On Hurricane Island Page 9

  “Yes, sir, my first. So what, exactly, is my job here?”

  “Good question. Observe. Project a neutral attitude towards the detainee. Later we might need you to take a more active role, befriend her to extract information.”

  “Like good cop/bad cop?”

  Too much television and everyone is an expert in interrogation. Henry enters the entry code on the keypad. “Not really. We’re all the good cops,” he says. He wishes it were true.

  The arctic air in the room blasts Henry’s face, takes his breath away. What is Tobias thinking? Henry hurries to the wall console and switches off the air conditioner, then turns his attention to the prisoner strapped onto the chair.

  Dr. Cohen is curled into a tight ball. Blindfolded and naked, except for her underwear. Her arms encircle her legs; her head is burrowed into the cave between her arms and chest. Her skin is oddly flushed and mottled. Austin kneels at her side. She pulls off the blindfold, places both hands on the woman’s shoulders and shakes.

  The prisoner’s head lolls back. A blue tinge circles her mouth.

  “Gandalf?” Austin yells into the prisoner’s ear. “Are you okay?”

  Hmm. Henry wonders how the guard knows the prisoner’s given name. But the woman doesn’t answer, and that’s a more immediate problem. He grasps her chin hard between his thumb and index finger and tilts her head to face his.

  “Dr. Cohen.” He speaks loud and slowly. “Can you hear me?”

  Her eyes flutter open, then close.

  “Damn.” Henry turns to Austin. “Get blankets. And hot tea. Lots of sugar. And quickly.”

  Alone in the room with the detainee, Henry can’t think straight. For a moment he considers calling Cat and asking her what to do but he has already broken enough rules. Maybe his mother was right about medical school. At least then he would know how to help this woman. Massage her extremities to get the blood flowing, or is it more important to get blood to her brain, and how does he do that? How bad is she, anyway? All they need is a confinement-related fatality right now, especially a high priority detainee with suspected links to an insurgent in Pakistan. It would dishonor the Bureau, not to mention spelling the end of his career.

  He feels his face flush with shame, glad his father isn’t around to witness his disgrace. Dad warned him about the FBI. “Stick with the state police, son,” he said at Henry’s college graduation. “You’ll regret getting mixed up with spooks.”

  This is all Tobias’s fault. Henry isn’t a violent person, but right now he’d love to punch the guy. Of course, then Cat would mutter something sarcastic about pesky little Y-chromosomes. Anyway, Tobias would probably knock him cold with one blow, and he would no doubt capture it on tape to shame him forever.

  In fact, Tobias is probably watching him right now. Henry stares directly into the camera hidden in the molding along the drop ceiling. Turning back to the control console, he uses his retinal scan mode to override the system, to shut down all surveillance cameras in the room. It’s disturbing how much safer he feels, knowing that Tobias can’t see him. He pulls a chair next to the prisoner and sits down. He puts his hands on her forearms and begins rubbing softly. Can cold temperatures cause brain damage, or is it just heat that kills brain cells?

  “Can you hear me, Dr. Cohen? Austin went to get hot tea. And blankets. Please hold on until she gets back. You’ll be okay.”

  He feels stupid talking to someone who probably can’t hear him and would most likely despise him if she could. As well she should; this excess happened on his watch. And here he is, blithering on to her like a cheerleading Nurse Nancy. But maybe talking with her can prevent a deepening coma, or worse.

  “Listen, Dr. Cohen,” he continues. “I’m sorry about the temperature. It’s our job to question you, not harm you. I promise we’ll get you warmed up before we proceed with the interrogation.”

  Dr. Cohen opens her eyes at his last word, closes them again without speaking. But the expression on her face, of contempt mixed with fury, tells him that she understands his intention to proceed with the questioning. Which means that her brain isn’t freeze-dried. Relief floods his veins, and Henry wants to sob at the reprieve.

  Relief mixed with humiliation.

