“Not exactly,” Andrea told him.

“What does that mean?” Banerjee asked.

“It means it’s disturbing, but it isn’t painful.” She turned to Najib. “It might be a good idea to have a cardiac-assist pump on hand – just in case.”

The doctor nodded in agreement, and left the room.

Andrea turned to Banerjee. Speaking quietly, so that the man on the table couldn’t hear, she said, “Dr. Najib’s going to give him a shot of Anectine. It’s fast-acting, so-”

“What does it do?”

“Well,” Andrea said, “it causes paralysis. Progressively. After thirty seconds, the muscles in the face begin to go numb. Then the numbness spreads to the throat and down to the chest. The diaphragm slows, and after a minute or two, it stops pumping.”

Banerjee thought about it. “So…”

“It’s like turning to wood. You can feel the muscles dying, the flesh going dead. You can’t breathe, but your system’s flooded with adrenaline. So you’re in a panic, but you can’t move. It’s like a bad dream. A nightmare, only real.”

Banerjee blanched.

Andrea smiled that wonderful smile of hers. “Aversive conditioning. I’ve been dying to try it out in an interrogation setting.”

“Well, I’m sure it will be interesting.” Banerjee looked unnerved.

Andrea crossed the room. The subject was lying on his back with his eyes closed, and she could see that he’d had a hard time of it. His right arm was in an air cast, and his lower lip was split, where a tooth had gone through it. His left cheek twitched uncontrollably, and there was something wrong with the fingers of his left hand.

Lifting his hand, she looked at it closely. His thumb was perfectly manicured, and completely intact. But his second and third fingers were missing the nails, and the two other fingers were black with blood. Someone – Banerjee or Najib – had driven something under the nails.

She let go of his hand, which fell to the table with a soft thud. Hakim Mussawi looked at her, then just as quickly looked away.

“We need to talk,” Andrea told him. “Do you understand English?”

He kept his head turned to the side, and said nothing.

She repeated the question in Arabic.

Banerjee came over to the table. “His English is actually quite good,” the detective said. “He went to college in California. Chico State. I looked it up. That makes Mr. Mussawi a Wildcat. Isn’t that right, Mr. Mussawi?” Banerjee gave the man’s broken arm a squeeze, and watched him gasp.

Andrea shook her head. and Banerjee let up. In a soft voice, she said, “Hakim, I want you to look at me.”

No way.

The door to the room opened and closed behind her. Dr. Najib wheeled an apparatus to the side of the table.

“How much would you say he weighs?” the doctor asked.

“Ninety kilos,” Banerjee guessed. “He’s got a gut.”

The doctor produced a syringe. “Sixty milligrams, then.”

While Najib readied the injection, Andrea spoke in a quiet voice. “Hakim, I want you to listen carefully. I’m an American intelligence officer. And you’re in some really deep shit. But I can get you out of here. I can make this stop. But you have to give me something.” She paused. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Nothing.

“I’m ready,” Najib announced, holding the syringe like a handgun, with the barrel pointed toward the ceiling.

With a sigh, Andrea made room for him at the table. “We didn’t have to do this,” she said. “And I hope we won’t have to do it again. And again. And again.”

Mussawi began to stir.

Banerjee laid a hand on his arm. “Stay!” The needle went in.

Andrea looked at her Rolex. She had six minutes. One for the drug to take effect. Two for the muscles to die. Another two to suffocate. And a minute to come out of it.

Timing was everything.

Her watch was a Lady’s Oyster Perpetual Date, eighteen-carat gold. She’d given it to herself as a present when she made chief of station. She admired it now as the second hand swept through its first quarter turn, then another and another. When she finally looked up from the watch, she saw that Hakim’s jaws had begun to slacken. The tic in his cheek was gone, and the puzzlement in his eyes was turning to alarm.

She said his name in an admiring and regretful way. “Hakim, Hakim… I can’t imagine how you’ve held out so long. You’ve been so brave. But no one holds out forever. No one can.”

His head lolled on the table.

“I want to make a deal with you, Hakim.” Three minutes. “But I don’t know if I can. The thing is, I can’t do anything for you… unless you do something for me.”

The Anectine was roaring through his bloodstream now, crashing down a chain of neurotransmitters, wreaking havoc on his nervous system. Andrea reached down, and turned his head to face her, so that he was staring into her eyes.

It was strange. He didn’t look as if he had a care in the world. On the contrary, he had the bland look of a man who’d died in his sleep.

She searched his eyes, and saw that they were the color of mud, glassy, and bloodshot. The opposite of her own.

It didn’t take a mind reader to guess what he was thinking, to guess what he was going through. Paralysis, suffocation, and panic. He was dying from the inside out.

“I know you’ve acted against the United States in the past. So, of course, the FBI will want to talk to you. But that’s not the point.” She kept her voice steady and low, patient and slow, so that he’d hang on every word, desperate to end the moment. “That won’t get you out of here,” she said. “What gets you out of here is me. Nothing else. No one else. And it’s just like I said, I’m an intelligence officer. Not a cop. So I’m not interested in yesterday’s news. I need to know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I need to know who’s going to happen tomorrow.” Five minutes, fifteen seconds. “If you can help me with that, we can walk out of here in half an hour. And if you can’t, well, Hakim, in that case, this goes on forever.”

She took a step back from the table, and waited. Patiently, expectantly.

But there was nothing. No movement at all.

She’d killed him.

Then a tremor rolled through his chest, and she realized that she’d been holding her breath, waiting for him to breathe.

She glanced at her watch, and saw that she’d timed her speech perfectly, coming to the end just as his muscles began to relax.

Suddenly, his body jerked on the table. A snarl curled from his throat, and he gasped. “There’s an American!” he said. “He’s building a machine.” He hacked up the words, and spat them out. “He says…”

“What?”

“He says he’s going to stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“The motor.”

“What motor?”

“The motor of the world.”

The dock strike lasted seven days, seven hard days given that Istanbul, with all its glories, was right there, almost close enough to touch. The smells of grilled fish and lamb wafted toward them from the ferryboat stop at Karakoy, where vendors clustered to serve the crowds of commuters. Khalid joked that they could swim from the ship to the shore. And they probably could have. But no. Without transit visas for Turkey, they were confined to the Marmara Queen.

So Wilson worked. Day after day, he sat at the desk in his room, plugging variables into the equations he’d worked out in prison, consulting the notes he’d made while studying Yuri Ceplak’s journals at Lake Bled.

The one problem he hadn’t been able to solve concerned the photon flux that takes place when a standing gravitational wave interacts with its electromagnetic counterpart in a static magnetic field. After the Tunguska disaster, Tesla had been nearly obsessed with the problem. And there, in Ceplak’s notebooks, was a marginal notation in Tesla’s own hand, one that turned the conundrum into an epiphany. Tesla had solved it! Wilson was now confident that he could focus the beam with astonishing precision, once he factored in the target’s harmonic.