''Date?'' he asked, proffering a plate of the fruits. They looked deliciously fat and plump, and David could imagine crushing one between his teeth, bursting open its sweetly fibrous flesh, gulping it down.
But he shook his head. ''Under the…'' he began. His voice was a papery rasp. He ran his tongue around his mouth and tried again. ''Under the terms of the Global Convention for the Proper Treatment of Prisoners of War-''
''Let me stop you right there, lieutenant,'' said Wilkins, holding up a hand like a traffic policeman. ''One, I know the wording of the Convention as well as you do. Two, I don't care about your name, rank, and serial number. Three, you and your men have been taken captive after illegally entering our territory, rather than in the course of battle, which renders the Convention null and void in this instance. You are not prisoners of war. You are my prisoners, and I will treat you however I wish.''
David tried another tack. ''Where are Martineau and Henderson? I want to see them. What have you done with them?''
''Take a look for yourself.'' Wilkins pointed to the doorway to the next chamber.
David glimpsed two bodies under blankets on the floor. Bloodstains had soaked through the material.
His stomach lurched with horror and disgust.
The disgust was good. Disgust contained anger. Anger gave strength.
He turned back to Wilkins and said, simply, ''Cunt.''
Wilkins sighed and rolled his eyes. ''So free with the insults, Lieutenant Westwynter. It diminishes you in my eyes. A man who feels the need to belittle others all the time must have a very low opinion of himself.''
''You're right,'' David said. ''I take it back. You're not a cunt. You're a sanctimonious cunt.''
Wilkins blinked slowly, looking for all the world like the aggrieved parent of a badly behaving child.
Then, in one swift movement, he stood and slapped David across the cheek, backhand.
His knuckles split open a bruise that the minus-an-ear Nephthysian had put there earlier. David hissed as warm blood trickled down his face and onto his neck.
Wilkins reseated himself. His two subordinates outside, glancing in, chuckled.
''I trust I won't have to do any more of that,'' he said. ''I would much rather you co-operated. That was basically why I did what I did to your men. To let you know that I am someone who means business but would much prefer to do business, if you see what I mean.''
''You could have left them alone,'' David said thickly. ''They didn't know anything.''
''Precisely. Whereas you, I am sure, do know something.''
''What are you after? What the fuck do you want from me?''
''Information,'' said Wilkins. ''Merely information. As much of it as possible. About troops. Locations. Numbers. Fortified positions. Plans. Anything and everything you can tell me.''
''I'm just a soldier, doing a job,'' David said. ''Just 'a dumb grunt on the ground', to coin a phrase.''
''No. You are an officer and you are obviously an intelligent man. Someone who pays heed to what is going on around him; someone who considers the bigger picture.''
''I'm flattered. But if I'm really so intelligent, how come I got myself and my men into a mess like this?''
''The trap was, if I say so myself, beautifully laid.''
''You had all the right radio codes.''
''Correct.''
''Which you got from the Horusites whose uniforms and weapons you took.''
''Correct again.''
''By torture?''
A twitch of the eyebrows: naturally.
''And,'' David went on, ''you then took those Horusites and had them embalmed and turned into mummies.''
''What else does one do with dead foes?'' said Wilkins. ''We have a base camp nearby, and a Mobile Mummification Suite parked there, complete with priest. It seemed expedient. Although 'mummies' isn't the accepted term for them nowadays, is it? It's regarded in polite circles as somewhat coarse and dismissive. What must we call them? 'Reanimates'. Is that the word?''
''I'm a traditionalist,'' said David. ''Mummies.''
''Well, either way, as we're discussing mummies, perhaps that's where we can start. I'd be interested to know how many you have stockpiled at your garrison on Cyprus.''
''And I'd be interested to know what your real name is. I don't want to keep thinking of you as Colonel Wilkins. Nice touch, by the way. Who'd be suspicious of a man with the same surname as the Pastor-President?''
''Indeed. If you must know — not that it's going to make any difference in the long run — I am Hasan Maradi, a captain in the Persian Tenth Infantry Brigade, Special Services Division.''
''Nice. You gave yourself a promotion.''
''Trying it on for size. It felt like a good fit.''
''Well, Captain Maradi,'' David said, ''as we're being candid with each other, perhaps I should tell you that because my squad has failed to radio back to base with a mission status by now, and missed its exfil window, alarm bells will have rung and a recovery team will be on its way to find out what's become of us. They're probably looking for us even as we speak. Your best bet is to up sticks and run while you can. The recovery team will be coming in gunships and you won't stand a chance.''
Wilkins — Maradi — regarded David with frank scepticism. ''Is that so? My understanding is that a mission like yours, a covert foray across enemy borders, carries full deniability. No one is coming to your aid. If your mission goes awry, your top brass will deny you were ever here or that you even existed.''
''The army isn't going to leave twenty good soldiers stranded in the desert without mounting at least one rescue attempt.''
''In that case,'' said Maradi wryly, ''time is of the essence and we must hurry. I am going to give you one last opportunity to agree to answer my questions freely, without coercion. Then, I'm afraid, I will have to start being more persuasive. Let me show you what I mean.''
He picked up what appeared to be a small tube of some kind of paste.
''What is this?'' he said, holding it up for David to inspect.
David squinted. The markings on the tube were in Arabic script, but it could only be one thing.
''Glue.''
''A very strong epoxy adhesive,'' said Maradi, nodding. ''The kind used by hobbyists to assemble plastic aeroplane kits and the like. The kind that you are not supposed to bring into contact with your skin. See, there's a little warning notice here on the side. It says, 'Caustic. Severe irritant.' Now think how it might feel to have some of this glue squeezed into your ear canal. Think how it might feel if your eyelids were to be cemented together with it. Not painful. Well, not very. But the damage would, I fear, be considerable. Irreparable, in fact. Permanent deafness and blindness. And were I to apply some to your nostrils and mouth, sealing them shut with just a tiny hole left between the lips to breathe through — can you see how disagreeable an experience that might be? To be almost incapable of breathing? To feel slow suffocation, and the panic that comes with that? The awful, dizzying sensation of slow death? And I can slit your lips apart with this'' — he held up a scalpel, the type with a replaceable blade; like the glue, something an artist or modeller might use — ''to let the air in, and then reseal them as I please. Slit, reseal. Slit, reseal. After a while it would get messy but I suspect I will have made my point by then. Unlike your subordinates over there, you, Lieutenant Westwynter, have an imagination. For them, crude methods sufficed. For you, the ability to foresee the results of torture may be just as effective as torture itself. Am I not right?''
David tried a last desperate ploy, the only arrow he had left in his quiver. ''Nephthys, Mistress of the House and Castle, Daughter of Earth and Sky, Mother of the Dead, may be married to Set but she is closer to Isis and Osiris than she is to him. We all know that. She helped Isis embalm Osiris's body after her husband slew him. She bore Osiris's child!''