A Murder of Crows (5 page)

Hicks tried to stall his growing headache by squeezing the bridge of his nose. His hand began to shake, but he willed it to stop. He read between the lines of what the Dean had told him.

Stephens wasn’t hunting the University. ‘He is hunting you.’

He remembered his training.
Stay focused. Work on what’s in front of you. Break the Moroccan.

Hicks looked up when he heard a gentle knock at the kitchen doorway. It was one of Roger Cobb’s new men—a trainee whose name escaped him.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but Roger says the subject is ready for you now.”

Hicks blinked his eyes clear. “Tell him I’ll be up in a minute.”

H
ICKS HAD
ordered The Moroccan to be held on the top floor of the safe house in an area which had once been a one-bedroom apartment. The space now housed one of Roger’s latest inventions—a plastic containment module he had dubbed ‘The Cube.’

It had been constructed on a raised platform of soundproof material to prevent the prisoner from hearing sounds or sensing vibrations from the outside world. The exterior of The Cube had been encased in one-way glass from floor to ceiling. Inside, the prisoner could only see his own reflection no matter where he looked. Cameras had been mounted on the other side of the glass to provide unobstructed three-hundred-and-sixty degree surveillance of the prisoner’s movements. Various kinds of tiny sensors placed throughout the cell constantly monitored his vital signs, body temperature, and brain waves. Those same sensors also served as a lie detector to determine how truthful the prisoner was being during an interrogation.

Once inside The Cube, the prisoner had no contact with the outside world. Lighting, temperature and sound were all controlled electronically by Roger and his technicians who could adjust them to encourage a desired effect. Roger could blare Megadeath to jar the prisoner or crickets to soothe him or radio static grate on his nerves.

Hicks knew Roger preferred to keep The Cube silent for undetermined periods of time. Absolute silence broke a prisoner’s will most of all. Meals were slid through a slot in the door, depriving a prisoner of any human contact for as long as Roger saw fit.

Other than a small air conditioning vent beneath the cot, the toilet was the only thing connected to the outside world. It led to the building’s main sewer line, but first went through a tank lined to block all sound and vibration. A steel table and two chairs were bolted to the floor and used for interrogation purposes only. Even eating at the table was a privilege he had to earn through cooperation. The Moroccan had not earned such a privilege yet.

A cot against the far wall served as The Moroccan’s only comfort.

If he disobeyed any of the rules Roger decided to enforce on any given day, the punishment would be severe.

Roger had decided constant sleep deprivation would disturb the Moroccan’s circadian rhythm. A lack of access to natural sunlight only enhanced his distress. In the course of his interrogation, Roger had discovered The Moroccan was also claustrophobic. When the prisoner was belligerent or uncooperative, the lights were shut off and all sound quelled. Roger often allowed him to shriek himself hoarse in the darkness of the mirrored room until he was ready for his next session.

Hicks knew The Cube was as medieval as it was high tech. And whenever he began to have sympathy for The Moroccan, he remembered the dead little girl of his dream.
Help me.

Hicks found Roger sitting alone at The Cube’s control console, making notes in a cheap spiral notebook. The cell’s environment could easily be controlled from his tablet, but Roger was a bit old fashioned and preferred making his notes on paper. Hicks supposed even torturers could have a sentimental side.

The monitors of the workstation showed a green-hued image of the Moroccan shrieking in the darkness of his cell. Numbers at the bottom of the screen calculated the prisoner’s heart rate, brain waves, and other vital statistics. The sound had been switched off, but the image of the prisoner’s muted agony was clear.

Hicks was not happy. “He can’t talk to me if he screams himself hoarse.”

Roger looked up from his notebook and smiled, the way an old professor might greet a favorite student, though Roger and Hicks were roughly the same age. “There you are.” He looked at the monitor and froze the image. “Don’t worry. This feed isn’t live. I was killing time waiting for you by listening to one of our prisoner’s greatest hits. I’m glad you’re finally here. I was beginning to worry about you.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Hicks more closely. “What’s wrong? You’ve the look of a Russian opera about you, maudlin and overdrawn.”

“Bad morning. I’ll tell you all about it later.” He looked at the monitor. “Give me a live shot of the prisoner.”

