Northwest Illinois and the Persian Border, a desolate highland, hidden camp.
After hours of forced marches through dangerous border zones, everyone in the team is exhausted, but the tension in their nerves makes it impossible to relax.
The relief from having successfully evaded air raids quickly gets replaced by new anxiety—they are dragging a dozen burdens behind.
The moment the team arrived at this pre-scouted Persian secret camp, located in a barren mountain hollow, Song Heping issued new orders before there was time even for a hot drink.
"Ibrahim, take people and separate the prisoners, guard them carefully, without my order, no one is to approach."
"Samir, arrange the sentry posts, double guards, send out perimeter scouts, be alert for any tracking."
"Medics, care for the wounded, check everyone's physical condition, especially for frostbite."
"Everyone else, rest on the spot, replenish strength, but do not leave your equipment."
The orders were concise and clear.
The militiamen silently executed them, the camp quickly transformed from a marching formation to a defensive alert state.
Song Heping did not rest.
He walked to the deepest part of the camp, into a narrow, dark, isolated cave, which had been temporarily converted into an interrogation room.
The air was filled with dust, the smell of blood, and a cold fear.
The CIA team leader, disguised as an old man, had his hands tied behind his back, eyes blindfolded, mouth gagged, curled up in the corner, wearing only a thin, dirty prisoner uniform, trembling in the highland's cold night.
Ibrahim followed behind Song Heping, carrying the lead box and a small toolbox in his hands.
"Secure him."
Song Heping's voice echoed in the cave, sounding particularly cold.
Two robust militiamen stepped forward, dragged the prisoner up, tied him to a thick stalagmite in the middle, ensuring he could not move.
Song Heping gestured for Ibrahim to put down the items and then sent him out to guard the entrance.
The cave was left with only him and the prisoner.
He did not rush to start a violent interrogation.
Instead, he slowly walked around the prisoner in a circle.
Shuffling—
The sound of footsteps on the rocky ground was clearly audible, creating immense psychological pressure on the other party.
Finally, he abruptly tore off the blindfold and gag from the prisoner.
Though there was only a dim battery-powered lamp in the cave, the sudden light still made the prisoner squint his eyes, he coughed violently, greedily took a few gulps of cold air, his eyes looking around in fear, finally settling on the expressionless Oriental man in front of him.
"Name. Number. Affiliated department."
Song Heping asked in English, his voice steady, without a trace of emotional fluctuation, like a neighborhood committee aunt registering the data of an incoming population.
The prisoner gasped heavily, his eyes flickering, trying to appear tough: "I... I don't know what you're talking about! We are lost herdsmen! This is illegal detention! Someone will come for you!"
Song Heping seemed to completely ignore his words and continued repeating in that suffocating tone: "Name. Number. Affiliated department."
"I said! I'm a herdsman! Abdul Karim!"
The prisoner raised his voice, his tone steady, appearing righteous, any ordinary person would find it difficult to detect the slightest hint of lying.
Of course.
If the person in front is an operative, things are different.
Operatives involved in actions undergo counter-interrogation training.
Part of it is learning to memorize one's cover identity completely and hypnotize oneself into believing they're the person in the cover identity before the operation.
Song Heping remained silent.
He walked to the toolbox, opened it, inside was not imagined torture tools, but rather items that looked more peculiar—a few syringes of different sizes and vials of medicine, a portable audio player, some patches with electrodes, even a set of fine acupuncture needles and a small heating canister emitting weak heat.
These were the tools Ibrahim brought.
The Special Forces members of the Persian Revolutionary Guard are similarly professionally trained.
And Ibrahim is a technical sergeant in the "Sand Fox" squad, also trained in interrogation.
"The tools are quite complete..."
Song Heping mumbled to himself as he reached out to pick up a syringe, drawing a small amount of transparent liquid from the vial.
Then he walked to the prisoner, rolled up his sleeve.
"What are you going to do?! What is this?!"
The prisoner's face finally changed, he began to struggle desperately, but the straps held him firmly to the stalagmite.
"An auxiliary agent."
Song Heping said calmly, accurately inserted the needle into his vein, slowly pushed in, "It won't take your life but will enhance your nerve sensitivity, making your hearing, touch, pain... five times, even ten times sharper than usual. This way, our subsequent 'communication' will be more efficient."
"For Allah's sake..." The prisoner shook his head, a pleading expression in his eyes: "Don't torture me like this, I truly am just a herdsman..."
"Hmm..."