A Murder of Crows (15 page)

Roger remained still. He didn’t even blink.
Good boy, Hicks thought. Keep your fucking mouth shut and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Scott is close. Jason is working back channels. Ride this out and we’ll all get well in a little while.

Stephens snapped his fingers near Roger’s face. Roger didn’t budge or blink.

“Guess you’re not talkative today,” Stephens said. “Calm, cool, and collected under pressure. Staying quiet and biding your time until your friends figure out a way to spring you loose. Well you’re not going anywhere because your friends don’t know where you are. No one’s kicking in the door or making a phone call or beaming you out of here, little man, because the only one who can get you out of here is the same guy who put you here.” He pointed his thumb at his own chest. “Me. And the longer you stall, the more pissed off I’ll get. We’re being civil now, but unless you talk, it won’t stay that way.”

Roger didn’t move. He sat loose, like an old rag doll waiting to be picked up.

“That’s a good strategy,” Stephens went on. “Stay quiet for now and get a good rest. You’re going to need it because I see through your bullshit, little man. I already know exactly who and what you are.”

Hicks cringed when he saw Roger’s right eyebrow arch as he finally made eye contact with Stephens. “Is that so?”

Fucking Roger. He could never keep his mouth shut.

“Sure do. I’ve been doing my homework on you. Still a couple of blanks to fill in, but enough to get started.”

“No, you don’t.” Roger’s eyes slowly moved along Stephens’ body, head to toe and back again. “You put on a good front—convincingly butch, by the way—but I think you’re bluffing. Because if you knew who and what I was, you’d also know I’m more trouble to you than I’m worth. If you knew who I was, you’d be taking these cuffs off me, opening those doors, and calling me a cab back to the city. You’d forget you’d ever seen me and be thankful for the opportunity to do so.”

Stephens folded his arms across his chest as he leaned against the wall. “Now why in the world would I want to do that?”

Roger looked at Stephens’ folded arms. “Interesting. You’ve taken a defensive posture meant to convey power and ease in an interrogation. It’s supposed to challenge the suspect to be more truthful by implying disbelief. But such a gesture following a threatening statement from a suspect?” Roger sucked his teeth. “That’s a defensive measure. If you’d sat down, it would’ve appeared to be more like a conversation, like you were holding all the cards. Instead, you crossed your arms and leaned against the wall. Pity. I was under the impression you people were trained better.”

The black man looked at him. “You people?”

“Oh, don’t get racial on me so quickly. You know what I meant.” Roger winked. “Buzz, buzz.”

Stephens unfolded his arms. Hicks could see the subtle Beekeeper reference had gotten to him. “You’re doing a lot of talking, but you’re still not saying much, little man. Let’s try this again. Who are you?”

Roger threw up his hands, feigning frustration. “Now you’ve hit the reset button too soon into the interrogation process. You’re supposed to ignore my parry, keep me talking so I slip up and give you the opportunity to catch some small detail. Instead, you backed off and asked me the same question all over again. Poor soul. You’re not having a good day, are you? One frustration after another.”

Roger’s eyes moved over Stephens’ face. “Yes, there it is. I can see it now. The unease. The insecurity. You don’t hide it well at all. You’re insecure about this whole scenario because you’re not sure how deep the rabbit hole goes, or if there’s even a rabbit hole at all.”

He raised his chained hand. “So let’s do each other a big favor. Unlock these chains and call me a cab and I’ll be on my way. I think we can agree your ego has taken enough of a beating for one day.”

Stephens looked like he might be considering it. “Anything else you want?”

“A hand job would be nice, but your hands look a little rough for me, so I’ll settle for a cup of coffee while I wait for the cab. Don’t want to push my luck.”

Hicks watched Stephens laugh, but there was no humor in it. Hicks knew Roger was baiting him, trying to get Stephens to lose his temper. Maybe take a swing at him so he could grab him and use him as a hostage to bargain his way out of there. It was a dangerous play, but the only play Roger believed he had.

