Even still, as Gibson took off his jacket—no shoulder holster—loosened his tie, pulled his shirt free, he said, “Mr. Harrington, I don’t know what you want from me or what you think is going on, but I don’t think this’ll solve your problems, whatever it is you’re thinking of doing.”
Finn didn’t respond and Gibson finished undressing. He stood there in a pair of tight-fitting trunks that once again brought to mind his love of cycling, a pile of clothes at his feet. Finn took the pair of handcuffs from his bag and threw them across.
Gibson caught them, but started shaking his head as he calculated what was coming.
“No, please, Mr. Harrington, if you’ll just listen—”
“Relax, Gibson, this isn’t how I get my kicks. We have some serious talking to do and I don’t want to sit pointing a gun at you the whole time. Now put them on, hands in front.”
Gibson stared at him, probably trying to read his thoughts, and reluctantly attached the cuffs to his wrists.
“Now what?”
“Bathroom.”
Gibson, his eyes desperately trying to calculate what this meant, turned and walked to the bathroom. Finn pushed him inside, then turned on the light. There was a large tub in one corner.
“Into the bath, lie down, head by the taps.”
“What, you’re gonna waterboard me? Are you crazy?”
“I wouldn’t know how to begin waterboarding someone. If you give me instructions, I’ll give it a go.”
“How would I know? I just—” Finn gestured with the gun toward the bath, and Gibson stopped talking and climbed in. “On my back or front?”
“On your back—we need to talk, remember.”
Gibson crouched, putting his cuffed hands on the side of the bath to help himself into a sitting position, then gingerly laid back, his body twitching against the cold surface.
“Good, now stay there for a minute, make yourself comfortable while I check the apartment. If you’re thinking about getting out of the bath once I leave the room, don’t, not unless you have a rocket launcher hidden in your medicine cabinet, because I will kill you.”
Gibson stared up at the ceiling, not responding, looking humiliated. Finn stepped backward out of the bathroom, and quickly checked the other rooms, backtracking each time to pass the open door and get a glimpse of Gibson’s knees just visible in the bath.
There was a bedroom, a guest room that looked unused and had a bed full of cushions, a study lined with bookshelves, a well-equipped kitchen, the same tastefully low-key decor throughout.
When he got back to the bathroom, he found Gibson as he’d left him.
“Okay, let’s get started. What’s your first name?”
“Steve.”
“Who do you work for, Steve?”
“BGS.”
“Which stands for?”
“Brac Global Systems.”
So far, so compliant, answering questions he knew Finn already had the answers to.
“Private company or government-affiliated?”
“Private. Most of us have a government background, but it’s a private company.”
“Most of us? How many of you are there at Brac Global Systems?”
This was Gibson’s first hesitation, but Finn sensed it was because of ignorance rather than evasion.
“I’m not sure. I’ve only ever dealt with three or four other people.”
“Good. So I’m guessing you answer directly to the boss?” Gibson looked at him, not sure how to respond, perhaps trying to calculate where the questions might be leading. As Finn spoke, he put the gun down and took off his watch. He put one hand on the cuffs to stop Gibson lashing out, then leaned over and put the plug in behind Gibson’s head. “What I mean is, if you’ve only dealt with a few people, you must answer to somebody, and if he answered to somebody else you’d have met him, too. So it’s a leap, I know, but I’m guessing you answer directly to the boss of Brac Global Systems. It’s good that there’s a mixer tap. Let me know if it’s too warm or too cold.”
“I can’t tell you who I answer to.”
“Why not? It’s a private company, it’s not like you’re bound by the Act. Remember, let me know if it’s too hot or cold.” He moved the lever midway and turned on the water, checking it with his hands before letting it fall with a surprisingly full flow onto Gibson’s face. Gibson sputtered and moved his head frantically to the side. “That’s good, move your head to the side.”
Gibson pushed himself up the bath so that his head was squashed uncomfortably into the corner, the water gushing down the side of it. He sounded outraged as he said, “You said you weren’t going to waterboard me.”
“I don’t think this is waterboarding. I think your face has to be covered for waterboarding, and you have to be held under the flow of water, you know, so it simulates drowning. I’m not sure of the technique, but then I don’t need to know because I said I’m not gonna waterboard you and I mean what I say.”
Gibson still didn’t believe him and, in his oddly cowering position, said, “Then what’s the idea?”