The Coward's Option

by Adam-Troy Castro

  I said, “Before we begin, I’d like to ask if there’s anything I can get to make you more comfortable.”

  D’Offier snorted. “Give me a break, Counselor whoever-you-are. Just how green do you think we are?”

  This was an invitation to either answer or to say that it was none of his business, either way acknowledging that I was younger and less experienced and therefore that all my textbook knowledge about psychological manipulation was irrelevant.

  I smiled. “It’s not an attempt at manipulation, I assure you. I know you’re both too experienced to be taken in by such things. It’s just me being hospitable.”

  D’Offier said, “It’s you trying to position yourself as a figure to trust, and I’ve questioned enough criminals and terrorists to know better. But I’ll take a cup of water, if you don’t mind, just to get me through this.”

  I turned my attention to Cheung. “And you, ma’am?”

  “I’ll have a water, too. With the same understanding as my ex-colleague, the piece of crap traitor over here. It’s not going to affect the power dynamic in this room, not in the slightest.”

  Whatever it said about me, I found myself feeling a kinship with these guarded and paranoid people. Maybe I’d taken the wrong career path.

  “Very well,” I said. “the people monitoring this conversation will make sure they bring enough for both of you. My name’s Andrea Cort. Do you know who I am?”

  “The name’s familiar,” L’Offier said. “I know it’s come up in some file or another.”

  Cheung said, “I recognized you when you walked in. I also know that you’ve been in legal trouble again, and that you don’t work for internal security.”

  I sipped my coffee. “Correct on both counts. As of this morning, and in recognition of the help I’m providing your division, I’m back working for the Judge Advocate’s office. The session we’re about to have will be brief, as my duties regarding this current situation are tangential.”

  “They would have to be,” Cheung noted. “Last I checked, you don’t have the clearance for any of the intelligence at stake. You don’t even have the clearance to talk to us about it.”

  I emitted a soft, pitying chuckle.

  “No. I don’t. And if either one of you says anything that directly references the information in those files, or covers anything to do with the spying in investigation, the people monitoring this conversation will pull me out of here at once, before I hear enough to make me a security risk.”

  “A further security risk,” said Cheung.

  “That too,” I agreed, with no special heat. “In fact, I want to make this perfectly clear. Except for that offer of refreshments, I honestly don’t intend to ask either of you any questions at all.”

  The two wore the expression of venomous snakes, secured just below the jaws. They knew I would not surrender all possible power in this negotiation. But they also knew that I had just ceded their key point of advantage: their ability to answer or stonewall my questions. And so the measured me, wondering how I intended to get the information anyway.

  But I was telling truth. I honestly didn’t want to know. My life was already paranoid enough. The last aggravation I needed was any connection to classified material capable of complicating my existence further.

  I honestly didn’t want to know.

  D‘Offier said, “Then what are you here for?”

  “Well, I’m not here to fool you into self-incrimination, that’s for sure.”

  I gulped the rest of my coffee, tossed it in the trash, and turned to D’Offier.

  “You’re right, sir. I’m young. I’m also controversial and, according to my superiors, seriously unstable. For those and other reasons I haven’t risen in my own career as meteorically as my colleague Tasha Coombs did. I’m absolutely certain that I have not yet picked up the skills or the experience to out-maneuver people like the two of you, who have received so much training in the fine art of maintaining one’s cover even when subjected to the most hostile interrogation.

  “I can’t manipulate you, either of you. If a few words from the likes of me was all it took, they wouldn’t have had to send Tasha undercover in the first place. And since whichever one of you attacked her did see through her, any chance a relatively inexperienced non-spy like myself might have of being able to accomplish in minutes what she failed to do over months, is minimal.

  “Put the bullshit aside and accept as given the obvious truth that deception of any kind cannot possibly be the reason I was sent in here to speak to you. No. I’m only here to present you with your options.”

  I watched them both, to see if I could derive any cues from which one nodded first—but though Cheung went first by about a second, this by itself was not significant. It only reflected current processing speed.

  She flashed a crooked, appreciative smile. “This doesn’t have anything to do with me, Counselor. But I’m listening.”

  L’Offier said, “She’s the guilty one, not me. But I’m listening too.”

  The door opened and one of the security personnel entered carrying two cups of water, placing one before each prisoner. Cheung and L‘Offier each took sips, then put down their respective cups, waiting.

  I began to pace. “All right. As I said, I know next to nothing about this side of the building. All the knowledge I have the spy trade is theoretical.

  “But common sense does tell me some things.

  “As I understand it, the traditional problem with capturing and prosecuting a spy is that once any spy is no longer a source of information for the enemy, that enemy has immediate reason to try to put another in place. This can be a difficult proposition because the first leak has been patched and more stringent security procedures will certainly be put in place, but the fallibility of all organizations being what it is, another spy will get through; another leak will open up; more sensitive information will be passed.

