by John Brown
“What the hell’s going on?” Benson yelled.
“You have drugs or cash? Firearms? Anything illegal?”
The other cop moved in behind Benson, feeling down his chest, then under his arms and down his back. The cop squatted down and ran his hands up Benson’s legs, starting at the ankles, then up his thighs. The cop rose to his feet, groaning with the effort. He ran his hands over Benson’s buttocks and in between, making Benson flinch through gritted teeth.
“Please remain there, sir.”
Another cop wandered over with a German shepherd pulling vigorously on the leash.
“Bismarck, sit! Sitzen sie! Good evening, folks,” the new cop said. “I’m Deputy Officer Fox. Thanks for your full cooperation tonight.”
Fox handed Bismarck’s leash to the blue-gloved officer, then went around to the car’s rear and spread out a tarpaulin on the ground. When he was done, he returned to the front.
“Okay, Bismarck, check this out,” he said, pointing to the driver’s door.
Bismarck jumped onto the door and began vigorously scratching at it with his paws.
“Looks like we got an alert,” Fox said.
Russler and Fox ransacked the trunk, throwing everything on the tarpaulin, while Benson remained spread-eagled over his car’s hood. They examined the trunk’s contents with some curiosity, holding up a camouflage jacket, outdoor boots, flares, rope, bottled water, dried food, knives, fishing tackle, and other articles before tossing them each on the growing pile. Bismarck was very interested in the dried rations on the ground, sniffing energetically.
Fox went over to the open driver’s door and waved an electronic scanning wand around the car’s interior. He shoved it into all the nooks and creases in the seats and pockets. From behind, the dog sniffed Benson’s legs and then his crotch, and began growling.
Fox inserted his wand into a leather holder on his utility belt. He peered inside the car at Jane.
“Ma’am, can I see your purse?”
“No,” she said, firmness in her voice. “I do not consent to a search.”
“It’s mandatory, ma’am. For your own protection.”
Deputy Officer Fox dumped the contents of Jane’s purse on the car’s hood right in front of Benson, rifling through the contents. He found a lipstick case, twisting the metal cylinder until the lipstick popped up, examined it closely, and then put it down. He found two condoms and placed them together on the hood. He picked up a tampon and held it to his ear, rolling it in his fingers like a cigar. He sniffed it and then showed it to Bismarck, who took no interest in it. He found a few store receipts from Jane’s lingerie purchase, inspecting them with his flashlight, and then he looked Jane over inside the car. He handed Jane her empty purse and walked away without a word, Bismarck pulling hard at the leash.
Officer Russler finally let Benson get up. Benson had never been so angry; he could hardly contain himself. He considered the different ways that he might kill Russler and watch him die.
“Just a random checkpoint for weapons and drugs,” Russler said, walking away. “For your own protection,” he said from over his shoulder. “You have a nice evening.”
Benson had originally picked a different restaurant, one he knew to be Jane’s favorite, but it was full until 9:00, and so he settled on another that appeared suitably romantic, judging from its website and favorable reviews. The pictures showed linen on the tables, candlelit dining, and price fixe menus. No decisions to make; intimate, private booths. They could have a long, leisurely dinner, without distraction.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur et Madame Benson. You are a little delayed tonight, yes? But no matter, I believe we can fit you in. Welcome to La Grande Maison.”
Their waiter appeared to be in his mid-30s and smoothly professional. Clad all in black, including a black tie and a small black apron around his waist, he spoke with the very lightest of Parisian accents. He led them to their table, where they sat side by side, and handed them elaborate menus written in a fancy calligraphy that made it challenging to read in the subdued light.
“My name is Swanson. While you look over our selections tonight, may I start you off with some drinks? Apéritifs, oui?”
“Oui,” Jane said. “Apple martini, s’il vous plaît.”
“Très bien. And for Monsieur?”
“Je voudrais un grand Aviation gin tonic. Avec de l’eau tonique Fever-Tree, si vous en avez. Et citron vert, pas citron.”
