LITMIR.BIZ

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The interrogator marked the sheet with a scribble, and then turned his cool gaze back to Reid. “What color is my hat?”

      “White,” Reid answered quietly.

      “What species are you?”

      “Human.” The interrogator was establishing a baseline for the questions to come—usually four or five known truths so that he could monitor for potential lies.

      “In what city do you dwell?”

      “New York.”

      “Where are you now?”

      Reid almost scoffed. “In a… in a chair. I don’t know.”

      The interrogator made intermittent marks on the paper. “What is your name?”

      Reid did his best to keep his voice steady. “Reid. Lawson.”

      All three of them were eyeing the machine. The needles continued unperturbed; there were no significant crests or valleys in the scrawling lines.

      “What is your occupation?” the interrogator asked.

      “I am a professor of European history at Columbia University.”

      “How long have you been a university professor?”

      “Thirteen years,” Reid answered honestly. “I was an assistant professor for five and an adjunct professor in Virginia for another six. I’ve been an associate professor in New York for the past two years.”

      “Have you ever been to Tehran?”

      “No.”

      “Have you ever been to Zagreb?”

      “No!”

      “Have you ever been to Madrid?”

      “N—yes. Once, about four years ago. I was there for a summit, on behalf of the university.”

      The needles remained steady.

      “Don’t you see?” As much as Reid wanted to shout, he fought to remain calm. “You have the wrong person. Whoever you’re looking for, it’s not me.”

      The interrogator’s nostrils flared, but otherwise there was no reaction. The brute clasped his hands in front of him, his veins standing stark against his skin.

      “Have you ever met a man named Sheikh Mustafar?” the interrogator asked.

      Reid shook his head. “No.”

      “He’s lying!” A tall, lanky man entered the room—one of the other two men who had assaulted his home, the same one who had first asked him his name. He swept in with long strides, his hostile gaze directed at Reid. “This machine can be beaten. We know this.”

      “There would be some sign,” the interrogator replied calmly. “Body language, sweat, vitals… Everything here suggests he is telling the truth.” Reid couldn’t help but think they were speaking in English for his benefit.

      The tall man turned away and paced the length of the concrete room, muttering angrily in Arabic. “Ask him about Tehran.”

      “I did,” the interrogator answered.

      The tall man spun on Reid, fuming. Reid held his breath, waiting to be struck again.

      Instead, the man resumed his pacing. He said something rapidly in Arabic. The interrogator responded. The brute stared at Reid.

      “Please!” he said loudly over their chattering. “I’m not whoever you think I am. I have no memory of anything you’re asking…”

      The tall man fell silent, and his eyes widened. He almost smacked himself in the forehead, and then spoke excitedly to the interrogator. The impassive man in the kufi stroked his chin.

      “Possible,” he said in English. He stood and took Reid’s head in both his hands.

      “What is this? What are you doing?” Reid asked. The man’s fingertips felt slowly up and down his scalp.

      “Quiet,” the man said flatly. He probed Reid’s hairline, his neck, his ears—“Ah!” he said sharply. He jabbered to his cohort, who dashed over and violently yanked Reid’s head to one side.

      The interrogator ran a finger along Reid’s left mastoid process, the small section of temporal bone just behind the ear. There was an oblong lump beneath the skin, barely larger than a grain of rice.

      The interrogator barked something at the tall man, and the latter quickly swept out of the room. Reid’s neck ached from the strange angle at which they were holding his head.

      “What? What’s going on?” he asked.

      “This lump, here,” the interrogator said, running his finger over it again. “What is this?”

      “It’s… it’s just a bone spur,” said Reid. “I’ve had it since a car accident, in my twenties.”

      The tall man returned quickly, this time with a plastic tray. He set it down on the cart, next to the polygraph machine. Despite the dim light and the odd angle of his head, Reid could clearly see what was inside the tray. A knot of fear tightened in his stomach.

      The tray was home to a number of sharp, silver implements.

      “What are those for?” His voice was panicked. He squirmed against his bonds. “What are you doing?”

      The interrogator snapped a short command to the brute. He stepped forward, and the sudden brightness of the procedure lamp nearly blinded Reid.

      “Wait… wait!” he shouted. “Just tell me what you want to know!”

      The brute seized Reid’s head in his large hands and gripped it tightly, forcing him still. The interrogator chose a tool—a thin-bladed scalpel.

      “Please don’t… please don’t…” Reid’s breath came in short gasps. He was nearly hyperventilating.

      “Shh,” said the interrogator calmly. “You will want to remain still. I would not want to cut off your ear. At least, not by accident.”

      Reid screamed as the blade sliced into the skin behind his ear, but the brute held him still. Every muscle in his limbs went taut.

      A strange sound reached his ears—a soft melody. The interrogator was singing a tune in Arabic as he cut into Reid’s head.

      He dropped the bloody scalpel into the tray as Reid hissed shallow breaths through his teeth. Then the interrogator reached for a pair of needle-nose pliers.

      “I’m afraid that was just the beginning,” he whispered in Reid’s ear. “This next part will actually hurt.”

      The pliers gripped something in Reid’s head—was it his bone?—and the interrogator tugged. Reid screamed in agony as white-hot pain shot through his brain, pulsing out into nerve endings. His arms trembled. His feet slapped against the floor.

      The pain crescendoed until Reid thought he couldn’t possibly take any more. Blood pounded in his ears, and his own screams sounded as if they were far away. Then the procedure lamp dimmed, and the edges of his vision darkened as he slipped into unconsciousness.

      CHAPTER THREE

      When Reid was twenty-three, he was in a car accident. The stoplight had turned green and he eased into the intersection. A pickup truck jumped the light and smashed into his front passenger side. His head struck the window. He was unconscious for several minutes.

      His only injury was a cracked temporal bone in his skull. It healed fine; the only evidence of the accident was a small lump behind his ear. The doctor told him it was a bone spur.

      The funny thing about the accident was that while he could recall the event, he couldn’t recall any pain—not when it happened, and not afterward, either.

      But he could feel it now. As he regained consciousness, the small patch of bone behind his left ear thrummed torturously. The procedure lamp was again shining in his eyes. He squinted and moaned slightly. Moving his head the slightest amount sent a fresh sting up his

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