  “Except for the satisfaction we take in disgracing and ruining and possibly even executing a piece of crap who deserves that and more, there is no net gain.

  “But if we can confront the same spy, ensure that he or she knows that continued freedom and privilege can be revoked at any time, we can continue to use the leak already established to transmit whatever false information we want transmitted. I’m correct on this, right?”

  D’Offier said, “We don’t need you to explain disinformation to us.”

  “No,“ I admitted, “you don’t. I’m just being meticulous in my presentation. The curse of a too-orderly mind.

  “Now I’ll get to how our current predicament impacts the one we know to be guilty.

  “You see, the Corps can’t prosecute the responsible party for spying, not without acknowledging that the spying took place.

  “What it can do is prosecute the responsible party for the physical assault on Tasha Coombs.

  “The Judge Advocate’s office I serve can see to it that you are charged with all of the most serious versions of your charges, not just Assault but also the related charge of Attempted Murder by Depraved Indifference, which you opened yourself up to by abandoning poor Tasha in that alcove after she entered her current incapacitated condition.

  “Further, we can balloon the number of charges to as many as the letter of the law permits, and we can press any sentencing judge to make sure that your sentences are served consecutively.

  “Only then will your sensitive government position be brought up, to justify your imprisonment in maximum security isolation.

  “You would, I fear, never be permitted to communicate with another human being again. I promise you, you would go insane in short order.

  “We already have enough evidence to make sure that you’re convicted. But it would be a long and arduous process, and you would be forever lost to us as an asset.”

  I let that hang in the air for a few seconds.

  “Alternatively,” I resumed, “you could confess to the assault and attempted murder, with the understanding that you
will not be prosecuted and that it will only be used as a guarantor of your future cooperation. You will not be free in the usual sense of such things, as your every movement will be supervised from now on, but you will be able to keep your own home, continue to earn money, even have friends and family.

  “All we’ll expect of you is that you transmit any information we demand, whenever we demand it, for however long your method of transmission remains viable—with the understanding that if you ever betray us in any way, the charges against you can always be revived.

  “That‘s the deal. Any questions?”

  The two of them looked at one another, as if in consultation, before realizing that the proffered terms applied to only one.

  Cheung said, “I’m not the spy. This bastard is. But I should ask, just out of curiosity: how do we know you’re not just fishing?”

  D’Offier said, “Veronica’s the spy. But she has a point. If you already had evidence to convict, you wouldn’t be having this conversation with both of us. You’d only be having it with the one you already knew to be guilty. So you don’t know. This has got to be one huge bluff, nothing more.”

  I grinned at them both, aware that the excitement was showing on my face but not giving a damn that they saw it.

  “I know that’s the way it looks.

  “But it’s also where the game gets interesting.

  “Because don’t fool yourself. This is a game; a game of nerves.

  “Literally. Outside this room, there are even bets being exchanged.

  “You see, whether you choose to believe me or not, we absolutely do already know who’s guilty.

  “We know because I succeeded in reviving Tasha Coombs less than an hour after my superiors finished briefing me on the situation, and she told us everything.

  “This offer’s being made with her full approval.

  “We make it for the most practical and cold-blooded of reasons, which is to say, the interest we have in preserving a potentially valuable means of streaming disinformation.

  “It’s our duty to make the offer, but that doesn’t mean any one of us have to like it. Not Tasha, not me, and not her superiors—who as inhuman as they may sometimes seem, are also not incapable of feeling. They mourn the people who died because of this leak, fear for those for are still endangered, and feel damn angry about the attack on her, in particular.

  “They take what you’ve done pretty personally.

  “I don’t even like Tasha and I take it personally.

  “So when I succeeded in waking her and the question of what to do with you came up, I pointed out that if we take what seems to be the natural next step and have Tasha march in here to confront you directly, you would know that we’re not lying to you about what we have, and will have no choice but cooperation.

  “But if I, an unknown quantity, came in here instead, you wouldn’t have even the slightest idea what to believe.

  “Wherever you go from here, defection or prosecution, it will be entirely as a result of your own actions.

  “I argued that in the event that you did decide to cooperate, this would make you significantly easier to control; more in our hands, because you would then know you betrayed your masters out of conscious volition. And that if you didn’t, we could take just as much satisfaction in knowing that you guessed wrong and therefore condemned yourself to a living hell.

  “That’s is why we also arrested the one we know to be innocent, and made sure to hold both of you in the same room. Because, in this game we’re playing, the guilty one will then inevitably harbor at least the ghost of a hope of getting through this unscathed, in order to make what will then turn out to be the very worst decision of a damned worthless life; one that will prove a torment, for every day the piece of garbage has left.

  “I apologize to the innocent one. We all do.

  “But I’m sure you’ll appreciate the result.”

  I spread my hands, palms upward. “Sixty seconds. Hang yourself or not. I honestly get to win, either way.”

