“Do we have a file on him yet?” Jack asked.
“Beyond a name, we’ve got nothing else,” Dorran said. “No intelligence, background, nothing. CIA, Interpol, all came up blank so far.”
“No one has spoken to him, correct?”
“He was taken into federal custody, under my orders,” Peter said. “Not a word was said.”
“Think he was working alone?”
“Yes and no. He’s a hired gun. Someone was paying his way, though he seems too fastidious, too confident, to rely on any accomplice. Weapon, clothes, watch, all expensive but untraceable.”
“Any thought on who hired him?”
“CIA sent an operations officer; he’s here somewhere. He’s the expert on the political machinations of Pashir.”
“He’s not going to try to jockey for position, is he?”
“No, within our borders, it’s just you, me, and Dorran’s FBI,” Peter said. “Consider him a source for all the things you can’t find on Google.”
“Seriously,” a thin, prematurely balding twenty-five-year-old said as he came out of a side room. “I’m reduced to human search engine?”
“Cyril Latham,” Dorran said as he pointed at Jack and Peter. “Womack and Keeler.”
Latham handed them each a file. They quickly scanned them as they continued to walk. Peter finally looked up and said, “So, this guy he killed, this general, he’s a despot?”
Latham nodded. “The list of people who wanted him dead is long. We’re running ballistics against both ours and Interpol’s database. We’re cross-referencing everything Carter has given us against the world stage. This guy was bad news. The only person who would truly mourn him is his mother, but he killed her years ago.”
“Nice,” Peter said.
“As terrible as the general was,” Latham said, “the United States has an international obligation to try this man.”
“And the Pashir government isn’t looking for extradition?”
“They barely have laws,” Latham said, “let alone a judicial system. They want him tried and hung on our soil so as not to create a martyr or make a mistake.”
“And the CIA’s position on him?” Peter asked.
“Unless we can somehow tie him to some other activity, Director Turner will not stand in your way. He’s currently an unknown to us.”
“I suggest the three of us do the initial interrogation,” Peter said to Jack and Dorran. “Let’s see where this goes.”
“I’ll lead,” Carter said. “Feel free to interject, ask questions, whenever you want.”
Jack was actually a very skilled interrogator; he was good at getting people to speak, whether it be on the stand, in an interrogation room, or at a party, but he was happy to defer and step in when needed.
A man approached from the opposite end of the hall.
“This is Alex Casey,” Dorran said, introducing Jack to the red-haired FBI agent.
“Mr. Casey will escort us and remain during the interrogation.”
Jack looked the man over. He was dressed in dark loose-fitting clothes, not the usual dark suit and tie or blue windbreaker of the FBI. Like the other guards, he had a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol at his side, while an HK submachine gun was strapped over his shoulder. Casey possessed the lean, strong body of a swimmer, his eyes focused and alert. There was no question about the man’s abilities.
Casey slipped his key into the lock, opened the door, and ushered Dorran, Peter, and Jack into a dark room. The only source of light leaked through enormous red velvet curtains that had been drawn across a picture window.
Casey flipped a switch, flooding the room with a harsh, bright light courtesy of a temporary flood in the corner of what was now seen to be a parlor. The walls were covered in chintz wallpaper, the floor in wall-to-wall burgundy carpet. A guard stood silently in the corner, his rifle clutched tightly against his chest.
All furniture had been stripped away except for a metal table in the center of the room and several hard wood chairs. Casey drew back the curtains, revealing an eerily lit backyard, the leaf-filled pool, a tennis court with a torn net. The picture window was obscured by a chain-link fence that reached from floor to ceiling; its galvanized metal links stood in sharp contrast to the room’s decor.
In the center of the room sat Cristos in a large wooden high-backed chair, his wrists cuffed to the thick oak arms, his ankles chained to the heavy legs. He was dressed in the dark charcoal-gray suit he was captured in; the knot of his blue tie was perfect. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The day’s growth on his face only served to enhance his ominous appearance, which agitated even the guards. It was as if they had caged Satan and were awaiting his retribution.
But it was his eyes that disturbed Jack the most. They were dark, malevolent, and fixed on Jack, like a predator lying in wait to strike down its innocent prey. He studied Jack for several seconds before turning his assessing eyes on Peter and Dorran.
Casey walked backward, practically disappearing into the corner. He spun his rifle forward, gripping it tightly to his chest, thumbing off the safety as if to send a message.
The three sat down before Cristos, Dorran in the middle, Peter to his left, Jack to his right.
“I am Special Agent Carter Dorran. You are in the custody of the United States government and the state of New York and are being charged with murder. This is Peter Womack from the U.S. Justice Department.” Carter pointed at Peter and then at Jack. “And Jack Keeler, the DA from New York City. Would you like an attorney?”
“Not yet,” Cristos said softly.
“Understand that our legal system provides-”
“You should be aware that I understand your judicial process as well as, if not better than, you.” Cristos spoke as if he wasn’t bound, as if he wasn’t being interrogated, as if he was before a legal committee in a large corporation.
“Do you wish to offer a confession,” Dorran said, “or should we proceed?”
Cristos nodded.
“Can you explain what you were doing in that building’s elevator shaft?”
“No,” Cristos answered.
“Were you in the Bonsleys’ apartment?”
As Dorran continued his questioning, Jack opened the file and examined the images of the dead general, a single bullet hole above his left eye; of the Bonsleys’ laid out against each other, their heads tilted at odd, impossible angles. Jack fought the sour feeling in his stomach, trying to hide the emotion from his face.
While most would succumb to the horror and reality of death, of brutal murder, their minds overcome with grief and revulsion, Jack was different. Anger had arisen in him at the violation of the most basic tenet of human existence.
As he continued listening to the line of questioning, in a slow reveal of emotion, Cristos smiled as he glimpsed Jack’s reaction.
“You killed a head of state,” Peter said. “Was this on behalf of a foreign government?”
Cristos took a deep breath and turned his full attention to Jack. “Mr. Keeler is the most skilled man in the room, yet he is silent.”
Peter paused a moment before continuing. “Are you working on behalf-”
“I’m only going to have a conversation with one of you,” Cristos said, still staring at Jack.
“You don’t dictate how this interrogation goes,” Dorran said.
Cristos glanced at Jack’s wedding ring. “Married?”
Jack didn’t respond.
“Children?” Cristos paused. “Children are amazing. They make us see the world from a whole new perspective. They teach us patience, tolerance, and sacrifice.”
Jack stared at Cristos, assessing him, letting him continue.
“It’s interesting how every child starts off innocent,” Cristos continued, “but each follows a different path. Some become men like you; some become men like the general; some become like me.” Cristos paused. “Do you think it’s fate, someone pulling strings, or do we choose our own path?”
Jack had conducted too many interrogations to count. There were moments to listen, moments to speak, moments to challenge, and moments to play mind games. He knew the personality types: the passive-aggressive who attacked with charm; the ultraviolent whose rage was obvious and explosive; the compliant and cooperative who answered every question without hesitation, weaving stories on the spot that they believed as much as they hoped the interrogator would. And then there were the types like Cristos.