Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

“What do you mean, Mr. Director? You’ve lost one of my people and can’t tell me where he is or even if you have him? How does that work?” Middleton cocked an eyebrow.

Director Samuel Banks spread his arms wide, palms up. “I can only repeat what I just told you, General. As of now, I have no report whatsoever of any unidentified suspects being picked up yesterday.”

“Our alert came straight from your FBI computer system, Mr. Director. Your machine talked to my machine and said one of our hot sets of prints was being examined. The link activates only for that specific reason.”

The director nodded in affirmation. “And our system shows that indeed a query was made, and that we replied that there were no such prints on record in the NCIC. But our people were not the ones who initiated the inquiry! Anyway, you are military. How can your people not have fingerprints on file?”

“Sorry, Mr. Director. Need-to-know basis on that one.”

“I’m the director of the FBI!”

“I apologize and suggest you take up any questions you have about this with the White House. I do not have authorization to discuss it. Back to business. If the FBI system was pinged last night, where else could it have come from? Can just any hacker or country cop do it? Or could the NSA or a foreign government run something without a trace?”

“No, of course not. There are high-level security protocols and firewalls and passwords that I can’t discuss with you. Need-to-know.” The eternal Washington game. My dick is as long as yours.

Middleton smiled, and the director grinned back. “Mr. Director, I don’t care about the inner workings of your computer and databases as long as we continue to have authorized access. I just want my operator back.”

“I understand that, General. Here’s my suggestion. I will put a tag on the query. If anything pops up, I will personally give you a call.” He scribbled on the back of a business card and handed it to Middleton. “Here’s my private number in case you need to contact me directly.” The general looked at it. There was no telephone number, just DHS??

Middleton put the card in his jacket pocket and rose, shook hands and left, wondering why Banks had chosen such an odd method of communication. Was he concerned that the office of the director of the FBI might be bugged? No, it was simpler than that. Banks knew the conversation was recorded, because he was the one recording it. Just in case questions were asked later. Weird world we live in, Middleton thought, getting into his waiting car.

“Sar’nt Johnson!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Do you know where to find the Department of Homeland Security offices in this hick town?”

“Yes, sir! The Department of Homeland Security. Uh, down at the far end of the Mall in that really tall, skinny building with the pointy top?”

“That is the Washington Monument, Sergeant, and I have no time for your smart-ass comments this evening.” Middleton noted that it was past six o’clock. He had just wasted hours working his way through the FBI chain of command in order to reach the director for their brief, private conference. He didn’t want to repeat that process over at the DHS, starting with some flunky at the front door who would explain that everyone had already gone home for the day. “Let’s just go back across the river to the Pentagon. If I’m going to be sneaky, I want a whole bunch of Marines around. You do know where the Pentagon is, don’t you, Sar’nt Johnson?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

MARYLAND

They had turned the thermostat down again to be sure that Swanson, in the interrogation chair, was thoroughly chilled before beginning the water procedure. They were not about to unstrap him again, because bad things happened the last time they tried that.

As far as Special Agent Carolyn Walker was concerned, the bastard could lie there and freeze to death. She gave a look of disgust through the one-way glass and swiveled her chair around to face Dave Hunt.

“Okay, I’m not waiting any longer. We can’t dodge our responsibilities while the bureaucrats argue about conducting a Level Four interrogation on American soil with someone who we think may be an American citizen. An assassin working for a terrorist organization is the most likely scenario.”

“Still a dangerous precedent, Carolyn.”

Walker’s eyes were sharp and her mouth a thin line. “No more waiting, Dave. We can’t afford not to do this. We have to find out how he is involved. Anyway, screw my goddam career. I want to know what that bastard knows! We will proceed with the first phase while we wait for authorization. I will take full responsibility.”

“I never said I didn’t want to do this, Carolyn,” Hunt said quietly, trying to keep her calm. “I concur, as long as it remains a limited and supervised situation. He has brought it on himself by refusing to talk and putting a couple of our people in the emergency room.”

The room was cold. Both Walker and Hunt wore dark blue windbreakers as they watched other agents set up the procedure. The suspect, shivering from the icy air-conditioning, had been blindfolded; his chair was laid back and a large galvanized tub clattered into place beneath his head. This was just the first phase and would be done with no talking, no questions.

A thick towel was draped across the face. Walker pulled out her stopwatch, nodded to an agent standing beside the chair, and started the timer as he tipped over the first bucket.

Kyle was already shivering, and with his eyes covered, he depended on his other senses to keep track of what was happening. The metallic noise of the tub on the tile floor told him it was probably time for some water, and he sucked in deep, regular breaths. Instead of fighting back when the towel was laid over his nose and mouth, which would have expended both energy and air, he hauled in even deeper breaths. He heard someone pick up one of the heavy buckets, and shoes beside the chair squeaked on the tiles as the agent shifted for better balance. Water sloshed as the bucket came up. Kyle got a final deep breath and heard the click of a stopwatch, and five gallons of water was sloshed onto the towel in a single rushing torrent. He remained perfectly still and let his brain be a clock. At fifteen seconds, he intentionally squirmed, but there was little real discomfort.

Carolyn Walker detested doing what she was doing. Only fifteen seconds had passed and the suspect was already wiggling, showing signs of oxygen deprivation. She pushed her personal reaction aside and pressed on with the procedure, signaling the waiting agent to pour a second bucket over the drenched towel.

Kyle lurched against the straps when the cascade of water washed over him. The towel was thoroughly drenched, and no air would come through, even when the waterfall passed. When his count reached thirty-five seconds, he struggled again, harder, pushing against the straps.

He’s drowning under there. Carolyn held up a finger. Still another bucket was dumped on Swanson, and he struggled while the straps dug into his arms and ankles. When her stopwatch hit one minute, Walker held up her fist. Stop. The agent yanked away the towel, and Carolyn looked down at the suspect, who was coughing and sputtering, gasping for air. A full minute underwater. Let him know what was in store if he refused to cooperate. Now give him some time alone to think about it. The chair was elevated to the sitting position to help him catch his breath, and everyone left the room, leaving the suspect alone to fear what might happen next.

Kyle was wet and shivering. He opened his eyes and blinked and allowed his breathing to return to a regular rhythm. Only a minute under the towel? Piece of cake. Any surfer would think so. Cold and wet? He thought about his big surfboard and the frigid waters at the Wedge in Newport Beach, where he usually had to wear a wet suit and booties even on a warm day.