“Maybe you could pull that shit in Afghanistan, but not here,” Bugs said.

Hollywood was quick to jab a finger at Bugs’s face. “You weren’t in Afghanistan, fresh meat.” They were back to glaring at each other. Then Hollywood relented and took a step back. “I mean, you and me, we’d never do anything like she…” He paused, let his eyes drift toward the door.

Bugs followed Hollywood’s gaze, narrowed his eyes. “You mean, give him to Pryce?”

Hollywood shrugged.

“I thought you didn’t approve of Pryce,” Bugs said.

“I don’t. Pryce is a freak of nature. But it can’t hurt to try.”

“We got less than an hour till the suits get here from D.C. Can’t be any rough stuff, not so it’d show.”

“So we agree,” Hollywood said, smiling. He now approached the prisoner with open hands to show Bugs his benign intent and removed the adhesive blindfold, pulling with steady pressure. The prisoner, still dazed from his trip into the wall, winced, losing a little hair to the tape. He blinked several times, adjusting his eyes to the light. Then he rallied, looked past the two Americans, and fixed his eyes with a disciplined stare on a bare patch of wall.

“Okay Omar, here’s the deal,” Hollywood said. “I know you got your engineering degree at the sore-fucking-bone in Paris. I know you speak French, German, and excellent English. So I know you hear what I’m saying. And I know you don’t care to talk to us infidels and all. But I feel obligated to clue you to this one important fact.” He yanked his thumb at Bugs. “Him and me, we got our differences but basically we’re guy infidels, you sprecken the comprezvous?”

The prisoner, whose name was not Omar, continued to stare at the wall.

Hollywood leaned forward and spoke into the prisoner’s ear. He dropped his voice to a low, amiable tone. “I’m just saying, guy infidels ain’t all we got.”

The prisoner shifted on the chair and then spoke in precise, un-accented English. “I would like to speak to my attorney and I would like to use the bathroom.”