PRESENT DAY
Jake Miller stared at the two men seated across the table from him. He could barely tell them apart. They wore nearly identical dark suits, crisp white shirts, and unadorned dark ties. Both had short hair and were clean-shaven. They even appeared to be about the same age. Jake pegged them as late thirties or early forties. They hadn't introduced themselves, nor had they shown him any identification.
The table was government issue: gunmetal gray with a scarred Formica top, also gray. The three of them were in a nine-by-nine interview room, barely big enough for the table and three matching chairs. The door was solid and had a lock that could only be operated from the outside. No two-way mirror, but a tinted glass dome in the corner of the ceiling concealed a camera.
"Do you know why you're here, Agent Miller?" the one on Jake's left said. Since they hadn't offered their names, Jake decided to give them names. Smith and Jones. The one who had spoken first was Smith.
"Special Agent Miller," Jake said.
"Excuse me?"
"As long as you're using my title, I would appreciate it if you used it correctly. I'm Special Agent Jake Miller, Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Do you know why you're here, Special Agent Miller?"
"I have no idea."
"Tell us about the book," the other one said, the one Jake had dubbed Jones. And they kept going like that, shoulder to shoulder, like a two-man firing squad, one shooting off a question or a statement, then the other. Back and forth.
"How about you tell me who you are," Jake said.
"We'll get to that later. First, tell us about the book."
"What book?"
"The book your father is writing."
"If my father is writing a book, maybe you should ask him about it."
"We can't find him."
"But we intercepted an email he sent to you, so you know about the book."
"Intercepting private electronic communications is a federal offense," Jake said. "I hope you had a warrant."
"We were operating under FISA authority," Smith said, pronouncing the acronym for the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. "We didn't need a warrant."
"So does that mean you think I'm a foreign spy? Or a terrorist?"
"Not necessarily. But we do know that you had extensive contact with one."
"One what, a spy or a terrorist?"
"You know who we're talking about."
Jake shrugged. "He's dead."
"We want to know everything he told you."
"Told me about what?"
The two men stared at Jake for a long time. He wasn't sure they even blinked. Then Smith said, "Are you a patriot, Special Agent Miller?"
"I guess that depends on your definition of patriot. If you mean the my country right or wrong kind of patriot, then no, I'm not. But if you mean the support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, then yeah, I am. Which is why I took that very oath when I became an FBI agent."
"We're patriots too, Agent Miller," Jones said, and when Jake didn't bother to correct him, he added, "And we need your help."
"Help with what?"
"Closing something out. Once and for all."
"Are you with O.P.R.?" Jake asked, referring to the FBI's internal affairs unit, which went by the rather vague, non-threatening name of the Office of Professional Responsibility, but which some agents casually referred to as the Rat Squad.
"We're not with the FBI. But we do work for the United States government."
"So that means you're CIA," Jake said.
"We didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. You both have spook written all over you." Jake glanced down at his watch. It was 8:00 a.m.
"Do you have somewhere else to be?"
"You mean like work?" Jake said.
"We'll write a note for your boss."
Jake didn't say anything.
"What's the book about?"
"It's about the truth," Jake said.
"Whose truth?"
"The truth is the truth. It doesn't belong to anybody."
"But who says it's true?"
"I was there," Jake said.
"Just because you think you saw something, or somebody told you something, doesn't make it true. That's just your perception."
"My perception? Is that what we're talking about?"
"Tell us what's in the book."
"Why don't you guys wait for it to come out and read it for yourselves? I don't want to spoil it for you."
"That book will never get published," Smith said.
"Then why are we talking about it?"
Jones leaned closer and rested his elbows on the table. "Tell us how you got involved."
Jake stared at Jones for a moment. Then at Smith. They were Agency, just as surely as if they'd been wearing ID badges around their necks. But the truth was the truth, right? He'd just said so. And wasn't the truth what everyone was always chasing? In fact, the CIA itself was so dedicated to the power of the truth that carved into a stone wall inside the Agency's headquarters building just across the Potomac were the words:
And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.
"Okay," Jake said. "I'll tell you." Then he pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes and a battered Zippo from the inside pocket of his suit coat. He took his time shaking a cigarette from the pack and sticking it between his lips. He raised the lighter.
"You can't smoke in here."
Jake flicked the Zippo's thumbwheel. A flame leapt from the wick. He held it still a moment, just in front of his Lucky Strike, then touched the fire to the tip of the cigarette. The paper and tobacco crackled. He sucked in the smoke and held it. He'd promised his wife he was going to quit. Maybe this was his last cigarette. Maybe not.
"It's illegal to smoke in a government building."
Jake blew the smoke at them. Then he leaned back in his chair and got comfortable. "What are you going to do, arrest me?" Then he started telling them the story.