, betray an attitude of sedition. Clear like water, cool like ice.

“My name is Phan Nguyen, and I think that, really, we are privileged to know each other. Your name is …”