WE WERE IMMEDIATELY separated. I saw Bobbi and Angela for a flash, being chivvied by female Guards into a chopper. Kevin ran; they caught him in the corn. Rufus and Charlie were nowhere to be seen. Incredibly, given the search equipment the Guards had, they avoided detection by hiding in an old stone root cellar. Years of practice, I guess.
The Amish couple were attending some kind of spring harvest supper at their local church. They were arrested when they got back and, a little later, disappeared.
I was probably taken to the DC area. There was a longish bumpy chopper ride, but I was shackled, blindfolded, and drugged; it could’ve been anywhere.
I should make it clear that courage has never been my long suit. I’d taken on a few thieves and bullies in my time, but my cojones were always on paper. I’d never once had to confront the probability of violent pain. I was scared shitless. According to reliable sources, the Guards’ interpretation of love your enemies was: We only torture you to the cliff edge of death, for your own good.
There were two of them in the room. An audio feed from elsewhere had been obligingly left on. Over it could be heard the agonized screams of someone in the early stages of interrogation, when the voice is still working. It took me a few moments, through the fog of drugs and fear, to realize that the begging, pleading man was Kevin.
The Guards had an interrogation policy of never raising their voices, never using epithets of any kind, never using violent or threatening language. There was no good-cop bad-cop. They were all good cops. Their rationale was they interrogated you as Christ would have.
“Good evening, Mr. Greco,” said one. “Sorry to say, your situation is dire. The man you led us to, whom we know to be your leader, has fostered a form of religious terrorism even more insidious than other forms we’re called on to combat. He is being taken to a secure facility where, after exhaustive debriefing, he will stand trial for his life. Your situation is to all intents and purposes the same. Your media status is no shield. Do I make myself clear?”
He made it clear. My sphincter made it clear.
The other cop was even more compassionate. “Mr. Greco, you have an alternative. It has been proposed at a very high level that you be permitted to avoid debriefing, trial, and certain execution by agreeing to observe the behavior from this point on of your leader and then write an official, objective, unbiased account of the proceedings, with the appropriate oversight and review. If you perform this role satisfactorily you will given your freedom, the only proviso being that you carry for the remainder of your life an intravenous shackle. Will you accept this generous offer? You have ninety seconds to decide.”
My overloaded brain spun wildly. The “high level” must be the Reverend. Presumably the Angel of the Lord’s vengeance was orchestrating every aspect of Jay’s pursuit, arrest, and trial. I’d not only led him to his prey, I’d provided him with a sizable bonus; the man who’d launched Jay in the media would be the most credible witness to his downfall.
It was typical Reverend: brilliant, manipulative, win-win for him, no-win for me. Just like last time. Except now the stakes weren’t just my integrity and good name but my life.
The seconds ticked on. I knew agreement was a betrayal, but I couldn’t quite crystallize how. Would I be doing anything different from any other journalist? Everyone worked with “oversight and review.” If I didn’t do it, someone else would. Better me, surely, who might be able to nudge the account nearer to the truth. Wouldn’t it be best to seize this opportunity? Live to write another day?
Would agreeing make me Judas? A bit late to worry about that. I was already Judas; I’d led the high priest’s men right to him. And yet at that very moment, just a few hours ago, he’d forgiven me and, standing in the sunset with his arm around my shoulders, said, “Don’t ever forget our deal.”
Wasn’t this our deal, to write his story? How could I do that dead? But it wouldn’t be his story. It would be the Reverend’s. Just like last time. Why was self-preservation always a betrayal?
“You have twenty seconds left, Mr. Greco.”
Was I ready to die? I loved Jay dearly, but was I ready to die for him? Why not? Blessed are the dead, for they know the answer.
“Mr. Greco?”
“I . . . accept the offer.”
The Greco Option, Part Two.