Tyrone shifted on the bare concrete floor. It was so slippery with his own fluids that one knee went out from under him, splaying him so painfully that he cried out. Of course, no one came to help him; he was alone in the interrogation cell in the basement of the NSA safe house deep in the Virginia countryside. He had to quite literally locate himself in his mind, had to trace the route he and Soraya had taken when they'd driven to the safe house. When? Three days ago? Ten hours? What? The rendition he'd been subjected to had erased any sense of time. The hood over his head threatened to erase his sense of place, so that periodically he had to say to himself: "I'm in an interrogation cell in the basement of the NSA safe house in"-and here he would recite the name of the last town he and Soraya had passed... when?
That was the problem, really. His sense of disorientation was so complete, there were periods when he couldn't distinguish up from down. Worse, those periods were becoming both longer and more frequent.
The pain was hardly an issue because he was used to pain, though never this intense or prolonged. It was the disorientation that was worming its way into his brain like a surgeon's drill. It seemed that with each bout he was losing more of himself, as if he were made up of grains of salt or sand trickling away from him. And what would happen when they were all gone? What would he become?
He thought of DJ Tank and the rest of his former crew. He thought of Deron, of Kiki, but none of those tricks worked. They'd slip away like mist and he'd be left to the void into which, he was increasingly sure, he'd disappear. Then he thought of Soraya, conjured her piece by piece, as if he were a sculptor, molding her out of a lump of clay. And he found that as his mind lovingly re-created each minute bit of her, he miraculously stayed intact.
As he struggled back to a position that was tolerably painful, he heard a metallic scrape, and his head came up. Before anything else could transpire, the scents of freshly cooked eggs and bacon came to him, making his mouth water. He'd been fed nothing but plain oatmeal since he was brought here. And at inconsistent times-sometimes one meal right after the other-in order to keep his disorientation absolute.
He heard the scuff of leather soles-two men, his ears told him.
Then General Kendall's voice, saying imperiously, "Set the food on the table, Willard. Right there, thank you. That will be all."
One set of shoe soles clacked across the floor, the sound of the door closing. Silence. Then the screech of a chair being hitched across the concrete. Kendall was sitting down, Tyrone surmised.
"What have we here?" Kendall said, clearly to himself. "Ah, my favorite: eggs over easy, bacon, buttered grits, hot biscuits and gravy." The sound of cutlery being taken up. "You like grits, Tyrone? You like biscuits and gravy?"
Tyrone wasn't too far gone to be incensed. "On'y ting I like betta is watermelon, sah."
"That's a damn fine imitation of one of your brethren, Tyrone." He was obviously talking while eating. "This is damn fine chow. Would you like some?"
Tyrone's stomach growled so loudly he was sure Kendall heard it.
"All you gotta do is tell me everything you and the Moore woman were up to."
"I don't rat anyone out," Tyrone said bitterly.
"Um." The sounds of Kendall swallowing. "That's what they all say in the beginning." He chewed some more. "You do know this is just the beginning, don't you, Tyrone? Sure you do. Just like you know the Moore woman isn't going to save you. She's going to hang you out to dry, sure as I'm sitting here eating the most mouthwatering biscuits I ever had. You know why? Because LaValle gave her a choice: you or Jason Bourne. You know her history with Bourne. She might claim she didn't fuck him but you and I know better."
"She never slept with him," Tyrone said before he could stop himself.
"Sure. She told you that." Munch, munch, munch went Kendall's jaws, shredding the crisp bacon. "What'd you expect her to say?"
The sonovabitch was playing mind games with him, Tyrone knew that for a fact. Trouble was, he wasn't lying. Tyrone knew how Soraya felt about Bourne-it was written all over her face every time she saw him or