FBI Field Office, Chicago
It was when the FBI agent, the arrogant one who identified himself as Gallows, had mentioned the Great Leader’s anti-American sentiment, that Harry Pike had known he was lying.
‘We know his rage against America was strong,’ the agent had declared in the hours that followed his having convinced Harry that the FBI had killed Mr Bell. ‘It was only a matter of time until he tried to act on them.’
With that, that irrefutable lie, Harry had realized he was being deceived. He did not know the Great Leader any better than most other brethren, but he knew that Bell was as apolitical as any man he could imagine. There was no more a drop of anti-American blood in his veins than in the hearts of the founding fathers.
The FBI man was lying. They did not know the plan. Did they even know who Mr Bell really was? Was he still alive?
That question, that possibility, had cemented Harry’s resolve. Though he had buckled for a moment, it had not been too late. He had realized that his role was still critical – perhaps now, at this late hour and in these unexpected circumstances, more critical than ever. Every cause required martyrs, and this was his martyrdom: being here, captured by the FBI, saying what needed to be said. He would miss the glory, but it would be possible because of him.
And he had played his role well, in the end. He had told them what needed to be told, pointed them where they needed to be pointed. And they had believed him. The poor country boy who had bent under pressure had given up all the details he had at his disposal, and they had sopped them up like a sponge.
As Harry Pike was now escorted to his cell, he smiled with genuine satisfaction. He imagined the agents were gathered in another room even now, sweating their little heads over the meaning of his every word.