Hicks checked Scott’s tactical screen again. Three minutes out. He emailed Jason:
ANYTHING YET? HURRY.

Stephens stopped laughing. “We work on the merit system around here, little man. A prisoner has to earn the privileges we give him. So, you tell me your name, the cuffs come off. You tell me more about you, we get you something to drink. You answer all of my questions, we talk about the possibility of you going home. See how it works?”

Roger looked up at the ceiling. “Sorry, babe, but that doesn’t work for me. And soon, you’re going to find out it’s not going to work for you either.”

Hicks tensed as he waited for Stephens to backhand Roger. He checked his other screen for Scott’s ETA on the facility. Still three minutes out. He checked to see if Jason had been able to contact anyone in the Dean’s Black Book. Nothing yet.

Hicks watched Stephens pull out a small remote control fob from his pocket. He pushed a button and the two-way mirror became a monitor.

Hicks almost gasped when the image of a much younger Roger Cobb appeared on the screen. It was a photo attached to an old passport application dated more than twenty-five years before. Roger’s hair was much darker in his youth and parted in the middle. His face was much fuller and kinder. His eyes were softer because they hadn’t seen as much of the world yet.

Stephens clicked the remote and an Ohio driver’s license appeared on the screen. “That’s you, isn’t it? Fletcher Geoffrey Schmidt of Toledo, Ohio.”

Hicks stared at the image on the screen. Stephens had discovered Roger’s real name. His old identity.
How the hell did he get that?

Hicks watched Roger glance at the image of the license, his expression as passive as before. “Sorry, brother man. I know all white people look the same to you, but that’s not me. I’ve never been so fucking…plain.”

“Sure it is.” Stephens tapped the remote again and images of several documents appeared on the screen. College transcripts. A student loan application. And something Hicks had never seen in Roger’s file: a divinity degree from The Virginia Theological Seminary.

Hicks looked at Roger to see if watching his long buried past flash across a computer screen had any effect on him. It hadn’t. He looked like he was in the waiting room of a doctor’s office, thumbing through a travel magazine.

Stephens showed more images. Grammar school and high school year book photos. “The digital age is a hell of a thing, Fletcher. They’re easy to search and even easier to manipulate. That’s why I’m old school. I love libraries, old books and record rooms filed to the ceiling with files. Every book in every box on every shelf is part of someone’s life story and I love a good story. That’s how I found out about you, Fletch. I
dug
, baby. And I came up with you.”

Roger demurred. “Now you’re being silly. We both know nothing on that screen could have led you to me. Someone fed you a bunch of old pictures the way they feed fish to a trained seal at the zoo. But where the seal gets a meal, all you got was duped. You’re being played for a fool, Mr. Stephens, but you don’t seem to mind. So flap your flippers and maybe your master will throw you another fish. Maybe balance a ball on your nose.” Roger grinned. “Now that could be fun.”

Stephens wasn’t as good at hiding surprises as Roger. The DIA man took a step away from the wall. “How did you know my name?”

“Because I already know who you are,
little man
, and if you’re recording this, you might want to stop because I don’t know how much of your past you’ll want your colleagues in the other room to learn about you. You Beekeepers and your secrets.
Buzz, buzz
.”

Hicks watched Stephens toss the remote on the table as he took another step closer to Roger. “We aren’t here to talk about me, Fletcher. We’re here to talk about you and your friends.”

“Nonsense. Why waste time talking about me when you’re far more interesting.” Roger folded his hands in front of him on the table. “Last name Stephens; first name Mark. A phony handle, but bland enough to not stick out in one’s memory, which is the point. Your real name is Richard Morales and you’re thirty-five years old, though the bald head and darker skin makes it tougher for people to gauge your age and Caribbean origin.” He winked again. “Obfuscation comes in handy in this line of work, doesn’t it,
jefe
? Mom and Dad back in Oakland were so proud of their baby boy. How you went to Caltech and Air Force ROTC at the same time. First in your family to even graduate high school, much less college.”