  He removes his hands from the cold surface of her arms and rubs his fist against his own aching breastbone. Maybe Cat is right, and he should have those heart tests before he keels over in the middle of an investigation. Maybe there is something wrong with him. He can’t imagine questioning this poor woman, not after the way she just looked at him, with the contempt that mirrors his own growing doubts about this mess. But is it a physical condition or mental cowardice?

  Maybe he just can’t do it today, he tells himself. Maybe by tomorrow morning he will have developed the courage to resume the interrogation, because the woman must be questioned. And because if he doesn’t do it, the job will fall to Tobias with his over-exuberance and his fancy new enhanced techniques with their initials and their damn euphemisms.

  A kick at the door brings Henry to his feet, and he opens it for Austin. She carries a cup of tea in one hand, blankets over the other arm.

  “Stay with her until she warms up,” he tells Austin. “Then go home. I’ll resume the interrogation in the morning.”

  In the corridor, Henry sinks back against the cement wall. Maybe Tobias is right that he’s getting soft, out of touch. This is so different from the old days of the Bureau, when they questioned guys who had information about bad stuff.

  He pulls his phone from his pocket. He should call Tobias right now and let him know that the interrogation is postponed. Tomorrow they’ll continue, with appropriate restraint and respect for the rules.

  Or maybe he’ll just let Tobias take over.

  Henry closes his eyes. He has no illusions about culpability. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter who is physically in that room with the professor. It makes no difference who asks the questions, who makes the threats, who causes the discomfort. This interrogation is on his watch, and he is responsible.

  17. TOBIAS, 3:18 P.M.

  When the interrogation room monitors go black, Tobias’s first reaction is fury. Who’s responsible for this fuck-up? Someone’s head is going to roll.

  He’s been searching again through the Cohen bitch’s personal effects, looking for the missing cell phone. By now, they should have already downloaded and examined the call log. Any calls to or from Pakistan could be powerful evidence, not to mention potent ammunition in breaking the woman. Not that he expects her to be tough, but you never know, not really. People can surprise you with their stubbornness. And their secrets.

  The blank monitors could be a malfunction in the surveillance system. Tobias runs through the troubleshooting protocol and discovers that Henry’s retinal scan override has been deployed. Holy shit. Henry turned off the cameras? Tobias hurls the manual onto the floor and watches it skid under the desk. How can Henry treat him like this? It’s disrespectful. Not to mention, a stupid thing for Henry to do. A very stupid thing.

  Because Tobias knows things about Henry, things the man does not want to become public. Actually, Tobias doesn’t exactly understand what he knows, except that it’s unsavory and potentially a career-ender. He always suspected that there’s something off about Henry. A guy can tell these things. Then one night at the tavern in Bangor, must have been four, five years ago, they were celebrating solving a border smuggling case before the Mounties figured it out. They had probably had more rounds than was smart for public servants, even off duty. Tobias had been heading for the john as Henry walked out with the Regional Chief. He heard the Chief address Henry as Hen, in a smarmy tone of voice. Henry’s neck and face flamed scarlet, and he sat way down at the other end of the bar. After Henry left, earlier than the rest of them, Tobias asked the Chief what that was about.

  The Chief smirked. “Fucking tranny.”

  Tobias was still married to Lois then, although things had already started falling apart. He probably stank of ale a
nd cigars when he got home that night, and she was already asleep. Still, it wouldn’t kill her to show a little affection, would it? He has always blamed Henry for his response to Lois’s snub, for the way he slapped her face and blurted out that word. Tranny. He didn’t actually know what it meant, but the way the Chief spat the word made it sound bad, and that’s what he wanted Lois to feel. Bad, just like he did.

  When he woke up the next afternoon, with sewer-breath and a minefield head, Lois was gone. It wasn’t until he checked Wiktionary that he understood her confusion, her disgust. But he just wanted to hurt the frigid bitch. He thought the word meant queer or something like that. How did the Regional Chief know so much about it anyway? And how did sicko Henry score such a classy wife? Catherine had always been charming to him at the office holiday parties, the occasional barbecue on their deck. Even Lois liked her.

