Had This Land Always Been So Bleak?

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening . . .

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate . . .

—T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Hotel California lay low in the middle of a brown moonscape. XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X, every landscape I saw in this country was a rubble field. I hardly saw a tree or bush my whole time there. The astounding fog continued to shroud the ground, so that people and objects appeared to float in a dim dreamscape, looming suddenly into sight, or diminished in the distance, small islets of hard reality surrounded by the unknown, or undreamed, or unreal, a world without horizon.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX. A security officer, an analyst named Parker who had attached himself to me upon my arrival in country to offer support, and I had taken one of the standard-issue 4x4s from the motor pool to travel to Point Zero to see CAPTUS. I would meet up there with the chief and the psychologist assigned to work with me on my HVT interrogations.

I radioed ahead before leaving the station that REDEMPTOR was on his way.

I gazed out the window as we bounced along, the vehicle rocking violently, and tried to tune out Parker’s prattle. The air chilled my fingers through my gloves as we drove, the landscape chilled me as I looked at it, anything manmade lay cold and inert as we passed by. Failed then. Futile now. The landscape on the drive resolved itself into barren, scraggly fields. Once, we stopped by a derelict vehicle to get our bearings. I did not look into it. The helmet in the Jihadi Bar had been enough.

“XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX.”

We pulled up to a discreet guard post.

I sat motionless.

The guard gestured for me to show my pass.

“Pass?” I said. “I have no pass.” I was in charge of this little contingent, but no one had told me during any of my preparatory briefings and planning that I needed a stinking badge to get in. No one focused on the fact that I had just arrived in country.

The guard was polite but firm. He had strict orders: No pass, no entry. Another guard in the post perked up, a little more interested than before at the commotion. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX. I did not want us sitting there.2

The security officer with me knew the guards and started to try to argue our way in. He explained that I was an important officer. Parker, the analyst assigned to me, chimed in, imperious and condescending to the towering, weathered guard. Parker was young, in his mid-twenties, not a field officer, and I would consistently find in the coming days that he overcompensated, trying to play the tough and hard-eyed spy or man of war. The security officer was relaxed but mildly exasperated, a little embarrassed, that we had spent half a day preparing and getting here, and now were unable even to get in.

“Enough, enough,” I said after no more than a minute of discussion. “Look, that’s it. This guy’s following orders. He’s right. We aren’t going to crash this bloody place. We go back and get me the pass I need, that’s all. I’m fine with that.”

The security officer agreed. I looked at Parker and he shut up, good-natured and unaware that he was defining himself as a mild ass. So, we turned around and made the XXXXX trip through the endless fog back to the compound.

We returned the next day, a security officer, Parker, and me, once again radioing from the compound that REDEMPTOR was on his way, bouncing ourselves over the potholes and rubble XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX, peering out the smudgy windows of my 4x4 at the desolate landscape. My driver spoke little, while Parker was, once again, a little overeager to project an unearned, hard-bitten swagger.

The same towering and hard-faced local guard met us at the guard post and gate. I had my pass this time and the guard, the driver, and I apologized to one another, he for having been obliged to deny us entry, we for having not come with the proper pass and having put him in an awkward position. He raised the gate, motioned us to a courtyard, and escorted us toward the entrance. It was a nondescript door into a derelict building. We walked easily, but with some tension, for what we were about to enter, and because we did not want to draw attention or, for all we knew, something worse.

As we walked, Parker approached the guard, who was six inches taller than he was. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder in a patronizing gesture, then patted it twice and spoke in the tone one uses with a child, or a pet:

“You did the right thing. That was well done! We should inform your superior. You are a good guard. A good guard!” Parker then walked on ahead, master of his perceived moment, encourager of the simple and pure.

The security officer and I were walking four or five paces behind. “One,” my companion murmured to me after he and I had thanked the guard, XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX slightly bowing our heads, “that guy doesn’t understand a word of English. But two, he understands perfectly what that little shit said. I bet this guy would just rip Parker’s head off and eat it if he got mad. I don’t like to be alone around him.”

I agreed, but my attention shifted quickly. We had arrived at the Hotel California entrance. I was on.

The music was harsh and incongruous, heavy metal, and it made the frigid building feel even colder, the darkness more ominous, and the ever-present, all-defining browns harder to resolve into recognizable objects when you looked at them. We were indoors, but our breath made clouds as we stood in the chief’s office and he went over procedures. He had a pleasant manner.