Roger toggled to a live view inside The Cube. The Moroccan was sitting in the dark on his cot, holding a filthy towel up to the left corner of his face. The quality of the night vision cameras was excellent, and it was clear the entire left side of the prisoner’s face was sagging.

“What the hell happened to him?”

“Oh, that.” Roger winced. “Let’s call it an unintended consequence. He had a stroke during one of our sessions late last night.”

A bad day had gotten worse. “A stroke? Jesus, Roger …”

“He’s fine.” Roger handed him his tablet. “It’s all documented right here. His vitals were reading perfectly normal at the time of the interrogation. We were hitting him with a steady flow of electricity when he suddenly seized up.”

Hicks shoved the tablet back at him. If The Moroccan died, they didn’t only lose a valuable source of information or violate their agreement with the Mossad. They lost their leverage with Stephens and the Barnyard. “I warned you to take it easy with that shit.”

“There was no reason to expect he’d stroke out. We’ve given him a hell of a lot more current in the past. Electricity is the only thing that’s ever gotten the bastard to talk, not that he has told us anything.”

“I’m not happy, Roger.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. These things happen in the interrogation process.”

Hicks knew he couldn’t win an argument with Roger, so he didn’t even try. “The son of a bitch is no good to me if he’s a fucking vegetable.”

“Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear for the poor bio-weapon terrorist. He’s perfectly fine now. Most of the sensation has returned to his extremities and he’s able to speak.” He brought up a new screen on his tablet and showed it to Hicks. “These are live scans of his brain waves and they show he’s got full mental capacity. The only obvious residual effect is the palsy on the left side of his face, which will physically impact his speech. I’ve got him on Prednisone, which should clear up his condition within the next day or so, assuming we keep him alive that long.”

Hicks pointed at the monitor. “His left leg looks limp.”

“So? It’s not like you’re going to take him golfing, are you? We’ve given him a mild dose of stimulants. Not much, but enough to make him ready for your interrogation.” He brightened. “And, like I said in my report, he might be ready to crack.” He flipped to yet another new screen on his tablet. “Take a look at his sleep patterns. Even when we do let him rest, his nightmares have become more frequent and severe. He’s been crying out in his sleep for the past few days. Our scans of his REM activity are off the charts as his nightmares seem to be getting progressively worse. He was showing mental strain even before the stroke, which is good news. I believe he’s finally primed to fall if you’re ready to push him.”

“That the same belief that told you he wouldn’t stroke?”

Roger set his tablet on the table. “You’re not a nice man.”

“I know. Lucky for me, this isn’t a nice line of work. I want you watching his vitals the entire time I’m in there to make sure we don’t lose him. We need him alive until he gives us some hard Intel we can use.”

Roger wasn’t smiling anymore. “I know. I would have skinned the bastard by now if that wasn’t the case.”

He knew where Roger was concerned; the notion of skinning him alive wasn’t necessarily a figure of speech. And it was as close to an apology as he would get. “Turn on the lights. I’m going in.”

Roger tapped his tablet screen. The images on the monitors went from green to full color as the lights came on in the cell. The prisoner squinted and shielded his eyes.

Hicks picked up his own tablet and walked toward the cell door. “The next time something like this happens, I expect you to tell me immediately. You know I don’t like secrets.”

Roger laughed as he took his seat at the monitors. “Then you’re in the wrong line of work, aren’t you?”

T
HE
M
OROCCAN
didn’t move when Hicks entered the cell through the revolving door. He didn’t even adjust the towel he was using to prop up the left side of his face. He simply sat quietly on his cot and watched this strange new man enter his world.

Hicks could tell prisoner didn’t recognize him at first. How could he? Hicks’ hair and beard had grown in since they’d last seen each other. He looked entirely different. In the prisoner’s mind, it had been so long since they’d met. A lifetime ago. The Moroccan wasn’t the same man who’d been captured in Philadelphia. That man was dead and there was no bringing him back.

Hicks saw the prisoner watching him as Hicks sat at the table in the center of The Cube, the same table he was forbidden to use, save for when he was being tormented. Hicks felt the man’s black eyes hang on him as Hicks popped out the kickstand of his tablet and set it on the table so the screen faced the prisoner.