The Lost Labyrinth

IV

Knox didn't know what the man had said to save him from the pliers, but he was grateful, that was for sure. But then Mikhail smiled and barked out orders in Georgian, and the tame giant went outside and returned with a garden bench, its varnish sweating from a recent shower. 'Put him on it,' said Mikhail, switching to English, presumably because he wanted Knox to know what he was up to. 'Strap him down tight. I don't want him moving.'

Knox tried to fight, but it was hopeless, bound hand and foot as he was. The giant mummified him with duct tape, pinioning him to the bench, his wrists still tied behind him, jabbing uncomfortably into the small of his back. Mikhail walked unhurriedly away. Knox could hear him on the stairs. He came down a minute later holding a leather gag. Knox held out as long as he could, clenching his jaw tight, turning his face to the side, breathing through his nose, but Mikhail simply pinched his nostrils together and waited until he ran out of air, then shoved in the leather bit, clasped it behind his head and tightened it until the strap gouged Knox's lips and gums. Then he tightened it a little further, just because he could.

'Let me go,' pleaded Knox. But the gag made mush of his words.

'Fetch me a towel, please, Davit,' said Mikhail.

'What kind of towel, sir?'

'A hand-towel. Not too big.'

'Yes, sir.' He fetched a green one from a downstairs bathroom. 'Will this do, sir?' he asked.

'Perfect, thank you, Davit,' said Mikhail. He leaned closer to Knox, the better to confide. 'All that talk of enhanced interrogation techniques while I was in the States. It makes a man curious.' He folded the towel in half and placed it over Knox's face. The fabric itched his skin. With it over his eyes, he could see nothing but the material itself, glowing faintly from the sun. Footsteps walked away from him, kitchen closets opened and closed. There was a jangling, as though someone had pulled out a nested set of saucepans, and rested them on the counter. A tap was turned on. Water sprayed on metal, a loud initial drumming that gradually quietened and deepened. Some vessel being filled, a large saucepan or a casserole dish, to judge from the time it took. The procedure was repeated with a second pan. Then the footsteps came back over.

Knox had heard about water-boarding, of course, but he hadn't paid attention to the details, had never imagined it might happen to him. He didn't know, therefore, the mechanics of it, or how to resist.

'Lift his feet,' said Mikhail. 'They need to be above his head.'

The far end of the bench was picked up and held about a foot off the ground. It was an uncomfortable sensation in itself, blood flowing towards his head; but it was nothing to his fear of what was coming next. He took and held a deep breath just before the first saucepan was tipped over the towel. Most of it splashed away, but plenty more soaked through the towel into his mouth, held open by the bit, and trickled down into his throat. He had to fight the urge to cough.

'He's holding his breath,' observed Mikhail.

A fist smashed into Knox's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He heaved for air just as the second saucepan was tipped out, and so he breathed in water, triggering his gag reflex, making him buck and convulse, his whole body arching as it dedicated itself to the single ambition of air. He choked out as much water as he could, sucked in again, got only towel and more water. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. The necessity of air was extraordinary, like nothing he'd ever felt before, utterly terrifying, he tried to kick and flail, he hurled himself sideways so violently that his shoulder almost dislocated from its joint, but still he had no air, his head was pounding crazily, his heart was bucking and kicking, and he could feel the blackness coming; and it was a relief when it pulled over him like a shroud, and he was gone.