“No one speaks but you XXXXXXXX. Ever. No one speaks. The only noise in this place is the music. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XX. The doc will intervene if necessary. XXXXXXXXXXX X XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX. Your asset appears fine. No one has seen him, except at the processing in, when we examined him. Okay?”

“Yes.”

I wondered whether his processing in included another XXXXXX intrusive body procedure.

“Yes. . . . Oh. He keeps asking for ‘Jacques.’ Over and over, he says he wants to talk to ‘Jacques.’”

“That’s me. I’m his friend.”

The chief laughed. He thought I was making a joke; this was true, but I was also speaking more than one truth.

“I’ll get one of the guards to take you to your boy.”

A minute later a guard indicated with a head gesture that I was to follow him. He and I entered the building. He carried a flashlight and a set of keys. It was immediately pitch black. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX .3

We turned onto another passage and continued. We turned again. And again. I could not see and was totally disoriented. My eyes clung to the heels of the guard in front of me, rising and falling, the only things I could see.

This is right out of the KUBARK manual and the SERE training I received twenty years ago, I thought as we walked (SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape). As a Career Trainee in the Directorate of Operations I had gone through days of capture, detention, and interrogation training, part of the months of paramilitary training we received. None of it had been relevant to my career for almost twenty years, not since I had spent eighteen months working in the CT office and on XXX Lebanon XXXX, when we had been trying to free Americans whom Hizballah had kidnapped, tortured, and, in William Buckley’s case, killed by torture, simply for the sadistic pleasure of doing so to an American official.

I flashed back to memories from many years earlier of what was around me as we padded through the black, and the frigid air. The interrogation techniques I had experienced were designed to disorient me, to disrupt my circadian rhythms so that I started to feel detached from the world I had always known. Our Office of Medical Services had captured well what the interrogation methods were designed to accomplish:

These are designed to psychologically “dislocate” the detainee, maximize his feeling of vulnerability and helplessness, and reduce or eliminate his will to resist our efforts to obtain critical intelligence.

I could not tell night from day, how long any period of time was, even waking from sleep, in the end. Times changed. Temperatures changed dramatically. My food was irregular, or awful, or not enough, or too much. I was forced to stay awake, or my sleep was spastic and interrupted without pattern. The noise was endless and very loud. People screamed and sobbed in other rooms. Fabrics tore in long rips, explosions hurt my ears, and babies cried and cried and cried, wailed and simpered and hollered and cried again. Dogs barked and growled. Hour after hour after hour. Sometimes I had to stand against a wall, with a hood on. For a long, long time. It was hard to do. It was hard to breathe—I felt like I was suffocating. I started to panic. I took the hood off, just a little, just barely over my nose; they put it back on roughly, all the way over my face. I had to contort myself into cramped boxes, in which I could not sit or stand. I was too tired to stay awake, but I was not able to sleep; when I dropped off, a guard woke me. I descended into a world of trauma and dreams, where I was not awake, or asleep, or coherent, or able to think straight. For the first time in my life, I lost the ability to distinguish where I ended, and where the outside world began. I could not tell. I started to lose control of my personality, to inhabit a world in which I was completely isolated, and in which I could not trust my senses. I hallucinated—I saw slimy things, told myself they did not exist, but also told myself I had better stay still so that they would go away. At first the capture and detention training was unpleasant, but each discrete segment was even interesting. At first. But it kept on. It all accumulated on my mind. It never stopped. Nothing existed but the dark, cold, confusion, pain, fear . . . and the slow loss of myself. The only salvation was the moment of sanity when I sat facing an interrogator.

And through it all, I knew it was a training exercise. It would last for days, but I knew it would end, and I knew my instructors would do me no real harm.

We stopped at CAPTUS’s cell. The guard let me in. I immediately recognized that it was designed according to the old KUBARK manual guidelines:

Cells should be about 3 meters long and 2 meters wide. . . . Cell doors should be of heavy steel with judas port for viewing and separate port for putting food and water into the cell. The slamming of a heavy steel door impresses upon the subject that he is cut off from the rest of the world. . . . Heat, air and light may be externally controlled, but not to the point of torture. . . . Bedding should be minimal—cot and blanket—no mattress. The idea is to prevent the subject from relaxing and recovering from shock.

CAPTUS XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX stirred as the door opened, rousing himself to lean up on one arm and to cast off a single, small blanket.

I sat down opposite CAPTUS and looked at him. I was shocked at his appearance.

I was no longer aware of the loud noise outside. The chair was cold through my pants.