  That’s all water under the bridge. Now, he just wonders what’s going on in the interrogation room. But he won’t give Henry the satisfaction of calling. He can be patient and bide his time, right?

  Bending down, he picks up the manual, its pages spread-eagled on the floor. Smoothing the line drawing illustrations of restraint procedures and bruise avoidance techniques, he leans the desk chair back to its limit and puts his feet up on the desk.

  People don’t appreciate the art involved in this work, the subtlety. Brute force only goes so far; it is the mind-fucking that makes a prisoner want to spill his guts. The art is knowing what kind of fear is likely to unhinge each prisoner, what preparation and humiliation to utilize. That’s what leads to success in this business. He closes his eyes and plans his approach to the professor.

  The telephone jerks him awake. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Nothing. Lois claimed he drooled when he slept. Another lie.

  He glances at the caller display. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t feel well,” Henry says. “I’m going home early. I’ll resume Dr. Cohen’s interrogation tomorrow morning. Gently. If she knows anything at all, it’s minor.”

  “Not to worry, boss. Whatever she knows, we’ll find out one way or another.”

  “Are you listening to me, Tobias? We have no evidence this woman has any terrorist ties. She’s a U.S. citizen and we are professionals, doing our job. We’re not the CIA and this isn’t Afghanistan. We don’t torture people.”

  “It’s not torture, boss, it’s …”

  “Enhanced interrogation technique. That’s semantic crap, and you know it.”

  Tobias recognizes the edge of scorn. But Henry’s the one who’s pathetic. Tobias tries to make his voice kind. “Terrorist, activist, communist,” he says. “Call her whatever you want. But if she knows something, we’ll find it.”

  “And we’ll do it by the rules,” Henry says sharply.

  “Which rules are those, Boss? The rules have changed.”

  “You’re out of line.”

  “Maybe I am,” Tobias says. “But you’re out of touch.”

  Tobias listens to the click and dial tone for a moment, then scoots the rolling chair to the console. First, he resets the cameras. When he designed the surveillance system he put a fifteen-minute limit on the override function. It’s possible he might have neglected to mention that to Henry. He checks that Henry has left the interrogation room and sees he left the Coombs girl babysitting her with blankets and tea. Well, then they’ll both be cold. Tobias turns on the AC and the stereo feed. Rap music, full blast. Words and sentiments as foul as he’s been able to find on the Internet.

  His stomach rumbles, and he glances at the wall clock. He’ll wait an hour to make sure Henry has left the facility, let the professor stew for a bit. No way he’s waiting for tomorrow. This interrogation is far too important to put off.

  18. AUSTIN, 3:26 P.M.

  Austin touches the scratchy Army-issue wool blanket over Dr. Cohen’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  The prisoner jerks away. Her hands clutching the mug tremble so hard Austin worries she’ll drop it.

  Austin squirms under the force of the older woman’s gaze and withdraws her hand. It’s not a friendly stare, not grateful for the blankets and tea. More like accusatory, as if somehow Austin is responsible for the blasting frigid air and the explosion of nasty music. Can’t she see that Austin is freezing too, even in her uniform? Well, who cares if the prisoner isn’t grateful? Henry Ames told her to stay with the woman, to make sure she’s ready for tomorrow’s interrogation. Of course, he said to stay until the prisoner was warm, and that wasn’t going to happen now. She pulls the second chair, the interrogator’s chair, next to the wall. How will she know when it’s safe to leave?

  Twenty minutes later Tobias saunters into the room. He switches off the music and air, then looks from the prisoner to Austin and back again, as if he can read the prisoner’s accusation and Austin’s remorse. He wears a take-charge attitude. Did she misunderstand Henry Ames about waiting until tomorrow to continue the interrogation? She doesn’t think so.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Tobias announces.

  He motions for her to stand up, then takes her chair, never removing his gaze from Austin’s face. Blushing, she leans against the wall where she has a good view of both Tobias and his prisoner. How does the man manage to make that small interaction so charged with the gutter?

