"My name is Milosh."
The Serbian crouched down, looking the prisoner in the eye, his voice as calm as if they were chatting about everyday things.
"Remember this name. Remember today. When your tribe meets in the future to discuss attacking the 'Musician's' convoy, someone will mention Milosh. They'll say, 'Don't go, that man is waiting there.'
He stood up and said to the translator, "Interrogate him. Who provided intelligence to their tribe? Who orchestrated the attack? Who is the contact? What's the phone number? Every detail, not a single word missing."
Before the translator could speak, the tribe's leader, already trembling, said, "I don't know the name, only our chieftain contacts him... only via phone. The number was purchased anonymously, every call shows up as 'unknown number.' The voice is processed, can't tell if it's male or female. They said the convoy only has three hundred men, no heavy weapons, no air support..."
Milosh nodded.
