Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (11 page)

“Well,” Derek said, “there are a lot of variations on torture.”

Silence fell between them. Derek worked on his salad. When he looked up, she was studying him. “Did I offend you?” he asked.

“Do you believe these prisoners have important information?”

Derek sighed. His right shoulder and arm ached, the stitches itched, and he was getting sick and tired of having his arm in a sling. He forked another piece of chicken and when he realized his hand was shaking, dropped the fork and put his hand in his lap. Neither movement, he noted, had been missed by Bradley.

“I’m sure they do.”

“Then it’s our duty to—”

“It may be,” Derek cut her off, voice sharp. “But frankly, having brutalized a few people to get vital information during my career, I’m getting tired of doing it and tired of my government claiming to take the moral high ground while—”

A loud bang cut through the clamor of the mess when someone dropped a tray to the floor. Derek was instantly on the move, sweeping his tray off the table as he grabbed up a table knife in his left hand, rolling out of the booth into a fighting stance.

People all around the room stared at him.

Captain Bradley slid out of the booth and picked up his tray and the remains of his dinner. Slowly Derek uncoiled, face flushing with embarrassment. A bitter metallic taste filled his mouth, his heart raced, blood pounding in his ears.

“Why don’t you go and get some more food,” she said.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I guess I overreacted.”

He slid back into the booth.

“You’ve got fast reflexes,” she said with a faint smile. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your shoulder?”

“Mortar fire,” he said, gulping air. His heart still raced and sweat beaded on his forehead. He felt slightly nauseated.

She raised an eyebrow. “In Syria?”

He nodded.

“What else happened there?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“You probably can,” she said. “I have a very high security clearance. And part of my job is psychological counseling for staff here.”

“And you think I need psychological counseling?”

She maintained eye contact. “Are you familiar with PTSD?”

He rested his elbows on the table. “Are you diagnosing me?”

She leaned back. “Would you care to talk in my office?”

“Do you think I have PTSD?”

“Based on what I’ve seen? Yes.”

Quietly, Derek said, “I often have panic attacks before going into hot zones. That’s been going on for a long time and I deal with it. I understand it’s part of … my process.”

She pushed her tray aside and folded her hands in front of her.

Derek said, “Professional posture, Captain?” He slid her tray back in front of her. “Go ahead and eat.”

“Do you want to get replacement food?” she asked, gesturing her head at the person who was approaching with a mop.

He was hungry. “Yeah, why not?”

Two hours later, after finishing
food and basically talking through his experiences in Syria with Bradley, they retreated to the Officers’ Club, Rick’s Lounge. Picking up their drinks, a beer for Derek and a glass of wine for Bradley, they found chairs on the deck outside.

“I appreciate your help,” Derek said, sipping at his beer. The breeze was warm, the sound of waves soothing.

“You probably should have seen someone.”

“Bob nagged me about it.”

“Bob?”

“Mandalevo.”

“You’re on a first-name basis with the Secretary of State?”

“I am, actually. And with the former Secretary of Homeland Security. And I’m not just name-dropping. Jim Johnston’s a friend. I don’t know if Bob and I are friends, exactly, but it’s not a typical boss-employee relationship.” He frowned.

“What?”

“Maybe we are friends. But we don’t hang out socially.”

“He just asks you to go out and risk your life.”

“Yeah. That’s getting a little old.”

She laughed. He liked her laugh. She was a good listener. “Well, that’s what soldiers do.”

“I’m not a soldier any more.”

“Yes you are. A secret soldier, perhaps, but a soldier. I get the feeling you always will be, one way or another.”

“Jim Johnston wants me to leave the government work and open a security firm with him.”

She finished her wine. A waitress appeared and asked if she wanted a refill. She did. Derek ordered another beer, indicating he’d be done with this one by the time she got back.

“Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been in government service since college, really, in one way or another. There was a period between the U.N. and 9/11 when I taught at Annapolis and did some private consulting. Pretty quiet time in my life. That’s the period my marriage fell apart, though. I was traveling all the time for the consulting. We never saw each other.”

She cocked her head, studying him. “Are you in a relationship now?”

That was his turn to laugh. “No. Interested?”

“I have a partner,” she said. “Besides, I’m inclined to think of you as a patient at the moment.”