“Excuse me?”
“A large Aviation Gin and Fever-Tree tonic. Lime, not lemon.”
Their drinks arrived swiftly. Swanson set them down with a promise to return for their orders. Benson took a deep, satisfying draft and settled back into the plush, high-backed seat. Jane swallowed a mouthful and closed her eyes, sighing. Benson studied her face, not saying anything. Dark brown hair fell in curly wisps across her forehead. Freckles still dotted her smooth cheeks. The cute girl he’d married had matured into a lovely woman. She opened her eyes, took another long gulp, and gave him a naughty smile, looking at his lips and then his eyes.
Swanson came walking over. Before he reached their table, Benson said, “Deux plus, s’il vous plaît.” He held up two fingers, whereupon Swanson retreated.
Jane played with her martini glass, twirling it around slowly and running her fingers along the stem, absorbed in thought.
“Tom, listen — you’ll never guess, I’m so excited. I was offered a position with Senator Dixon.”
Dining alone at a nearby booth, a man turned his head in their direction. Benson caught his gaze and the man quickly turned away.
“My new job might mean travel for a week or two every month.”
Benson stared at her for a moment.
“I didn’t even know you were interviewing. You made some great connections; I guess they’ve paid off for you. We hosted a lot of those fundraisers, didn’t we? I’m glad that’s all over. Never again. I can’t stand those people.”
He took a sip of his drink.
“Dixon, Dixon … isn’t she the one in the news trying to broker another peace process in the Middle East or something? Well, good luck to her. That’s great, congratulations, but what am I supposed to do—”
Just then, Swanson returned with their drinks, setting them silently on the table. Jane raised her glass and sipped. She winked at him, flashing a sexy smile that made his pulse beat faster. She moved in closer until they were touching. Benson put his arm around her and caressed her neck. Jane relaxed against him and put her hand on his thigh. He could almost hear Ravel playing.
Benson was glad he’d made time for this. Work could go to hell. The bank could go to hell. And if they didn’t like it, they could fire him. The hell with everything. Jane could work for the two of them in her new high-powered job.
“We are featuring tonight for you the cuisine of Aquitaine,” Swanson started off. “We begin with pan-fried duck foie gras with caramelized onion, served with a chicory and fresh black truffle salad, accompanied by a glass of fine Muscat noir, a most distinguished appellation. This is followed by Jambon Bayonne. This is a Bayonne ham prepared in the traditional style, or, if you prefer, poissons de moine avec des champignons et le coulis; this is monkfish medallions with mushrooms and coulis sauce…”
Swanson went on to describe all the courses in exquisite detail. Finally, he departed with their order.
“As I was saying,” Benson said, “what am I supposed to do without you when you’re gone?”
“Well, it’s a great opportunity. It’s not like you’ll really miss me.”
He softly kissed her neck.
“I’m already missing you.”
16
No Deal
“YOU ALMOST HAD ME THERE,” Benson marveled, banging his fist on the table with such force that it startled Captain Kelly.
“Next time, you have me dig my own grave first,” he said, in a high-spirited mood. “Then you stand me up in front of the hole, see? And then — bang!” Benson clapped his hand
s. “I fall into the pit. It’s so much more dramatic. I saw that in a movie once.”
Benson’s insolence, his mockery and defiance, absolutely astonished Captain Kelly, leaving him gaping like a fish. The “execution” had not only failed to break Benson, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. He’d never come across anything like it.
“I assure you we will next time, Mr. Benson — with real bullets.”
Benson slapped the table and laughed heartily, enraging Captain Kelly further.
“You give us what we need,” Kelly shouted, his face red, spittle flying, “and we could let you go! Let’s make a deal!”
Benson leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. How pathetic was this? Unworthy to wear the uniform, whatever uniform this was. In all his time in the service, he hadn’t come across such a contemptible misfit. A cretin like this would never have made it into the officer ranks. Even if by some chance he had, some incident would have exposed his degenerate character; he would have disgraced himself and the corps and been dishonorably discharged in short order. Perhaps the new military had been stripped of its former honor to become a political tool staffed by political appointees and corruptible functionaries willing to obey any orders, no matter how unlawful.
