Dead Shot

“That is the Washington Monument, Sergeant, and I have no time for your smart-ass comments this evening.” Middleton noted that it was past six o’clock. He had just wasted hours working his way through the FBI chain of command in order to reach the director for their brief, private conference. He didn’t want to repeat that process over at the DHS, starting with some flunky at the front door who would explain that everyone had already gone home for the day. “Let’s just go back across the river to the Pentagon. If I’m going to be sneaky, I want a whole bunch of Marines around. You do know where the Pentagon is, don’t you, Sar’nt Johnson?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

MARYLAND

They had turned the thermostat down again to be sure that Swanson, in the interrogation chair, was thoroughly chilled before beginning the water procedure. They were not about to unstrap him again, because bad things happened the last time they tried that.

As far as Special Agent Carolyn Walker was concerned, the bastard could lie there and freeze to death. She gave a look of disgust through the one-way glass and swiveled her chair around to face Dave Hunt.

“Okay, I’m not waiting any longer. We can’t dodge our responsibilities while the bureaucrats argue about conducting a Level Four interrogation on American soil with someone who we think may be an American citizen. An assassin working for a terrorist organization is the most likely scenario.”

“Still a dangerous precedent, Carolyn.”

Walker’s eyes were sharp and her mouth a thin line. “No more waiting, Dave. We can’t afford not to do this. We have to find out how he is involved. Anyway, screw my goddam career. I want to know what that bastard knows! We will proceed with the first phase while we wait for authorization. I will take full responsibility.”

“I never said I didn’t want to do this, Carolyn,” Hunt said quietly, trying to keep her calm. “I concur, as long as it remains a limited and supervised situation. He has brought it on himself by refusing to talk and putting a couple of our people in the emergency room.”

The room was cold. Both Walker and Hunt wore dark blue windbreakers as they watched other agents set up the procedure. The suspect, shivering from the icy air-conditioning, had been blindfolded; his chair was laid back and a large galvanized tub clattered into place beneath his head. This was just the first phase and would be done with no talking, no questions.

A thick towel was draped across the face. Walker pulled out her stopwatch, nodded to an agent standing beside the chair, and started the timer as he tipped over the first bucket.

Kyle was already shivering, and with his eyes covered, he depended on his other senses to keep track of what was happening. The metallic noise of the tub on the tile floor told him it was probably time for some water, and he sucked in deep, regular breaths. Instead of fighting back when the towel was laid over his nose and mouth, which would have expended both energy and air, he hauled in even deeper breaths. He heard someone pick up one of the heavy buckets, and shoes beside the chair squeaked on the tiles as the agent shifted for better balance. Water sloshed as the bucket came up. Kyle got a final deep breath and heard the click of a stopwatch, and five gallons of water was sloshed onto the towel in a single rushing torrent. He remained perfectly still and let his brain be a clock. At fifteen seconds, he intentionally squirmed, but there was little real discomfort.

Carolyn Walker detested doing what she was doing. Only fifteen seconds had passed and the suspect was already wiggling, showing signs of oxygen deprivation. She pushed her personal reaction aside and pressed on with the procedure, signaling the waiting agent to pour a second bucket over the drenched towel.

Kyle lurched against the straps when the cascade of water washed over him. The towel was thoroughly drenched, and no air would come through, even when the waterfall passed. When his count reached thirty-five seconds, he struggled again, harder, pushing against the straps.

He’s drowning under there. Carolyn held up a finger. Still another bucket was dumped on Swanson, and he struggled while the straps dug into his arms and ankles. When her stopwatch hit one minute, Walker held up her fist. Stop. The agent yanked away the towel, and Carolyn looked down at the suspect, who was coughing and sputtering, gasping for air. A full minute underwater. Let him know what was in store if he refused to cooperate. Now give him some time alone to think about it. The chair was elevated to the sitting position to help him catch his breath, and everyone left the room, leaving the suspect alone to fear what might happen next.

Kyle was wet and shivering. He opened his eyes and blinked and allowed his breathing to return to a regular rhythm. Only a minute under the towel? Piece of cake. Any surfer would think so. Cold and wet? He thought about his big surfboard and the frigid waters at the Wedge in Newport Beach, where he usually had to wear a wet suit and booties even on a warm day.

Wet? This was nothing compared to being scrubbed along the sandpaper bottom of the California shoreline after being blown out by a big wave. It could take a minute or so just to get back to the surface. Or being sealed in a fifty-five-gallon drum half-filled with water and rolled down a hillside during a training exercise. Cold? Try trekking over an ice-sheeted mountain during a blizzard with people trying to kill you. In this room, he knew that the water torture was only a mind game to force his cooperation by making him think he was drowning. He would play it out and let them believe they were getting to him. He was, however, cold and hungry, and time was being wasted. Where’s my damned cavalry?

THE PENTAGON

The Lizard, well aware of how the computer age could be made to work against itself, had been jamming useless data down the information superhighway to the unknown computer where the requests about Kyle Swanson were originating. For the past two hours, he had been reprogramming, cutting down that computer’s ability to reach out to others without first going through him.

With the help of a friend at the National Security Agency, he eventually narrowed it all down to a half-dozen lines of communication, all of it encrypted on the sender’s end but popping back into readable English on his screen.

Sniffing around the U.S. Department of Homeland Security violated a dozen or so laws, but General Middleton had been very clear with his order: “Find Shake.”

The message for Level Four permission came up. Unidentified terrorist suspect related to Saladin inquiries is in custody at location Delta Two One Sigma. No identification, not even fingerprints. DNA tests were incomplete. Probably ex-military. Subject may have information re poison gas attack. Extremely uncooperative, two DHS agents injured and hospitalized. Urgent request for authorization to conduct a Level Four interrogation. Signed by Special Agent Carolyn Walker of the Department of Homeland Security, with her identification code.

The Lizard didn’t know what a Level Four was, but it sounded rather dire. He went to the general’s office and knocked on the door. “I’ve located Gunny Swanson, sir. He is being held by the Department of Homeland Security at a safe house over on the Maryland coast, used to be a Coast Guard station.”

Middleton was on his feet, walking across his office, and called out, “Captain Summers!”

Sybelle came in. “Sir.”

“Round up some Marines and go get our boy,” he said. “The Lizard will fill you in and arrange a helicopter from here to there.” Middleton was at his private safe, spinning a dial. He opened the door and found an envelope containing a special letter. “You know our charter, and this is your authorization. Show it to the person in charge, but nobody stands in your way, got it? Bring him home.”

At the safe house, Hunt and Walker let an hour pass, waiting for permission that never came, before they went in to question Swanson again.

“You can end this right now. Just talk to us,” said Special Agent Dave Hunt. “What’s your name?”

Swanson remained silent. He was cold, but he would be warm again, someday. This was only temporary. No matter what they did, it was only temporary. He said nothing.

“Damn you,” Hunt muttered. “We need answers-now! Do you understand? It is no small matter, and you’re not in that chair because of back taxes or some fucking parking ticket. Our national security is at risk.”

Carolyn Walker stepped before him and held up the photograph of a man. “This is Saladin. You killed him in