He shrugged. “I’ve got a kid. He lives in Russia, but—”

“Now there must be a story there.”

“There is.” He explained the relationship as best he could in a short period of time.

Shaking her head, she said, “Wow. That’s kind of tough, isn’t it?”

“Complicated, anyway.”

He tried to shift the conversation away from himself and on to her. Slowly he realized she was indeed a skilled interrogator and after an hour of small talk the only information he had gotten out of her was that she was working on her PhD in psychology and she was originally from Maine.

Finally, he said, “So how should I approach this guy tomorrow?”

“There are a lot of things you shouldn’t tell him.”

“Like?”

She leaned forward. “This guy is tricky. He will try to get in your head. Do not give him personal information. One of his tricks is a quid pro quo. He’ll trade personal information. You tell him something about yourself and he’ll tell you. But he’ll use it against you.”

“Is that unusual?”

She nodded. “Very. What exactly are you trying to get from him?”

“Information about the brother.”

“Then start general. Work on personal background, family structure, home life, then work into specifics. But he’s cagey. He’ll want to know why you ask.”

“I’m not going to tell him that.”

She nodded. “Make sure you don’t. No personal information. Sometimes he asks for information about things going on back in Egypt. We try to restrict that and keep them isolated. You’re not going to have time to build rapport. I’ll watch the interview. If I think there might be an approach you’re missing, I’ll call you out.”

“Okay.”

She stood up. “I’ll pick you up at your room at oh-eight-hundred.”

Derek stayed in
the bar and had two more beers, which was really two too many. He’d been drinking a lot since Syria, but it seemed to help him sleep. Idly he pulled out his phone and checked his email. There was the usual amount of garbage. Two emails caught his attention.

The first was from Joe Moore, Mandalevo’s chief of staff.

Derek,

Change of plans. We leave in two days. The Secretary is headed to Moscow, Israel, Egypt, and Jordan to meet his counterparts with a focus on Syria. There will be several other stops, probably, before heading to Geneva to try and hammer out some sort of plan. He wants you to come along to meet with various intelligence people and provide expertise. You will have some time to spend with your kid. Wheels up at 8:00 PM.

Derek brightened at the idea of spending more time with Lev, even if it was only a couple hours. He responded with an affirmative.

The other email was from John Hammond.

Derek,

Made it back home. I’m on leave and still recovering. I couldn’t tell Elaine too much about what happened, but I told her about you saving my ass. She wants to have you over for dinner.

John Hammond

P.S. getting your email was a bit of a chore. Good thing I’ve got low friends in high places.

Derek responded with a firm yes, but told him he might not be able to until after this upcoming trip. He sent off the email and headed back to his quarters.

His text message signal went off just as he got back. It was Hammond, telling him to call him when he got back to Baltimore. He texted back that he would.

Derek spent the next hour practicing Tai Chi and performing karate kata and yoga, as much as his battered shoulder would allow him. Finally tired enough to sleep, he sprawled on the bed and dreamt of Syria.

The interrogation room
was a small, plain room with white walls, two chairs, a small table and an intercom. Although not obvious, Derek knew there was a hidden video camera. Derek sat in one of the chairs and waited as two marines led Abdul Nazif into the room. Nazif was painfully thin, his cheeks sunken, bushy black beard streaked with gray, dark eyes glassy. From his records, Derek understood that Nazif had been part of a hunger strike several months ago and been force-fed to be kept alive. Wearing slippers and ankle chains, he shuffled to the chair and sat, placing his cuffed hands on the table. The guard bent and connected a length of chain from the leg cuffs to a bolt in the floor.

The marine left, closing the door behind him.

Derek studied Nazif. He could see the resemblance to his brother Hussein. After a moment of looking down at his hands, Nazif looked up and stared at Derek. Derek didn’t flinch. He locked eyes and waited.

It went on for quite some time. Finally, in good, but accented English, Nazif said, “What do you want?”

“How old are you?”

“They already know that. Who are you?”

“Fine. How long have you been here?”

“You should know that as well.” He never looked away from Derek.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Nazif blinked, but didn’t look away. Derek waited. Nazif said nothing.

“Where were you born?”