“CAPTUS.” He looked at me, not understanding what was happening. My tone was declaratory, matter-of-fact, not imperious.

“CAPTUS, it’s Jacques.” He continued to stare, his eyes glassy, not making sense of anything yet. I could see his mind starting to work.

“CAPTUS, it’s Jacques. I am here too, now.”

“Jacques . . .”

He realized now who I was. His circumstances were so disorienting that it took a moment to put someone he knew into this context. I gestured, in a way I hoped was kind, for CAPTUS to take a seat. He rose slowly, hunched over, with a murmured “choukran, choukran.”

“CAPTUS, what has happened to you XXXX? You do not look good.”

He tried to dismiss his appearance, responding vaguely and softly, “Your men . . . arriving. No. No men. It is nothing, it is nothing. I do not mind. It is no trouble.”

I persisted. “What ‘arriving’ and ‘men’? My men did this?” I found that unbelievable.

“No, no. Yes. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. It is all right.”

With some work—every explanation from CAPTUS took work and was a labor, even in better circumstances than this—CAPTUS explained what had happened to him. He said XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX.

I understood now. I had seen it happen XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX.

I apologized to CAPTUS, XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX.

More important, however, in my mind was the way CAPTUS narrated this little episode. I knew the facts of the episode he had just explained, and I still had trouble making sense of him. Yet, he had spoken accurately, allowance made for his way of perceiving and describing events. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X. The episode strengthened his credibility in my eyes and confirmed that the way I had been describing him to Headquarters was fundamentally accurate: XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX.

I also knew how our business worked. This was the kind of contextual case knowledge that was virtually impossible to put in traffic but was so crucial to running good ops, and to being a good case officer. It was too subtle for the system to digest and accept in formal exchanges.

“CAPTUS. It is cold. Would you like another blanket?”

A noncommittal response.

“I will get you one.”

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX .4

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX . But we were back at it once again.

As the session progressed I already was finding that what I had argued before was true: We had misread the man; he was not a jihadist or a member of al-Qa’ida; he did not warrant transfer to Hotel California, and doing so would serve no useful purpose.

Wilmington, Headquarters, the White House’s Office of General Counsel or its Department of Justice scribes, and much of a fearful and angry public missed a critical distinction when considering the whole issue of using coercive measures in interrogation. The dilemma was, in fact, extensively considered in the various versions of the KUBARK interrogation manuals that had for decades served the U.S. military, and CIA, as guidelines for interrogations, and which I had mulled over in light of my personal experiences, as I had wrestled with what was effective and where I would set boundaries for how I would conduct an interrogation myself: “For centuries,” the KUBARK manual deliberated,

“questioners” have employed various methods of inducing physical weaknesses: prolonged constraint; prolonged exertion; extremes of heat, cold, or moisture; and deprivation of food or sleep. The assumption that lowering the subject’s physiological resistance will lower his psychological capacity for resistance: however. [sic] There has been no scientific investigation of this assumption.

Just as the KUBARK manual noted, it is easy to stress a man physically and psychologically. I knew this firsthand; it had not taken long to break me down. But I also knew—independent of the fundamental legal and moral considerations concerning coercive measures in interrogations—that breaking an individual down did not make him more likely to divulge reliable information. Some few men may break from coercive measures. In all cases, however, the decisive factor in a successful interrogation is an individual’s personality, and the rapport the interrogator has with the detainee. One cannot conduct a productive, long-term interrogation with a rapport that consists of pain endured and fear engendered.

I opposed much of the reasoning behind, and acceptability of, Hotel California (with rare exceptions). I opposed the reasoning behind CAPTUS’s transfer there. I had come to the conclusion that CAPTUS’s tangential, inadvertent, and unwanted relationship with al-Qa’ida did not justify a rendition. I had come to disagree with the specific steps taken in the case I was running. I had come to oppose the entire coercive interrogation measures approach. What a fuckup.

The Hotel California chief, the shrink, and I held an after-interrogation meeting in the chief’s dilapidated and unfurnished “office” XXXXXXXXXXX X XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX . We spoke standing up, close together, and in low voices, so that we could hear each other, so that our voices did not carry. All substantive questions were left to me as C/O in charge of the interrogation and the case. I did not discuss them, except to give a general sense of how forthcoming he had been. But we reviewed how the conditions to which CAPTUS was subject contributed to or hindered the interrogation, and made certain that he was in general health.

