The door opens and a man walks in. He’s wearing a black suit, bright white shirt, and a red and brown striped tie, loosened slightly around his neck, with the top button of his shirt unfastened. He looks young — compared to me at least. Clean cut and clean-shaven. Full of self-importance.
CIA.
I smile at him as he sits down opposite me. He flashes a sideways glance at the mirror, and then clasps his hands on the desk, leaning forward.
“Who do you work for?” he says.
I tilt my head slightly; over-emphasizing that I’m weighing him up.
“Aren’t you meant to introduce yourself?” I ask. “Tell me this conversation’s being recorded? Read me my rights?”
He remains silent.
“Oh, I see. Let me guess: you’re name’s Smith, this isn’t being recorded, just observed, and I have no rights anymore?”
Silence.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t worry… I used to be a Smith as well.”
He takes a slow, relaxed breath. “Who do you work for?” he asks again.
“Myself.”
“Who do you work for?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you deaf?”
Silence.
“I own a bar in Texas called The Ferryman. It’s due some renovation work, but it’s a nice place. You should come in for a drink.”
This guy should be a poker player. His face betrays nothing. But then, I’m just getting started…
“What were you doing in Atlanta?” he asks.
He said that in the past tense, so I’m guessing wherever I am right now, it isn’t Atlanta…
“Trying to help,” I reply with a shrug, like it’s the most obvious reason in the world.
“Who do you work for?”
I sigh. “Look, I used to sit where you are, back in the day. I know the techniques. Ask the same question over and over again until it angers the prisoner enough that, they lose their temper and let slip the answer you suspect they’re lying about… That won’t work, and I’ll tell you why. I’m not lying. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not a terrorist. I don’t work for anyone. Ask me what I’ve been doing for the last two weeks.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then glances at the mirror again.
“Are you allowed to ask me anything other than who do I work for?” I ask.
I take another slow, patient breath. “Tell me your story,” he says.
“Okay,” I nod. “Okay… now we’re getting somewhere. One question before I start. Do you know who I am?”
He’s silent again.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, a couple of weeks ago, three guys walked into my bar. I know that sounds like the start of a joke, but…”
He remains silent and expressionless.
My smile fades and I shrug. “Forgot you guys don’t have a sense of humor… anyway, they ask to speak to me in private, and they tell me a man called Yalafi Hussein sent them to offer me a job. I told them I was retired, and not in the least bit interested in working for them, or their cause. They didn’t like being told no, so we discussed it further, and I threw them out of my bar with a few broken bones.”
He’s unimpressed and doesn’t believe me. He simply gestures with his hands for me to continue.
“Terrorists from all over the world then flocked to my bar and turned it into Swiss cheese in an effort to kill me. I took them out and that’s when GlobaTech made contact.”
The guy shifts in his seat a little. “GlobaTech are known terrorists. Are you admitting your involvement in their activities?”
I sigh. “They’re not terrorists, you fucking retard. They’re a private military contractor who themselves were approached by the bad guys over twelve months ago. They rejected their offer back then, and have been tracking them ever since, concerned over what they intended, and keen to gather intel to share with government agencies in an effort to stop a potential threat.”
“We have evidence to the contrary,” he replies nonchalantly.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have to prove anything to you. You’re the one being interrogated here.”
“So, do you guys just believe the first thing you’re told nowadays? Back when I was on your books, we’d be given intel, and we’d have to verify it before taking any action based on it.”
“Back in your day, you must’ve had questionable sources.”
He immediately falls silent and his face, more specifically, his left eye, betrays him for a split second. He squints with his eye, which I spot as his tell for when he’s made a mistake or is losing his composure.
Got you.
“What makes your source so damn good that no one questions it?” I ask.
“Who says we don’t question it?”
“You just did. You might not realize it… or maybe you do, but you just did. You’re being told by someone that GlobaTech are the bad guys, as is anyone who’s helping them, and you’re blindly acting on their word. Can I guess who?”
Silence.
“A CIA unit that I used to run hijacked my plane and took me to Colombia, where they accused me of stealing government property before trying to kill me. They then shot their own commander. Care to explain that?”
He shrugs. “Seems to explain itself, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I did steal a laptop…”
“And the orders were to retrieve it from you.”
“Except, I didn’t steal it from a government employee. At least, I hope I didn’t.”
He’s silent for a moment, but I can see him wanting to bite…
“What do you mean?” he asks.
And… reel him in!
“I will go on record right now — assuming there is a record? — and say that I stole a laptop from an apartment in New York. That apartment wasn’t empty. The man in possession of the laptop at the time was Yalafi Hussein, the known terrorist who masterminded the assault on my bar. He had armed men with him. Want to know who he was meeting when I broke in?”
I see a flicker of doubt. I know this guy will have had extensive training in the art of interrogation. And probably torture. He’ll be an expert in determining whether someone is lying or not. I know I’m telling the truth, and so does he. Which confuses him, because someone who’s telling the truth is giving him information that directly conflicts with what he’s been told by his superiors. Hence, the doubt now clouding his mind.
“Enough,” he says. “You’ve had your chance to explain your actions. If you continue to lie, you will be treated as a traitor to this country and prosecuted as such.”
I chuckle. “Son, we both know I’m not lying. Go on, go outside, and ask your boss to disprove what I’m saying. I bet you my considerable fortune he gives you the brush-off, just like you’ve given me.”
He goes to stand, but hesitates.
“Go on,” I urge. “I’ve got all day.”
He waits a moment before standing, to make it seem like it was his choice, and not because I told him to. Then he walks over to the door, opens it, and leaves, slamming it closed behind him.
I sigh heavily and relax. Round one to me there, I think. Now I just have to wait for someone else to walk in who outranks the first guy, and we get to dance all over again.
I reckon they’ve left me a good twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour, but no more. They’ll be in here any minute. I know as well as they do that time isn’t on their side, so they can’t afford to give me the full psychological work-over and leave me here for a few hours.
The door swings open a moment later.
Told you.
General Thomas Matthews, the Director of the CIA, is standing before me, wearing his suit and medals with pride.
I wasn’t expecting to see him here, and I admit it catches me off-guard for a moment. But I recover quickly.