FBI Field Office, Chicago
Harry Pike was tired and deflated. His arrest the day before in New York City had been more physical than he had anticipated. His wrists were bruised from the cuffs pressed against them and the left side of his face scabbed from an extensive flow of blood. Though he had cast down his rifle ahead of the first command from the arresting officers and given himself up without the slightest protest, he had been thrown onto the pavement with force and held there under the firm pressure of an officer’s boot. When finally it lifted off his back, relieving the pressure on his spine and ribs, he was raised to his feet by a fierce pull on his cuffed wrists and dishevelled hair, and thrust towards a waiting police cruiser with all the gentleness of a wrestling spar.
Once processed and in formal custody, the situation had been different. The detention and correction branches of the New York police force were well-oiled machines, and they operated with clinical efficiency. He had been taken from interrogation room to cell and back again with politeness and protocol. He had been cleaned, and fed, and his wounds dressed. He had been addressed as ‘Mr Pike’ and asked if he was comfortable each time his handcuffs were removed or replaced. Outside the frequent interrogations, he had been left largely alone.
All of which had changed dramatically three hours ago. Without warning, his small cell in the Brookline Detention Complex was stormed by three non-uniformed men, a hood thrust over his head and his hands newly bound, this time far too tightly and without the pretence of concern for his comfort. He was marched out of the building, into a car, and a short time later prodded up the steps of what turned out to be a small jet. Not once was he informed where he was being taken.
Two-and-a-half hours later the process was repeated in reverse, and when his hood had been removed a few moments ago, Harry was in another anonymous interrogation room, location unknown. The walls were brick, coated in a thick layer of turquoise paint, and a vague aroma of pine floor cleaner lingered in the air. A long mirror covered most of one wall, and a dented metal table stood in the middle of the room, to which his hands – still cuffed – were now chained. His handlers were already gone, leaving only two women and a man in the room with him. On the opposite side of the table, the man sat. A thick file was closed on the table in front of him. The lights in the room were too bright. He had a strange, inexplicable urge for a Pepsi.
‘Where am I?’ Pike asked.
‘That’s not important.’ The man spoke firmly. ‘I will also point out that that will be your last question. This is to be a one-way conversation. I will ask, you will answer.’ A pause, then, ‘Let’s practise: tell me your name.’
‘My name is Harry Pike. From New York.’ Pike wasn’t sure where the man’s accent was from. It sounded like Boston. Am I in Boston?
The man let an uncomfortably long silence pass after the answer, keeping his eyes fixed on Pike’s. The young man squirmed in his cuffs.
‘That wasn’t difficult, was it, Mr Pike? Keep cooperating and this will go smoothly.’ Boston let another pause fill the room, then, abruptly, ‘At what point did you join the Church of Truth in Liberation?’
Pike returned a look of surprise. ‘What Church? I’m not—’ His mind raced back to the moment of his capture. There had been so many agents, so many guns. He’d been scared, but not that scared. I wasn’t that scared, was I?
‘Don’t pretend with me, Mr Pike.’ The man tapped a finger on a thick folder that sat before him, keeping his gaze immobile. ‘We know you are a member of the Church of Truth in Liberation. We know you are in routine correspondence with various Church members, and we know you’ve received personal guidance from the Church’s leader, Arthur Bell.’
Pike, a devoted but still immature young man at twenty-seven years of age, began to show the first signs of being flustered. ‘I don’t know why you’re—’
‘Please,’ Boston cut him off again, holding up an open-palmed hand. ‘Do us both a service, and don’t try to deny what we both know to be true.’
Man talks fancy, Pike’s mind noted, put off despite his growing fear. A man shouldn’t talk fancy unless he’s somebody.
He went quiet. The questions from the arrogant agent made him feel a little off balance, yet he knew his role was already accomplished. He didn’t have to do anything, or say anything more. He’d played his part, and the Great Leader would make sure that his labours – and whatever might happen to him now – were not in vain. Harry had a profound trust in his Leader.
‘You are aware that Arthur Bell is dead?’ the interrogator suddenly asked, leaning forward.
The words instantly eroded the supports of the young Pike’s self confidence. ‘No way!’ he protested, visibly upset. ‘It ain’t true. You’re a lying sonovabitch!’
‘So you know him, then.’ Boston eyed the young man, eyebrows raised. Pike went motionless, and his world began to crumble.
Special Agent Ted Gallows had been given the lead in Harry Pike’s interrogation, and it had started well. He was in control. The suspect was wavering.
‘You’re lying,’ Pike repeated. His throat seemed to have gone dry, leaving his voice cracking out its words.
Gallows leafed through his open file until he came upon a page that seemed to attract his attention. He thumped an extended index finger on it. ‘This is the operational report from the op that took Arthur Bell down only forty-five minutes ago,’ he said, appearing to scan through the document. ‘Shot fourteen times.’ He lowered the page and gazed into Pike’s eyes. ‘That’s what happens when you find yourself on the wrong side of an FBI SWAT team.’
Pike didn’t answer. His face couldn’t conceal a hopelessly racing mind.
‘We pieced together his identity and location from your words and emails, together with your video.’
Harry Pike’s colour went from pale to pure white.
Good, Gallows thought. That’s the edge. He relies on the man. Get rid of his support.
‘Arthur. Bell. Is. Dead,’ he repeated, emphasizing each word distinctly. He replaced the page into the folder. Pike need never know that it was merely a printout of one of Gallows’s emails. There had been no operation, no team, no execution. The FBI still had no idea who Arthur Bell was, or where.
Gallows allowed his demeanour to betray nothing of that reality. He fostered a well-practised little smile, as if amused at the opportunity to rip Harry of his hope.
Harry Pike was now entirely white, his skin clammy. ‘Liar,’ he whispered, but the statement was void of power. Everyone in the room, likely including Pike himself, knew that he didn’t believe his objection.
Ted Gallows slammed a fist down on the table, the blow echoing loudly in the concrete enclosure. ‘Listen to me, you inept little fuck: your leader’s gone. There’s no point in trying to protect him any more. All you can do now is make things better for yourself. Cooperate. Help us out, and we might be able to take a trip to Guantanamo Bay off the cards.’
‘Guantanamo?’ Pike’s eyes stretched fully open.
‘You’re billed as a terrorist, and a known associate of a terrorist leader,’ Gallows announced. ‘Gitmo’s a given for a member of a terrorist group. You’ve already got your ticket in.’ He leaned forward and spoke with a practised menace. ‘And very few people get a ticket out.’
‘But we’re not terrorists!’ Pike protested.
Gallows sat back down into his seat, the faintest trace of a satisfied smile visible at the edges of his expression. ‘That’s good to hear. Why don’t you tell me just who you are.’