The chief wanted to be helpful, with the tools he had to offer. What did I want him to do? What was the shrink’s assessment of CAPTUS’s mental state? Was the psychological dislocation in process? Was he within acceptable parameters of stress? Should the chief increase CAPTUS’s level of discomfort and disorientation? Make it colder? Turn up the music? Turn on the lights? Let him sleep, or keep him awake? Give him additional amenities?

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXX.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX.

[The CIA Inspector General’s Special Review: Counterterrorism, Detention and Interrogation Activities (2003–7123-IG), declassified in August 2009, details the authorized “standard” and “enhanced” measures for interrogation. I quote:

Standard Measures (i.e., without physical or substantial psychological pressure)

Shaving

Stripping

Diapering (generally for periods not greater than 72 hours)

Hooding

Isolation

White noise or loud music (at a decibel level that will not damage hearing)

Continuous light or darkness

Uncomfortably cool environment

Restricted diet, including reduced caloric intake (sufficient to maintain general health)

Shackling in upright, sitting, or horizontal position

Water dousing

Sleep deprivation (up to 72 hours)

Enhanced Measures (with physical or psychological pressure beyond the above)

Attention grasp

Facial hold

Insult (facial slap)

Abdominal slap

Prolonged diapering

Sleep deprivation (over 72 hours)

Stress positions

—on knees, body slanted forward or backward

—leaning with forehead on wall

Walling

Cramped confinement (Confinement boxes)

Waterboard

In all instances the general goal of these techniques is a psychological impact, and not some physical effect, with a specific goal of “dislocating” his expectations regarding the treatment he believes he will receive.]

The chief’s automatic proposal of measures distressed me. I vetoed all the chief’s suggestions.

“Not now. Not yet.”

I explained that I wanted CAPTUS to see that I was helping him; I noted that CAPTUS responded to my relationship with him. I said that I wanted the chief to give CAPTUS another blanket.

The chief agreed. I saw that the chief was a decent officer, completely willing to follow the instructions of the C/O’s running the interrogations. It was just that his job was to use the tools at Hotel California in support of the War on Terror. He was serving his country in difficult circumstances. This was his job. He did not think beyond that.

The psychologist had until now listened silently to the chief’s and my discussion, nodding from time to time, his arms crossed high on his chest. I had noticed that he reacted poorly to the chief’s suggestions XXXXXXXXXXX X XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX. He spoke now earnestly, firmly, to the chief.

“Listen to what you are saying, man! XXXXXXXXXX. I must remind you formally, that these are human beings in there. I don’t like the idea of blanket punishment, simply to make them all suffer. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXX. Is there a reason to do these things? The detainees are here for a long time. Think of what you are doing with these points in mind.”

I was silently pleased at the shrink’s intervention. The system of controls and balances was working, I thought. He was here (and so was I) to keep procedures rational and acceptable.

To the chief’s credit, he listened to the shrink carefully, nodded his head, and accepted without reserve the shrink’s cautions. The Agency lacked a body of experience on coercive measures and interrogation; there was no protocol for detention and interrogation as yet (in fact, there was, but I did not know that). He welcomed the expert assessments and guidance of the case officer and the shrink running the various cases in his charge.

The shrink and I consulted a moment one-on-one after the post-interrogation meeting. He commented in passing that “I’m a psychologist, you know. Not a psychiatrist.”

I glanced at him, around us at the facility, then back at him. I did not care. I had been thankful for his focus on the physical and mental health of the detainees. At least momentarily, I had an ally.

“Okay, whatever.” I nodded. “Thanks.”

When the post-interrogation meeting ended I walked out and stood alone by a window, staring out into the dim and fading light. I still had to drive back to the compound and I wanted to get back if at all possible before dark. I had many hours of work to do once back at the station, writing operational cables, intelligence reports, and taking care of administrative details. Nothing moved that I could see. The landscape was barren under low clouds. What had I become? What had my country become? Had this land always been so bleak?

Parker approached me after I had gazed out the window a couple of minutes, my hands in my jacket pockets and my collar pulled up against the chill.

“What’re you looking at?”

“I’m Diogenes,” I said slowly, at first not turning. I half smiled and glanced at Parker over my collar. “Got a light?”

“What?”

“Nothing. We gotta get out of here. Let’s roll.”

1 This passage describes security measures.

2 This passage describes my security concerns at that moment.

3 This passage describes the sinister inside of Hotel California and making my way through it.

4 This passage describes what I told CAPTUS and what my plans were for him.