An old man dressed like a bookkeeper walks around the chair as if taking a stroll.

A sixteen year old boy is tied to the chair.

The old man steps next to the chair and cleans with his handkerchief some blood from the boy's lips.

"/I quite think you are going to die tonight./"

The boy says nothing. The man chuckles and resumes his circling. Each time he crosses directly in front of the boy, the prisoner works for exactly two seconds in the lock that's tying his hands. This goes on for a few minutes, until the man walks to the boy's back and doesn't reappear.

Then - pain. A thin needle of steel goes though the boy's left shoulder at just the right point. It's an excruciating agony, and he can't avoid a soft groan before he can force himself into the Tao.

All is one, he reminds himself. The pain, the needle, his body and the chair. Even the smiling man that now stands in front of him.

"/Strange, that one so young should be so used to pain. Another mystery./" The boy says nothing. His fingers work the lock with ingrained skill, but his eyes remain fixed on the man in front of him. "/But then, I'm something of an expert on obtaining answers from people./"

There is a strange, quiet pride in his smile.

"/You will notice,/" he says with the easy tone of a professional enlightening a younger colleague, "/that I've not asked any questions yet./" The old man blows a sigh in a strong gesture of weariness with the incompetence threatening to override the world. "/There is no point on asking questions to a man that might keep his silence or lie. You must first deprive him of the will, the physical capacity of doing so./"

He begins walking around the chair, marking points and counterpoints as he passed in front of the boy in the chair and at his back.

"/In short notice, the first recourse is the threat of death... But some people/" -and here he ruffles the boy's hair with grandfatherly amusement - "/don't find the prospect disagreeable enough, do they? ... You can also induce enormous pain on an individual with nothing but your bare hands or a simple needle... Assuming, of course, the pain is for him an enemy, and not a bed mate of old./"

The man stops his talk and drops himself closer to the boy's eye level.

"/Have you slept with a woman yet, boy?/" There is no sound or body movement coming from the boy other than a steady breathing, and the man rises again with an almost sad expression.

"/A pity, to die without knowing a woman's embrace./" He smiles. "/Sadly, people immune to pain are often unmoved by life./"

He looks at the prisoner's eyes and says

"/As a last alternative, you have to look at people in the eyes./"

And he looks at him.

It's just like the look in the boy's father in the rare occasions where he was to be punished. It's a blank stare where you can project your worst fears and have them returned to you. It's a promise that pain will not really be necessary.

The boy flinches.

"/Ah! Well,/" the interrogator says as he turns around to leave the room. "/It's a beginning. We have plenty of time for.../" The boy jumps from the chair even before the lock he has just picked falls against the floor. Even with his left arm hanging useless, his opponent is beaten quickly and silently.

Twenty minutes later, he is nowhere to be found in the building.

***********

Bruce uses his right hand to hold the book he's speed-reading while Alfred bandages his arm. As most Muscovite hotels, the one where they are staying could easily provide them with medical help with well-paid discretion, but being Alfred present the thought didn't cross his young Master's mind.

It has been a while since the butler had last made a direct comment about his injuries obtained during one or another "learning trip", but there is something on his demeanor that tells Bruce Alfred knows well what instrument, and in what circumstance, could cause that sort of wound. Perhaps he knows it too well, he thinks, and has to repress a shudder.

The butler finishes his medical work and, as he puts away the supplies, comments in his driest tone.

"If you will insist on mingling with the criminal elements in capital cities around the world, sir, perhaps you would consider first learning properly the art of disguising oneself. I cannot imagine that the interrogatory could have been enjoyable."

His employer and charge looks at him with a puzzled expression.

"I would suggest Rittenwhale's Acting School in London, Sir. Mr. Rittenwhale is an acquittance of mine, and I should be able to secure from you a post in his class without undue questions as for the reason."

Bruce nods and thanks Alfred. Unexpressed between them is the fact that this is the first time that he has volunteered, if in an indirect fashion, help in Bruce's still undefined quest. They both understand what that must tell about the danger Bruce was in.

Alfred's stiff, retreating back recalls to Bruce the last, terrible look in the interrogator's eyes just before he picked the lock. Still favoring his left arm, he takes a small mirror from a bag and begins practicing.