Roger sighed. “Bet they would’ve been proud of you if they’d been allowed to know what you did there, but alas, national security supersedes sentimentality, doesn’t it, Ricky?”

The long chain on Roger’s right wrist rattled as he leaned forward on the steel table, bringing his head closer to Stephens. “Does it ever bother you, Richard? How your parents scrimped and saved all those years and worked all those dead-end jobs to send you to school only to have you lie to them for all these years? I’d imagine it makes the victory of accomplishment seem hollow. Keeping secrets from Dad must be especially difficult. I know his approval has always been so important to you.”

Hicks watched Stephens’ jaw clench. He didn’t move toward Roger, but he was getting close. Which was what Roger wanted, and what Hicks needed to avoid.

Hicks tapped out another message to Jason.
DID YOU FIND ANYONE?

Jason’s response was immediate.
HOLD
.

But Hicks knew
Roger would keep taunting Stephens until he made him lose his temper and make a mistake could turn a dangerous situation deadly.

Roger kept pushing. “I can’t blame you for keeping it from them. I mean, what would Mama and Papi say if they knew their son tortured people for a living? Anything you’d tell them is mostly classified anyway, right? Tales of scaring the piss out of some poor
hajji
in Kabul tends to kill the yuletide spirit around the Christmas tree, does it?”

Hicks watched Stephens swallow and clench his fists at his sides. He was taking it, but wouldn’t take much more. Hicks typed a new message to Jason:
HURRY UP

Roger didn’t let up. “Shame your parents believe you’re a bachelor working for an energy company in Houston. Mom wishes you’d meet a nice girl and have some kids. She’s getting on in years and wants a grandchild to spoil.” Roger sucked his teeth. “Why haven’t you told them about Marsha and the girls, anyway? Is it because she’s white or...”

Hicks watched Stephens step forward as he fired a short left hook at Roger’s head. Roger moved his head back enough so that the punch missed.

But Roger used Stephens’ own momentum against him by flipping the chain behind the agent’s neck and slamming his head down onto the edge of the steel table.

Hicks brought his fist down on his own desk.
Fucking Roger.

The cell door burst open and two men Hicks hadn’t seen before took up position—Glocks aimed in Roger’s direction. But Roger had already wrapped the long chain of his handcuffed right wrist around Stephens’ neck. He laid his face against Stephens’ left cheek, presenting as low a profile as possible in case someone began shooting.

“One more step,” Roger said, “and I tighten this chain. You shoot, I’ll drop to the floor and snap your buddy’s neck.”

Hicks watched the camera feed as the two men held back but held their ground. “You hurt him, and there’s no way you walk out of here.”

Roger grinned from behind his hostage. “Want to bet? Check your phones. See if anyone emailed or called.”

Neither of them moved. The one on the right said, “You’re not giving the orders here, asshole.”

Roger yanked down on the chain hard enough to make Stephens cry out. “Sounds like Agent Stephens begs to differ. Check your fucking phones.”

Hicks saw a heavy set man in a button down shirt step out of the observation room holding a phone to his ear. Hicks watched him walk back into the room behind the mirrored glass.

An instant message appeared on Hicks’ own screen from Jason:
PICK UP YOUR PHONE WHEN IT RINGS. THIS IS YOUR SHOW NOW. YOU NEED TO UN-FUCK THIS.

Hicks answered his phone as soon it buzzed. Jason didn’t give him a chance to say anything. “I am the only one on this call who knows both parties on this line. For all of our sakes, we should keep specific identities private so we can come to...”

“Fuck private,” the other man on the line bellowed. The echo sounded in the surveillance audio and Hicks knew it was the same fat man who was in the interrogation room with Roger. Hicks muted the feed before the fat man heard the feedback and figured out his cameras had been tapped.

The fat man ranted. “This is John Avery of the DIA. Somebody has been back-biting my operation from the beginning. Spiking my surveillance, fucking with my systems, attacking my agents and now this. I’m not promising anyone a goddamned thing until I know who I’m dealing with and what they’re up to.”