Three hours later.
The night wind of the Persian Plateau carried sand grains, beating against the explosion-proof glass of the Revolutionary Guard base.
In the ventilation duct of interrogation room No. 7 in Zone B, three floors underground, the smell of rust mixed with old bloodstains hung in the air.
Song Heping undid the second button on his collar, the sound of his military boots stepping on the water-seeping tiles was particularly clear in the enclosed space.
He reached out to adjust the spotlight in the corner, letting the glaring light completely cover the blond man on the interrogation chair.
It felt blinding; one's mind would become a blank, making the interrogated easier to guide and submit.
The man's right hand knuckle showed an unnatural bluish-purple color, appearing as a strangely translucent swelling, an injury caused by a guard smashing his finger bones with a gun butt when he tried to break free three hours ago.
"James Watson, or should I say John Smith?"