  Cheung and L’Offier stared, glanced at each other again, looked at me, and demonstrated the one thing I’d been hoping for all along: uncertainty. I saw more of it on one face than the other, who at the halfway mark decided to believe it and broke out in the kind of smile that is ordinarily only reserved for weddings.

  At the ten second mark I announced that the time was almost up. The one who remained unsure fought a losing battle with confidence, faltered, and then (as I’d predicted), made the absolutely wrong decision, by remaining silent.

  “Time’s up,” I said.

  The door opened.

  Tasha Coombs strolled in, crossed the room in four angry steps, and slapped the stunned Beau D’Offier in the face.

  Tasha Coombs and Andrea Cort:

  I didn’t often drink in public. Public drinking implied a level of social invitation I didn’t want to encourage; oblivion, when I wanted it, was best enjoyed alone. But every once in a great while some obligation presented itself, and I found myself having to meet someone in places where human beings went to meet other human beings; and when it did I surrendered to the inevitable, often getting an early start so that the necessary interaction, when it came, felt less awkward and off-putting than it might have been otherwise.

  By the time Tasha showed up the room was wrapped in a comfortable soft blur. Then she came in, self-satisfied, chipper, not showing one ounce of the wariness she had long exhibited with me, sliding into the opposite side of the booth with the same kind of brightness she might have shown anyone who was an actual old friend. She was dressed for a night out, and wore a light sunny outfit a million years removed from the more forbidding shades she affected at work, and even farther from the forbidding black suit I had worn from the office.

  Eight days had passed since D’Offier’s arrest and I hadn’t been able to put off her request for a social rendezvous any longer.

  She said, “You look down. What’s the matter? Are they not welcoming you back?”

  I shrugged. The Judge Advocate’s office was the way it always was. Bringen professing friendship while yanking my leash. Daily resistance to giving me a new assignment, based on how liberally I’d interpreted my last one. The sense, as always, that I was not a colleague but a fully-owned spare part, wielded by a machine with no concerns over my comfort or well-being. I was used to it. But I was “down” enough, if down meant grim confirmation of what I’d always believed, that nothing would ever change. So I changed the subject. “And you?”

  “You know I can’t tell you everything,” Tasha said. “But you-know-who is pretty much begging to give us all he knows. We’ll let him stew a little bit longer to make sure he believes we intend on letting him rot. By the time we offer him his second chance, he’ll be a puppy dog.”

  I took another sip. “That’s good. But I meant your recovery.”

  She winced. “That image of you was refreshed so many times in those two weeks that it keeps popping up at odd moments, like when I’m trying to sleep. I don’t mind telling you that it’s difficult to even sit here talking to you, for more reasons than…what lies between us. But they say that’ll go away. In the meantime, the therapy’s taking care of it.” She dipped her head to achieve eye contact. “But you don’t look okay.”

  “I’m as good as I ever get, Tasha. I just need something to do. I may be off house arrest, but they have me doing busywork, stuff they should be assigning to interns. I don’t know how long it will be before they deign to give a case again. I’m beginning to feel they may never.”

  “They will,” she said. “Talent has a way of fighting its way out of the box.—Or, if you’re interested, a certain individual’s change in fortunes leaves an opening in the division…”

  I shuddered. “No, thanks.” The last thing I needed was a career spent in a box, analyzing the data unearthed by others. I needed to be out where the problems were, dealing with them; being challenged by them, and most importantly, being distracted by them. I w
ould, sooner or later, die without that stimulation.

  Her drink arrived and she kept up her end of the conversation for a while, talking about her own impending transfer to regular Embassy work, her hope that this would give her more free time, a recent news story about a couple of space rogues whose attempt at a scam had just gone hideously awry.

  I gave her one or two-sentence replies until she finally ran out of starters to poke me with, at which point I finally said, “Tasha. What do you want of me?”

  She didn‘t blink. “I wanted to thank you.”

  “There’s no need. I just solved a problem that was put before me.”

  “And in the process returned me to myself.”

  “Something I would do for anybody, even a stranger. You want me to accept your thanks, fine, I accept your thanks. You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re better. But it doesn’t make us friends.”

  She was still neither surprised nor perturbed. She just sipped her drink, gathered her words, and said, “Has it occurred to you, Andrea, that we’ve never really tried to be?”

  “Oh, come on—”

  She cut in. “I mean it. My own ego certainly contributed to the unpleasantness when we worked together, but you have to admit, I had a lot of help from you. And whenever we were not together, treating each other to the death of a thousand and one cuts, I always had other people to go to: friends, family, even a real lover who was worth the emotional effort. One of the reasons I’m transferring to something not quite as all-encompassing is that these are all things I want to have again. But one of the things I knew about you then, and confirmed about you when I had to write that silly report, is that these are pleasures you’ve never let yourself have. This isn’t just an intervention I owe you, Andrea. It’s also something I want to be part of. I want to try. I trust you enough to think you can try too.”