They picked up the pace and Ross was ushered through another door along the far end of the hall and into a sprawling interrogation room. At least twenty by twenty feet in size, it was surely designed to make the prisoner feel insignificant. It worked. Ross had to concentrate to keep her feet when they led her into the room. Along with being big, it was blindingly bright with glaring light that made it difficult to tell where polished white tile ended and painted walls began. This door had no window, but it was impossible not to notice the cameras at each corner of the ceiling. A stainless-steel table sat in the center of the room, with brushed metal chairs on either side. There was no bunk and the only other furnishing was an institutional combination sink, water fountain, and toilet sitting in the open along the back wall.
The stark lighting and clinical lack of privacy sent a wave of cramps through Ross’s gut.
“Have a seat, Virginia,” Walter said, dismissing the acne-covered man with a nod.
“I prefer to stand,” she said. The door slammed shut and she jumped in spite of herself. Folding her arms across her chest, she paced back and forth, wishing she had the skills to beat the hell out of the man on the other side of the table. She was at least five years his senior and had always been a writer over a fighter, even in her prime.
“Please sit,” Walter said again. He dropped a thick manila folder on the table between them. “It will make this so much easier.”
“I expected you to take me to some black-site ship out at sea,” she said, mustering the cool that had gotten her the job of CIA director in the first place.
Walter gave a smug nod. “Why’s that? Is that what you order your agents to do with spies?”
“You and I both know I haven’t violated the Espionage Act,” Ross said. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”
Walter picked up the file again, flipping through it. He glanced up now and again to study her, and then went back to the file. After a full five minutes, he tossed the folder aside as if it didn’t matter anyway.
“Well, I’m tired.” He flopped black in the chair. “So I’m going to sit even if you won’t.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him. “You’ve made some pretty bold statements in favor of enhanced interrogation.”
“Desperate times,” she said. “The nation is under attack.”
“So it is.” Walter nodded.
Ross put both hands flat on the table, leaning over it. The sureness in her voice belied the turmoil inside her.
“Is that your plan with me?” she asked. “Enhanced interrogation?”
Agent Walter leaned back, resting his hands on his stomach, eyeing her. “That depends,” he said. “Please sit down.”
Ross sighed, deflated. Her fingers trembled as she pulled back the chair and sat. She was a professor, an expert in foreign affairs and world economies. In the past decade she’d become an expert on espionage. While she’d approved the use of harsh interrogation methods and even sent her agents into missions that put them at risk of enduring such treatment, she was in no way wired to withstand such abuse herself. But then, she remembered, if torture was administered correctly, no one was.
“Depends on what?” she whispered.
“On you.” Walter leaned forward, elbows on the table. He rested a smug face in his hands and smiled that horrible half smile. It made her, a grandmother, want to kick his teeth out. “Tell me what you know.”
Ross’s mouth fell open. “I’m the director of the Central Intelligence Agency,” she said. “I know virtually everything.”
“Fair enough,” Walter said. “We’ll narrow it down some. Tell me what you know about Winfield Palmer.”
Ross nodded. So that was it. She’d seen the way both the President and Vice President had glared at her when she’d taken up for him.
“I’d imagine he’s looking for a job,” she said, forcing a smile.
“You know,” Walter said, “you guys took ugly interrogation techniques to all kinds of exotic levels — drugs, light, noise…” His eyes narrowed, peering right through her. “In my experience, you don’t need a bunch of fancy things to convince someone to talk. A wet washcloth and a can of Sprite work as good as any fancy waterboard.”
“I suppose,” Ross said.
“Tell me more about Palmer.”
Ross shrugged, seeing where this was going. “There’s nothing to tell. He was President’s Clark’s closest advisor and confidante.”
“But you were aware of his little stable of private agents?” Walter prodded. “His side work, so to speak.”
“I knew he borrowed assets from me on occasion, with the approval of the President.”
“Like Veronica Garcia?”
“She worked for him from time to time, yes,” Ross said.
“And now?”
“What do you mean?” Ross said.
“I mean does Veronica Garcia still report to Palmer?”
“She works for me,” Ross said.
“Who else works for Palmer?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are his plans as of now?”
“I told you” — Ross turned up her palms on the table — “I do not know.”
Walter toyed at the corner of the folder in front of him.
“Have you ever been punched in the mouth?” he asked.
“I…” Ross shook her head. What sort of question was this? “No, I can’t say that I have.”
Agent Walter took a long breath through his nose, as if considering her words.
“Ms. Ross,” he said. “I want you to take a minute and consider a couple of things. Chiefly, I want you to think of what kind of power I must have to arrest the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.” He chuckled. “I knew you would make this harder than it has to be…”
“I’m not trying—”
“You’re the nation’s top spy,” he cut her off. “You must know what comes next in this process.”
Ross felt as if her tongue were made of cotton. “I can assure you, I do not—”
“I’ll tell you anyway.” Walter held up an open palm to stop her. “We strip you of everything — clothing, sleep… and, most important for our process, we take away your hope. In time, you will tell us everything we need to know.”
Ross clenched her jaw, arms folded across her chest, clutching herself. She would not cry in front of this man.
“I’ll let you keep your clothing for a little longer,” he said, the crooked lips barely concealing a smirk. “As a courtesy to your position. We have to ease into these things…”
Fear gave way to anger and her head snapped up defiantly.
Walter cut her off before she could speak. “Director Ross,” he sighed. “You’ve signed orders for humiliation treatment dozens of times. Don’t pretend this is something that flies in the face of some newfound moral code.”
“I’m not a terrorist,” she spat. Her shoulders shook with rage.
“Well.” Walter shrugged. “We’re not a hundred percent sure on that.” He moved to the end of the table as if to pick up the folder. Without warning, he punched her square in the face.
The blow knocked Ross out of her chair and she landed butt first on the polished tile floor. A bolt of pain shot from her tailbone to her shoulders. Blood poured from her nose, running through the fingers of her cupped hand and covering the front of her T-shirt.