Fox reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a clean white handkerchief. Unfolding it with calm patience, he dabbed gently at the bloody spittle dripping down his face. No emotion showed there. No sign of distaste or disgust, just a cool detachment as he wiped himself. Finished, he crumpled the dirty cloth and threw it on the floor.
“Again, Andrew. Tell me again,” he said. Fox looked intently at the man seated in front of him. The bonds around the limbs were chaffing badly; his naked skin was mottled and shiny with sweat and dark with bruises; hair hung in damp strands across his face. Despite the obvious pain it caused him, Andrew raised his head and stared back defiantly. One eye was swollen shut and two dark streams of blood dripped from his nostrils.
“I've told you... all I'm going to... everything else, you already... seem to know. Why... prolong this?” Andrew's voice came in shallow, jagged gasps. The interrogation had been going on for hours. The cell was thick with the smell of blood and sweat, the air seemed charged with the memory of every digging punch, every slap, every burn.
“Because, Andrew, I don't believe you're telling me everything,” Fox said patiently, “we still need the name of your contact. Give us that, and this will all be over.”
Andrew let his head fall. He hadn't known exhaustion like this could be possible; even his training was mild compared to this. Countless, disorienting hours of complete darkness in painful stress positions. Every time he tried to relax, a truncheon across the back of his legs would force him back again. Brought into this cell, time and time again, to face Fox and his questions. Andrew closed his eyes and willed himself to be strong. He wouldn't let them win. He would show them who was stronger. He let his hatred rise - It was the only defence he had left. He raised his face, and spat blood again. It splattered onto Fox's white vest, seeming almost black in the dim light.
“There is NO CONTACT!” Andrew screamed.
Fox did not react, didn't even blink. He stood, and moved into the shadows at the back of the cell. The blackness swallowed him. Andrew listened to him moving around.
“You know why you're here, Andrew,” Fox's voice was laconic. “We had your hotel room bugged from the start. For weeks. All your conversations. We know you are guilty. We know you were being run by another - you are a small cog in a bigger wheel, and your country has abandoned you.”
Fox walked back into the light. He was carrying a small box in front of him. Andrew forced himself not to look at it as Fox sat down, the box resting on his lap.
“Last chance. Give me the name,” Fox said. Moments passed. The two men watched each other – Fox impassive, Andrew breathing hard. Suddenly, from within the box there came a peculiar scraping sound. Fox looked down at it. Andrew was disturbed to see emotion on Fox's face for the first time. Regret.
“Ah. Very well,” Fox said, standing again. He set the box on his chair, and pulled on a thick pair of gloves.
“I said we listened to you, Andrew. But we really didn't need to listen for weeks – we knew what you were from the start. What we needed was some... bargaining power,” Fox finished. Again, the noise from the box. Andrew could have sworn the box moved slightly, as if something inside had jolted it.
“How many times did you call Pest Control, Andrew? Twice? Five times? Let me tell you.”
Sweat broke out anew on Andrew's skin.
“You called Pest Control thirteen times over the course of one month, Andrew. For a small insect infestation? That's rather a lot, don't you think? We had the room checked while you were out. There was nothing unusual there. One or two insects; nothing out of the ordinary for this part of the world,” Fox looked at Andrew, and grinned suddenly, “or for such a cheap billet. You'd think your government would subsidise espionage a little more, no?”
Fox lifted the lid of the box and darted his hand inside. Andrew reeled back against his bonds as the thing inside was lifted into the light. A dreadful, chitinous clittering sound filled the air. Watching the writhing thing in Fox's hand, Andrew could see a multitude of legs scrabbling, huge pincers opening and closing.
“What do I deduce from this, Andrew?” Fox's grin disappeared as he held the thing in front on Andrew's horrified face.
“That you really don't like bugs. This one is a 'Scolopendra gigantea' – a giant centipede. Very rare. Very poisonous. They don’t like light. Positively hate it, in fact.”
Fox held his fist up to Andrew's ear, the insect coiling and whipping madly against the glove. It touched his skin, and he felt his mind begin to become unhinged.
“They try to burrow, to get away,” said Fox. He brought his face close to Andrew, so only inches separated them. Andrew's good eye was wide with terror, fixed on the insect. Every panicked breath caused blood to spray onto Fox's face, but the man remained unmoved. His voice was almost gentle.
“Once again, Andrew. The name.”