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desert. While she had been surprised that they hadn’t landed in Kuwait City or even Hawalli, she wasn’t surprised that the CIA had a secret base in Kuwait. After all, the Kuwaitis were still thankful to the U.S. for their intervention in the first Gulf War.
    “Walks like a DUCK, smells like a DUCK, it probably is a DUCK,” Gonz said with a grimace. “But we need to know.”
    McKay nodded. “DUCK” was the acronym for “Dead Upon Kidnapping.” Since the term was pronounced like the mallard, everyone was soon spelling it that way too. It simply meant that a civilian was as good as dead as soon as he or she was kidnapped. This was almost always the case if the civilian was an American. A few European and Japanese civilians had been kidnapped in Iraq, but they were usually quickly ransomed for big money. Those few lucky souls were referred to as “KFC,” not a reference to Kentucky Fried Chicken, but “Kidnapped For Cash.”
    “I still don’t get it,” McKay said. “Why act like she doesn’t speak a word of English until she’s here?”
    Gonz gave her a quick smile. “That’s another thing to find out. But the fact that she speaks English isn’t all that surprising. Many young adults in Iraq speak English now – even the women.” He stopped and opened a heavy steal door, motioning for her to go first. McKay stepped into yet another corridor, this one poorly lit and quite narrow. “All the way to the end,” Gonz told her. As her eyes adjusted to dim surroundings she saw another door at the end of the hallway. Once again, Gonz opened it for her, as if they were on a date and he was opening the door of a restaurant.
    They now entered a small viewing room with two rows of stadium-style theater seats facing a large glass wall. Beyond the glass McKay saw the Iraqi woman facing them as she sat stiffly in a chair, her hands, still locked in handcuffs, resting on a table in front of her. From a shelf under the glass window, which McKay knew was a two-way mirror, Gonz handed her a very small plastic earpiece. “Go with the flow. If I want you to head it in another direction, I’ll say so,” Gonz explained. “The volume is very low. She won’t overhear anything.” She watched as he placed an external ear piece with boom microphone over his own ear. McKay then placed the device in her right ear.
    “What was done to her?” McKay asked with a bitter tone as she stared at the woman.
    “Nothing.” McKay gave Gonz a harsh look and he repeated, “Nothing, I swear.” McKay didn’t seem to believe him, so he told her, “Ask. She wants to talk to you – ‘the woman at the Checkpoint and who was on the plane.’ That’s you. Ask.”
    McKay looked around the viewing room. “Just you going to watch the show?”
    Gonz could barely keep his impatience at bay. “You have a problem, tell me now.”
    McKay couldn’t meet his gaze. Finally, she said, “I don’t know. I don’t like torture. Okay?”
    “She wasn’t touched, McKay, I swear,” Gonz said angrily.
    “I believe you.”
    “Good. Fine,” Gonz replied defensively.
    “I just feel that if she clams up, doesn’t say what you need to hear, then it starts. Whatever it is you guys do to people.”
    “Let me tell you something,” Gonz said taking a step close to her and looking down at her with burning eyes. “We are at war. Her friends pulled Timothy Quizby from his truck – a truck that was taking air conditioners to schools, believe it or not – kept him for nearly three weeks before decapitating him, airing it live and–”
    “I know,” McKay said, interrupting him and waving him off. “I know.”
    “So we need to find out what we can about these murderers,” Gonz told her in a softer voice.
    “I’m not an interrogator. I’ve never been trained–”
    “Doesn’t matter,” Gonz told her. “She speaks English and she asked to talk to you. I’ll help you. If she isn’t forthcoming, fine. We tried.”
    “And then the beatings