“I don’t know.”

Fabien slapped the leather strap across Mike’s forehead and secured it around the pillar, making it impossible for Mike to turn his head. “How did he contact you?”

“I don’t know.”

Mike watched as Fabien selected a hammer and metal spike from the torture table. Mike’s nerves jumped.

Fabien placed the tip of the spike against Mike’s skull behind his right ear. “Did you know,” he said, “that if you drive a spike through a precise spot in the skull, the victim will retain the capacity for speech and thought but will be otherwise paralyzed for the rest of his life?”

Mike began to struggle against the bindings. “I…I never saw him. He left me a note, always in a different place.”

“What did you do before entering my police force?”

“I worked in a tavern.”

Fabien put the spike down. “Do you know who William of Orange is?”

“No.”

“Are you scared?”

Mike snarled. “Of what?”

“Do you visit him or does he come to France?”

Mike fought the restraints. “Who? What do you mean?”

“William of Orange.”

“I don’t know him!”

“Where is the tavern?”

“In the south, near –”

Fabien leaned close, his lip curled. “Does he give you money?”

“Who? Who?!”

“William of Orange?”

“I tell you!” shouted Mike, spittle flying from his bloodied mouth. “I don’t know who he is! I’ve never even been to Holland!”

Fabien stood straight and smiled a cold, thin smile. “I never said he is from Holland. You did, however.”

The door to the torture room banged open and Bontemps entered. Fabien turned on the valet, furious at the interruption, but Bontemps did not flinch. “The King would like to see you.”

Fabien looked back at Mike.

“Immediately.”

Fabien wiped his hands and turned to the guards. “Don’t take your eyes off him, don’t talk to him, don’t give him anything.” Then he followed Bontemps out of the torture room.

Mike glared at the guards, who just stared through him as if he were a chair. Minutes later the torture room door opened. Mike braced himself, ready to face Fabien again. But it was Rohan. The guard immediately blocked him.

“Where is Monsieur Marchal?” demanded Rohan. “The King wants to see him.”

“Already gone, sir,” said the guard.

“So, that’s the traitor?” Rohan brushed past the guards, who frowned yet eyed each other, uncertain as to confronting the King’s friend.

Mike and Rohan locked stony gazes. “If I had my way,” said Rohan, “I’d have you hanged, drawn, and quartered.” Rohan scooped up the spike and turned it over in his hands. “Gruesome. What is this for?”

“For killing people,” said Mike.

One of the guards approached Rohan. “Sir…”