  Tobias stands with one foot on the seat of the chair and points his finger at the prisoner. “I need answers from you. Now.”

  His first questions are routine, inconsequential. His voice is even, without menace. Austin listens carefully but she doesn’t get it. Why waste time asking where Gandalf was going on Thursday when they already know?

  “Tell me about your work,” he says.

  “I’m a mathematician, a university professor. I conduct research and supervise graduate students. But you must know this already.”

  “Yes. What is your research?”

  “I analyze cloud patterns.”

  Austin thinks about lying on the flat rocks of the Basin with Pops on fine afternoons, sharing a bag of Fig Newtons and telling each other made-up stories prompted by the shapes of the clouds. Gandalf gets big bucks as a university professor for studying that? Tobias doesn’t seem impressed either.

  “Clouds?” he asks. “Folks out here fish. Their lives depend on the meaning of clouds, knowing what weather is coming. What do clouds have to do with math?”

  “We develop equations to correlate cloud pattern with weather models. Destructive weather, mostly. Other people in my field examine tornados and thunderstorms, but I am interested primarily in hurricanes.”

  Tobias smiles. Austin isn’t sure if she’s ever seen him smile. What’s funny about hurricanes?

  “Can you predict their paths?” he asks. “That might come in handy this weekend.”

  Ah. Austin gets it—a joke about the hurricane. Tobias is trying to disarm the prisoner and put her at ease.

  “So you should probably thank me,” he continues. “This basement is a pretty safe place to ride out the storm. That is, if the predictions are right, and Gena is heading right at us.”

  “Prediction models have become quite reliable,” Gandalf says.

  “What about manipulating storms? You know, sending fifteen feet of snow and ice to bury a Taliban outpost?”

  “Not yet,” she says. “We’re at least a decade away from that.”

  “The military must be interested in your work.”

  “My research has been in non-military areas, but one of the mathematical tools we rely on heavily is triangulation, which has significant military importance.”

  “Triangulation? What’s that?”

  “On the most basic level, it is a geometric process of calculating the distance to a point, using the length of one leg of a triangle and two angles.”

  Austin has no idea what they’re talking about. How can the prisoner be so smart about this stuff after freezing half to death?

  “Didn’t the military invent that, for GPS?”
Tobias asks.

  The prisoner nods. “They developed the global positioning concept in the 70s, before it became commercially viable for consumer use. But the work we do involves complex real-world observation and large systems of simultaneous equations. At this point, with no likely commercial utilization for our research, there is little funding available.”

  “Not even from the armed forces? Have you ever been approached by them? I bet they’d be interested in funding your work, even if success isn’t close.”

  Austin tries to understand. So what if our own Army funds the woman’s research into hurricanes? What does that have to do with terrorism? None of this seems important enough to kidnap the woman, fly her to Maine and almost freeze her to death.

  Gandalf pulls the blanket tighter. “There is always Defense Department money available; everyone in research knows that. If you want it, you simply write your proposal slanted towards the potential military application of the work, like night navigation or weaponry direction systems. But that has never been my interest.”

  “Are there a lot of people doing this kind of work?”

  “Hardly anyone, actually. A handful of investigators.”

  Tobias nods, as if that’s what he expected. “Okay,” he says, “now let’s talk about these colleagues of yours.”

  “In my department?”

  “No. I want to talk about Sandra Myerson and Ahmed …” He removes a post-it note from his uniform shirt pocket and reads it. “Ahmed Makhdoom. Tell me about them.”

  Ah. Austin leans forward.

  “The three of us met in graduate school. We were interested in similar questions and began collaborating. Our dissertations explored different aspects of the same problem and we published them as a group. That’s rare for mathematicians; we are usually a solitary sort.”

  “And you were close personally as well?”

  “Not since graduate school. I see Sandra at meetings every year or so. She has an endowed chair at Stanford. Ahmed returned home to Pakistan to teach. I have not seen him face to face in twelve, thirteen years.”