The shiny-headed man turned to the two medics in white coats. 'You can leave now,' he told them; they quickly left the room.
Will glanced to his side at Pankhurst. The Director General of MI5 was standing bolt upright, his jaw clenched. 'What are they going to do to her?' Will asked.
'It's very quick,' Pankhurst replied, quietly. 'Most people break in about ten seconds. Fifteen at the most. She won't suffer for long.'
Will narrowed his eyes. There was nothing in the room that looked to him anything like an implement of torture. As Pankhurst was speaking, the two men had wheeled Latifa's bed to the far end of the room, where a short length of rubber hose was attached to a tap in the wall.
'You know what we want?' the American asked Latifa.
It clearly took a great effort for Latifa to stop her head from lolling back over the edge of the bed, but she managed it. 'I will not tell you anything,' she whispered.
The American nodded. From the leather bag he pulled a rectangular cardboard tube and with surprise Will realised it was an ordinary carton of kitchen cling film. The man tore off a short length, held it tightly at each end, then approached Latifa's head. As he did so, the blonde-haired man took the rubber hose in one hand and turned the tap on. Water escaped over the white tiled floor and down a small outlet clearly put there for this very purpose.
'Waterboarding,' Will whispered to himself.
'As I say,' Pankhurst replied, 'an extremely effective technique.'
It was with a brutal swiftness that the cling film was pulled tightly over Latifa's face. Her mouth was wide open and as she tried to breathe it caused the cling film to make a tight, concave indentation in her mouth. The American man pulled the back of her hair so that her head was pointing down to the floor, then his colleague directed the flow of the water over her face.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Latifa's body started to jerk as she struggled against the straps that were tying her firmly down. She couldn't scream because of the cling film, but the quiet sound of the water splashing over her face and on to the door was enough to send a shudder of revulsion down Will's spine.
Four seconds.
Five seconds.
'They'll kill her!' Will said urgently.
'No they won't,' Pankhurst replied. 'They know what they're doing.'
Six seconds.
Seven seconds.
The American had to struggle to keep her head down.
Eight seconds.
Nine seconds.
Ten seconds.
'Stop!' the American said. His blonde-haired colleague pulled the water away and the cling film was ripped from Latifa's face. A deathly gasp escaped her throat as she took a desperate intake of breath, then another. The American allowed her to get her breath back before he spoke.
'Where is Faisal Ahmed?' he asked, directly.
'She won't tell him,' Will murmured.
Sure enough, Latifa refused to speak; but her rattling breath filled Will's ears.
The American's face twitched slightly. This was not, Will deduced, what he had expected; and Pankhurst also suddenly looked uncomfortable. The American ripped off a fresh, dry piece of cling film, nodded at his accomplice, and the process started once more.
'Christ,' Will whispered. Torturing defenceless women.
This wasn't what he'd signed up for.
It lasted a little longer this time — perhaps fifteen seconds, though it seemed to Will like a hell of a lot more. When the cling film was finally ripped from her face again, her breathing was even more panicked, but at the same time weaker. Will's face was screwed up with distaste. 'She can't take much more of this,' he told Pankhurst.
'That's kind of the idea,' he snapped back.
The American spoke again. 'Where is Faisal Ahmed?'
Latifa's choking breaths came in short, sharp bursts. For about thirty seconds they were the only sound in the room; but finally she spoke. Her voice was quiet, trembling and hoarse; but her words left no room for doubt.
'You may do what you like to me,' she whispered. 'I will never tell you.'
The American inclined his head. Will had the impression that he was vaguely impressed with Latifa's resistance. With a sense of relentlessness, he ripped himself a third piece of cling film.
As he did so, Latifa's head swung to the left and she looked at the glass; even though he knew she couldn't see through it, Will felt she was staring directly at him.
'Please,' she breathed. 'Please—'
'He can't keep doing this!' Will burst out. It was a struggle for him not to rush into the room and stop it from happening. 'It'll kill her!'
Pankhurst didn't reply.
A third bout of waterboarding began. Latifa continued to struggle against the ropes that were binding her, but her movements were much weaker now. Barely noticeable.
'It'll kill her!'Will shouted in sudden frustration.
'If she doesn't tell us what we want to know,' Pankhurst hissed, his usually calm demeanour suddenly absent, 'then it doesn't matter.' His words were severe, but even Pankhurst had a look of doubt in his face now.
Will blinked. A surge of anger flickered through him.
This wasn't right. It didn't matter who Latifa's brother was. This wasn't right.
'Fuck it,' he murmured to himself. In a flash, he burst out of the door and into the room where the waterboarding was happening. He crossed it in three swift strides, grabbed the shiny-headed American by the throat and hurled him out of the way, before punching the blonde-haired man holding the hose so hard that he crumpled immediately to the floor. Instantly he ripped the cling film from Latifa's face.
The American came at him. Will allowed him to approach before almost casually kneeing him in the groin. He collapsed with a groan of agony as Will started unbuckling Latifa's straps. She was still gasping, painfully — Will gently put his hand behind her head to support it, then lifted her up into a sitting position. The noises she was making sounded like they should have come from an animal. But at least she was alive.
And then Pankhurst was there, framed by the doorway, his face a thundercloud. 'What the hell do you think you're playing at, Jackson?' he demanded.
Will stood in the middle of the room, breathing deeply, shakily. What was he playing at? He knew the stakes. He knew why they were doing this. But that didn't make it right. There had to be another way.
'Get out of the room,' Pankhurst continued. 'Let these men carry on with their work.'
The two torturers had started to get to their feet, but they were eyeing Will nervously, not knowing what he was likely to do next. Will sensed Latifa rolling on to her front, then huddling up on top of the stretcher bed into a little ball, her arms clutching her head as a choking, weeping sound escaped her throat.
Tentatively, the bald-headed American stepped towards the bed.
'Leave her alone,' Will growled. 'Touch her and I'll kill you.'
'I'm giving you an order, Jackson!' Pankhurst barked. 'Get out of that room, now. Get out of that room or you can kiss goodbye to your chance of going after the man who butchered your wife and child!'
Even as the Director General spoke, Will felt something snap inside. In two giant strides he stepped to the doorway where Pankhurst was standing and grabbed the man by the neck, lifting him from the ground and pushing him up against the far wall of the corridor. When he spoke, it was little more than a whisper; but his voice carried with it all the hate he could muster.
'If you ever — ever — mention my family again, I swear I'll break your neck.'
Pankhurst's face started to redden as Will tightened his grip. 'Put me down,' he croaked, but somehow that just made Will want to squeeze tighter.