Benson sighed.
“You’re no Monty Hall.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “There will be no deals.”
Benson lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, straining to perform a few situps. Drained, he gazed up at the ceiling and had hardly shut his eyes when the cell door banged open. Barely tethered to a strapping guard, a ferocious German shepherd lunged for Benson. He shielded his face from the rearing, barking dog, almost as tall as himself on its hind legs. Physically painful in its relentless assault, the constant barking provoked an instinctive reaction of fear at such close range, in such tight quarters. He recoiled from the animal’s hot, foul breath. The dog snapped its jaws near his face, grazing his cheek with its jagged teeth, drawing blood.
“Down on the floor!” the guard commanded, yelling at Benson over the barking. “Down! On your stomach! Hands behind you!”
The guard slapped tight metal cuffs on Benson’s wrists, all the while ordering the dog to stop its incessant barking, repeatedly shouting, “Kaiser, stoppen es!” and “Kaiser, halt die schnauze!” to no effect. When he was finished with Benson, he kicked the dog with an angry curse. Whimpering, Kaiser backed up into a corner.
Benson was marched to an area of the prison compound he had never seen. They passed an inmate in the hall going in the opposite direction, roughly prodded by a guard. The prisoner was dripping wet and short of breath, looking like she’d seen a ghost. The water trail on the floor led to a room filled with instruments and a stainless steel water tank. Another burly guard like the one who accompanied Benson waited inside for them, and one of those agents with a small, stylized bear paw print on his outfit. Absorbed with computer terminals on a stainless steel counter running the room’s length, a skinny doctor in a lab coat busily typed commands on each one in turn.
His dirty orange jumpsuit roughly yanked off, Benson was stripped to his ragged underwear. Kicking and screaming, he struggled against the two guards as they fought to lay him down on a long, wide board. One held Benson down by the throat while the other went to work. His arms were straightened out by brute force, held away from his body, and bound with straps mounted to the board. As one of the guards moved to bind Benson’s ankles together, he kicked his leg free, striking the guard’s chin with a powerful snap. The guard’s face was bloody and Benson was sure he’d broken some bones or teeth. The other guard stomped on Benson’s chest with his knee, crushing him with the force and knocking the wind out of him.
A new guard promptly arrived to replace the injured one. The doctor walked over, recording some observations on a clipboard as he went. He snapped a monitoring device on Benson’s finger. The two guards heaved the board up with Benson strapped on it, placing him in the tank face up in the chilly water.
“Okay, Benson,” Agent Scott Tracy leaned in closely with sour breath, “no more foolin’ around, the fun an’ games are over. Wha’ do you know about financing terrorism? How’d you do it? Who were your contacts? Let’s go, give it up.”
“Are you talking? Did I give you permission to talk?”
“Let’s see how he likes a little dunk.”
The guards draped clear cellophane loosely over Benson’s face, tucking it in around his head to keep it approximately in place. A guard dipped a bucket in the tank and poured a steady cascade of water over his head. Holding his breath, struggling to break free, Benson jerked back and forth, as if in a seizure. The cellophane let in water. He battled to hold his breath as the streaming continued onto his face. Enveloped and overwhelmed, he felt that he was really drowning; he was surely going to suffocate and die. Panic overtook him. Finally forced to succumb, he breathed, inhaling water.
The torrent ceased. The doctor recorded the subject’s elapsed time, heart rate, and blood oxygen saturation. Benson hacked uncontrollably, but his lungs wouldn’t clear. They removed the cellophane from his face.
“Ready to talk?”
“Kiss my ass, you sweaty porker,” Benson coughed out. “Go defile a goat, you degenerate, evil little muppet.”
Tracy was floored.
“Let’s see how he likes a little swim.”
