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Apparently, he was under arrest, now. By whom, no one had bothered to tell him. And of course, there was no mention of exactly what he’d done to merit being thrown in here and locked up in the dark.

None of this made any sense. He was an American government employee. He’d given his real name to the MP’s who’d picked him up, and had given the bastards André’s phone number to verify his identity. Sure, an identification might have to run up through channels, but how hard could it be for an American military installation to get a yes/no answer from the CIA on whether or not Alex Peters was one of the good guys?

He felt his way around the windowless cell and located sink, toilet, and concrete bench in under a minute. He retired to the bench to make himself comfortable. God knew, he had plenty of experience with incarceration. Four years’ worth in his early twenties. He’d gone on a drunken joy ride with the express intent of getting himself locked up rather than working for his father as a spy against the United States.

What were they doing to Katie? Was she locked up, too? Were they interrogating her? If he were in charge, she would be the one he tried to break. The untrained female civilian was a much softer target than the hardened, field-experienced spy.

Unable to sleep, and too irritated to sit, he paced the cell in the dark, swearing colorfully in a variety of languages. Not even a strip of light crept in under the door. He suspected the sensory deprivation was intentional, meant to disorient and unnerve prisoners.

He snorted. His prisoner training had included many days of blindfolds and light deprivation. Except of course, forinterrogations, which were conducted under blindingly bright spotlights that had given him massive headaches.

As time stretched on and no one came to let him out, his alarm mounted. Why hadn’t the CIA given the Marines a green light to release him? Why the delay?

His finely honed instinct for dealing with intelligence agencies told him something was afoot. Surely, the CIA wouldn’t have spent a full year training him with the intent to throw him to the wolves on his very first mission abroad. And why the forced separation from Katie?

The trick, besides not panicking, was to keep an accurate sense of time. He set a mental alarm for four hours from now and laid down to catch a nap while he waited for his captors to make their next move. He expected it would come in the wee hours of the night when his biological clock was set for sleep.

He was right. He’d been lazily dozing for less than a half-hour after he’d woken from his nap when the overheads lights were thrown on. He swung his feet to the floor as his cell door banged open loudly.

“Get up! Get up! Get up!” the guard yelled aggressively.

Alex, already seated on the edge of the bed/bench gave the guy a sardonic smile and stood up casually.

Irritated not to have surprised him from a deep sleep, the guard grabbed Alex’s arm roughly and attempted to throw him through the door. Not only was Alex expecting something passive-aggressive like that, but he’d studied martial arts basically since he could walk. It took more than a hard shove to knock him off balance. Apparently, this was not a polite visit to release the fellow American asset. What in thehellwas the hold up with the CIA?

“Left or right?” Alex asked blandly.

“Left, asshole.”

“That’s Doctor Asshole to you. I’m a surgeon.”

Not that he thought the guy cared, but it was good to establish a certain status with thugs like his guard. Sure enough, the guard walked a little farther behind him and didn’t “accidentally” slam him against any walls as they walked down the long corridor.

The guard directed him up a flight of stairs, down a short hall, and into an interrogation room, complete with cameras and a lie detector machine sitting on a small, rolling table in the corner.

“Are you a lie detector tech?” Alex asked pleasantly with feigned surprise.

“No,” the guard admitted, scowling.

Mission accomplished. Chasm in their status emphasized for good measure. Now to play his guard like a violin.

“You should think about training to become one. It’s interesting work,” Alex said in a conversational tone. “Decent hours. Good pay in the civilian world. High demand work. More and more private companies are using lie detectors on their employees or during job interviews. Which means there aren’t nearly enough trained techs. It would be a good career move for you if you ever decide to go civilian.”

The guard nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks, man.”

Amateur. The guy had no clue that Alex had just neatly diverted him from playing bad cop for whatever interrogator was right now standing on the other side of that two-way glass. He would bet the “good cop” knew what he’d done, though. Should come in here any second to try to regain control of the situation.

Sure enough, the door opened. A man in a neatly starched white shirt and pressed slacks walked into the room.

Psychologist. Alex eyed this man more warily.

“Have a seat, Dr. Peters.”

“And you would be?” Alex asked.

“John Doe.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Doe,” Alex murmured as he took his seat. He planted both feet on the floor and both palms flat on the table. It was an unnatural pose, but designed not to give the interrogator any unconscious body language signals.