The Silent Rock
The second basement level of the IRS Seattle office building seemed completely disconnected from the world above, where sunlight and city sounds still lingered. The air circulation system emitted a monotonous, low hum, mixed with disinfectant, old building materials, and a faint, musty smell of despair and sweat.
The lights were a cold white, dimly illuminating the narrow corridor covered with gray rubber mats. On both sides were heavy, windowless metal doors, marked only with numbers and small observation windows.
Behind one of the doors marked "D-7" was Richard Cohen's dedicated interrogation room for "breakthroughs." It was more private and more "functional" than the ordinary interrogation rooms upstairs.
The soundproofing material is thick, and outside the one-way glass is another pitch-black observation room, from which every detail inside can be clearly seen and every sound heard, while the people inside are completely unaware of the outside world. The interior furnishings are almost sparse: a metal table fixed to the ground and two equally immovable hard plastic chairs.
There were no superfluous decorations, no clocks, only a single, brightly lit lamp overhead, its almost blinding incandescent light illuminating the only person in the center of the room.
Zhao Zhiyong.
He was still wearing that navy blue work jacket, but now it was wrinkled, stained with sweat and a few dark red stains.
He sat on that cold, hard plastic chair, his hands cuffed behind his back with special handcuffs, and his ankles secured to the chair legs with restraint straps. This position was extremely uncomfortable; after a while, it would cause poor blood circulation, muscle soreness, and excruciating pain. But what was even more terrifying was the utter sense of helplessness, of being completely at someone's mercy.
He has been here, in this position, being interrogated continuously for over twenty-four hours.
A bright spotlight shines on his face 24 hours a day, making it impossible for him to distinguish between day and night, or to close his eyes and rest even for a moment. Whenever his eyelids droop uncontrollably due to extreme fatigue, a basin of cold water mixed with ice cubes is immediately poured over his head, making him shiver and completely waking him up.
The constant, sharp, piercing white noise in his ears, sometimes high, sometimes low, interfered with his thinking and tormented his nerves. There was no food, only a minimal amount of water, forcibly fed through a straw to maintain his basic vital signs.
However, this was merely an "appetizer".
The real "main course," served up by Cohen's "experts" over the past few hours, has been gradually introduced.
An hour later, Zhao Zhiyong was untied from the chair, but was immediately held down by two burly detectives and forced to stand for a long time in a twisted, extremely painful position, with his toes touching the ground, his body leaning forward, and his center of gravity unstable.
This posture would quickly deplete his strength, causing leg muscle spasms and excruciating pain in all his joints. Zhao Zhiyong was soaked in sweat, his muscles trembling uncontrollably, but he gritted his teeth and didn't utter a single groan. He just stared intently at the empty wall in front of him with his increasingly hollow eyes.
Two hours later, the position was changed again. He was pressed to the ground, his hands were handcuffed behind his back again, an agent pressed his knee firmly against his lower back, and another agent grabbed his handcuffed arms and began to slowly and continuously pull them upward until a teeth-grinding "crunch" could be clearly heard from his shoulder joints and ligaments as they were subjected to unbearable strain.
The pain was enough to make even the toughest man scream. Zhao Zhiyong's body was taut like a fully drawn bow, veins bulging on his forehead and neck, sweat pouring down like streams, soaking the ground. But he remained silent, biting his lower lip tightly until it bled, blood mingling with sweat as it flowed down.
Three hours later, the more direct physical torture began. Rubber batons wrapped in thick cloth were used to strike his ribs, inner thighs, ankles, and other areas with dense nerves, areas that were intensely painful but unlikely to leave permanent damage.
Each blow landed solidly, producing a dull "thud." Zhao Zhiyong's body convulsed violently with each strike, his face turning from deathly pale to ashen, but he kept his mouth tightly shut, not uttering a single groan. Only his increasingly rapid and broken breathing revealed the immense pain he was enduring.
Throughout this period, various forms of psychological pressure were constantly applied.
"Tell me! Who did Lin Feng give the money to?!"
Your account! Password! Fund flow!
"Not going to talk? Think about your wife and kids! We can find them anytime! Let them come in and 'have a seat' too!"
"You think you can get away with this by just putting up with it? We'll find all the evidence! You'll die here! Your family will be homeless because of you!"
"Cooperate! This is your last chance! Identify Lin Feng! Take the money and leave!"
Threats, insults, bribes, and intimidation of his family (though temporarily impossible to carry out, the verbal attacks were still incredibly damaging)... like a tidal wave, one after another assaulted Zhao Zhiyong's already near-collapse physical limits.
However, what sent chills down the spines of the detective in charge of the interrogation— Karl Miller, and later Tony Rodriguez, another veteran detective known for his tough methods—was Zhao Zhiyong's reaction.
He didn't scream, didn't wail, didn't cry, didn't beg for mercy, didn't curse, and didn't even utter a single word.
Ever since he raised his middle finger in that ordinary interrogation room and said "Fuck you and fuck your deal," he had fallen into complete silence. Physical silence. No matter how intense the pain he endured, no matter how vicious the threats he heard, his lips remained tightly pressed into a line, and not a single suppressed sob escaped his throat.
Only the heavy, trembling, broken breathing and the uncontrollable, instinctive convulsions of his body proved that he was still alive and still feeling pain.
Zhao Zhiyong's gaze, initially empty and calm, gradually became unfocused, as if his consciousness was being detached from his tormented body. But whenever the detectives thought he was about to faint or have a mental breakdown, his eyes would miraculously refocus for a moment, still calm and indifferent, looking at the abuser as if watching a clumsy performance that had nothing to do with him.
This is not a human reaction.
Tony Rodriguez worked in CI for nearly twenty years, handling countless tough cases: tax-evading billionaires, gang leaders involved in cross-border money laundering, and even one or two extremists suspected of having financial ties with terrorist organizations.
He had witnessed all kinds of resistance: some who stubbornly resisted until they finally collapsed, some who cunningly maneuvered and tried to find loopholes, and some who had received professional counter-interrogation training and could hold out for a long time. But even those who came from the most elite spies or special forces had their limits. Pain would accumulate, fear would spread, and willpower would eventually be broken by physical fragility and mental exhaustion.
Generally, 24 to 48 hours is the critical point of most people's psychological defenses. Those who can remain silent beyond this time are extremely rare, and without exception, they are all suicide agents who have undergone the most rigorous and professional training.
But this Zhao Zhiyong... his resume is as clean as a blank sheet of paper. Born in a small town in the Great East Country, with a technical school diploma, he worked as a warehouse manager and forklift driver. He's been in the US for ten years, with a clean record, and his life is so simple it's almost boring. How could such an "ordinary," even somewhat "dull-witted," low-level blue-collar worker possess such inhuman willpower and endurance?