“What is your name?” Nazif said.

“You can call me Mr. Davis,” he said.

Nazif said, “I don’t believe that is your real name.”

Derek shrugged. “Where were you born?”

“I will tell you if you tell me your real name.”

“You were born in Cairo. What was your father’s name?”

“Your name?”

“Derek.”

“Derek. Very well. My father’s name was Mohammed ibn Hussein Nazif.”

“Your mother’s name?”

“What is your full name?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“You don’t need to know my mother’s name. Who are you with?
CIA
?
DIA
? National Intelligence Directorate? Pentagon?”

“Do you have any siblings? Brothers or sisters?”

Something flickered in Nazif’s face. He leaned back in the chair. The cuffs didn’t allow him to cross his arms across his chest, but Derek found the change of posture interesting. As if perhaps Nazif suspected something.

“Do you have a brother or sister?” Nazif asked.

“Yes. A brother.”

“What is his name?”

“David.”

“David and Derek.”

Derek nodded.

“Who are you with, Derek?”

Cocking his head, Derek said, “How many brothers and sisters? And I will tell you who I am with.”

“Four brothers and three sisters.”

“What are their names?” Derek asked.

“Who are you with, Derek?” Derek didn’t like the way Nazif said his name. He could see how Nazif was attempting to take control of the interrogation.

“The State Department. Their names?”

Nazif listed them.

Crossing one leg over the other, Derek said, “I imagine you miss them.”

Nazif did not blink. His gaze reminded Derek of a lizard. Slowly he said, “Do you have a question, Derek? What is your last name, Derek? Smith? Jones? Doe? Johnston?”

Derek said, “Davis.”

“Derek Davis.”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

Derek shrugged. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I want to know your real name.”

“I would think you would want many things. My name is the least of it, really. Talking to me could give you privileges. Maybe a book or movie. Some sort of food you’re interested in? What’s your favorite dessert, Abdul?”

Nazif’s smile was thin. “The only thing I want, Derek, is your last name.”

“I told you my last name. Derek Davis. Let’s talk about your brothers and sisters.”

“If the State Department wants to know about my brothers and sisters, they must have done something to warrant your attention. It wouldn’t be one of my sisters. So it must be one of my brothers. Which one?”

“Which one would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk about any of them. Why do you want to talk about them?”

“I’m thirsty. Are you?”

“No.”

Derek got up and knocked on the door. It buzzed and he let himself out. Captain Bradley was waiting for him. “Coffee?”

“Two bottles of water. Thanks.”

She handed him the bottled water. “Initial impression?”

“I didn’t think I was giving much away by saying I was with State, and maybe it was a lucky guess, but he made the connection between his brothers and my being with State awfully fast.”

“I told you. Also, is your brother’s name really David?”

“Yes.”

“Do not under any circumstances provide your real last name. That would put both of you at considerable risk should he ever be released.”

Derek sighed.

“Really, Derek. WikiLeaks released thousands of documents. Snowden just released
NSA
files to
The Guardian
and God knows who else and my understanding is we’re still assessing what information might be contained there.”

Politicians and bureaucrats were embarrassed by Snowden’s releases of
NSA
information. Civil libertarians and the few citizens who were paying attention were outraged. Derek, like most agents in the field, was in fear of the next shoe dropping—the bit of information released that the country’s enemies would understand could only come from one source; the information that would inadvertently reveal the location or identity of an asset; the seemingly innocuous piece of information that unraveled a network and led to agents and assets getting killed.

“Understood. Any recommendation?”

“Keep going. You’re going to have to give up some information, but you’re going to have to lie about it. Try to be consistent. Stay in control.”

With a nod, Derek went back in the room. He set one bottle of water on the corner of the table out of reach of Nazif. The other he opened and took a long swallow.

“I want to know about one brother specifically,” Derek said. “Hussein.”

Captain Bradley’s voice came over the intercom. “Step outside.”

Derek ignored her. Nazif said, “I recognize that voice. It’s that woman. The Captain. Do you take orders from women, Derek?”

“I outrank her.”

“Step outside, Doctor.”

“Doctor?” Nazif said. “You are a psychologist?”

“No. I’m not a psychologist. Tell me about Hussein. Is he smart?”