The guards replaced the cellophane and lowered the board until only the very top of Benson’s face was above water. Tracy snapped his fingers and the water began pouring. This time, Benson closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his mouth, minimizing the intake of water, gulping it down when it became too much, and trying to calm his mind by imagining that he was just floating in a pool.
For a time it worked, and then the inescapable feeling of drowning and panic suddenly returned.
“Stop! I can’t — I can’t b-breathe,” he gasped.
“Ready to talk now? I thought so. Excellent.”
The guards hoisted the board out of the water, propping Benson up against the tank and removing the cellophane. Water streamed down his face. Gagging, he glared at his captors, clenching his fists tightly bound to the board on either side of him.
“You tell me how you financed the Saudi operation!” Tracy screamed at him. “Who’d you deal with? Tell me now!”
Benson thrust his head forward off the board. His chest was heaving. He seemed about to say something, unable to get the words out. Tracy eagerly leaned in closer. Benson spat a mouthful of water in his face.
“Got turned on, didn’t you?” Benson sneered. “You got excited, you twisted pervert. Go ahead, do it again! You want to. Admit it, you depraved slimeball, you worthless hack — you’re aroused.”
At a loss, Agent Tracy looked at the guards. The technique had always worked so well before. Prisoners would always confess.
“I—”
Tracy looked at the guards again, but they only returned blank stares.
“I—”
He stared at the floor.
“Just take him to his room,” he sputtered.
Confined in his cell, cold and hungry, Benson heard footsteps approaching at a fast clip, the heavy boots stomping ever closer. The guard slammed the steel door open and marched him quickly down the corridor. He was shoved into the interrogation room with such force that he fell to the floor. Two agents dressed in flight-style, olive-drab jumpsuits had been talking excitedly to each other. They abruptly interrupted their chatter at his arrival, staring at him as he crawled to the nearest chair.
“Mr. Benson, let’s be straight up, we wanna believe your story, we’ve seen all the interview notes,” one of the agents said, gesturing at the piles scattered across the table. “We wanna help, but you have to help us, too. Fair is fair, right?”
“Don West.” Benson laughed in his face, shaking his head. “Hey kid, why don’t you get a real job?”
“Look, Mr. Benson,” said Zachary Smith, the second agent. “The public needs to
feel we’re doing our jobs. They’re scared. Another attack must be prevented. That’s our mission and we take it serious.”
He seemed almost apologetic.
“Look, we can’t just sit around while the Homeland is under attack. You’re not the kinda man who puts his selfish personal needs ahead of his country, are you? We can’t be only thinking about ourselves and forget about everybody else, can we? Let’s put this, uh, inconvenience behind us?”
“Inconvenience.”
Benson stood and flung his chair at the wall. The ever-present guard slouching by the door suddenly straightened up, but Smith held up his hand for the guard to back off.
“Inconvenience — is that what you call it?” Benson said. “How about torture? How could you do this? Americans, for God’s sake.”
“Okay, so lemme tell you something, Mr. Benson,” Smith replied. “You think we’re just a bunch a’ whacko sadists? You think we don’t know anything about due process? You think we like doing this? We don’t like it one bit, but we have no choice. These terrorists are after nuclear and chemical weapons and they’ll destroy the Homeland when they get their hands on ’em. It’s the greater good here versus evil. My own sister was killed in a — ” Smith choked up, “in a suicide bombing. She was at the mall with her friends…” he drifted off, struggling to regain his composure, “but at least we don’t torture.”
“So we don’t have the best heating and lighting,” Agent West added, shrugging. “Maybe the music’s a bit too loud. You call that torture? Electrocution, mutilation — that’s real torture.”
“Yes,” said Agent Smith, “that’s absolutely right. Hooking your balls up to a car battery, now that would be real torture. Or cutting your dick off. Or shoving a hot probe up your ass. No, we don’t do any of that.”
He nodded to West, who wholeheartedly agreed.
“We abide by a professional code.”
