Half-Past Dawn

by Richard Doetsch

  A large man in a black pinstriped suit greeted Jack with an outstretched hand. “Special Agent Carter Dorran, FBI.”

  Carter stood just over six feet, a commanding presence in both stature and voice, with a deep tone that his fellow agents mocked behind his back. Despite the weather, he wore no coat and seemed unaffected by the elements.

  “Jack Keeler,” Jack said as he shook his hand.

  Dorran helped his agents secure the unmarked powerboat and turned to Jack. “Please excuse the formality, but we need your ID and to check your person.”

  Jack smiled, his breath coming out in great clouds. He fully understood the procedure. He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open, and displayed the two-year-old picture. At Dorran’s nod, Jack extended his arms out, allowing him to run his hands up and down his body in the usual manner. Jack looked at Peter, who was enduring the same treatment, smiling at the irony; neither had ever been on this side of a pat-down.

  Under the glow of a full moon, Jack looked up at the mansion in the distance. The enormous Georgian-style house, made of field-stone quarried from the island’s bedrock, was more than twenty-five thousand square feet and was entirely self-sufficient, with a power plant, a water desalination station, and a communication center all installed in the late ’70s when the mansion had seen extensive use as a classified government facility. Being off the radar, the island and the once-magnificent home were the perfect location to be forgotten. During the first half of the ’80s, it had been used for everything from a safe house to a refuge for Russian defectors at the end of the Cold War. In recent years, its location and function had fallen off even the radar of the government.

  Dorran led Jack and Peter up the gangway and ushered them into a waiting golf cart. He drove up the long cobblestone pathway, the sides of which were overgrown with knee-high grass and weeds that poked up through a dusting of snow. Several felled trees, evidence of hurricane season, had yet to be removed, their haphazard patterns adding to the ominous appearance of the mostly wooded island. The enormous Georgian mansion was overrun with ivy that wove and flittered along its stone, giving it a Gothic feel.

  A belching choke filled the night, as a generator muscled to life in the distance. And almost immediately, lights around the estate began to go from a dull orange, intensifying like the rising sun, into a full glow. The shadows around the mansion were chased away as walkway lights and decorative sconces flanking the entranceway lit the stone home into a semblance of its former glory.

  Arriving in the circular courtyard, Jack and Peter hopped out of the cart and walked past two large stone lions that flanked the slate step and led to an enormous mahogany entrance door.

  The choice of venue was Jack’s, which Peter, the FBI, and the Justice Department quickly agreed to in order to avoid the prying eyes of the press, or worse. It was the perfect location to hold Nowaji Cristos, the perfect place to conduct his interrogation.

  Jack followed Dorran and Peter through the large doors and couldn’t help pausing in wonder, looking around the place that only existed in his dreams, a place that had sat two miles from his childhood home. It had lived in his imagination, in tales from a bygone era, when high society arrived in magnificent yachts for weekend parties that dragged on all summer. He couldn’t help picturing flappers and Gatsby types dancing until dawn, sipping champagne, the jazz band never tiring.

  He had only seen the island from the perspective of sandy beaches and the overgrown graves in the potter’s field on the far side. He had never thought that the grandeur might exceed his imagination. The marble foyer was cavernous, his footsteps echoing off the decorative floors and dark-paneled walls. Dual staircases mirrored each other, their polished banisters and maroon carpeted stairs leading up to fourteen bedrooms.

  As they walked, Jack peered into the library, an Old World room wrapped in floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and ghostly mementos of those long gone. The fireplace was enormous, speaking of an age before furnaces and heat. The oversized mantel and the shelves and furniture were caked with dust.

  They walked past a billiard room and a parlor, through a chef’s kitchen that hadn’t known the smell of food in years, and came to a stop in the rear service hall.

  “Bit of a surreal setting,” Peter said.

  “Yeah, especially when the ghosts from the potter’s field come out and you realize you’re isolated on this island.”

  “Did you get a look at this guy yet?” Jack asked. “Any sense of what we’re dealing with?”

  “There is something in his eyes. A coldness. I don’t know if he’s practiced the look or it comes natural.” Dorran shook his head. “Cute name, Nowaji Cristos, loosely translated as ‘risen ghost.’”

  “Nice,” Jack said. “Safe to say that’s not the name his mama gave him. Is this guy stable, or are we thinking he’s going to play the insane card?”

  “The docs will check him out, but I don’t think he’s insane at all. A sociopath, yeah, but his mind knows what he is doing. There is no disconnect.”

  “Do we have a file on him yet?” Jack asked.

  “Beyond a name, we’ve got nothing else,” Dorran said. “No intelligence, background, nothing. CIA, Interpol, all came up blank so far.”

  “No one has spoken to him, correct?”

  “He was taken into federal custody, under my orders,” Peter said. “Not a word was said.”

  “Think he was working alone?”

  “Yes and no. He’s a hired gun. Someone was paying his way, though he seems too fastidious, too confident, to rely on any accomplice. Weapon, clothes, watch, all expensive but untraceable.”

  “Any thought on who hired him?”

  “CIA sent an operations officer; he’s here somewhere. He’s the expert on the political machinations of Pashir.”

  “He’s not going to try to jockey for position, is he?”

  “No, within our borders, it’s just you, me, and Dorran’s FBI,” Peter said. “Consider him a source for all the things you can’t find on Google.”

  “Seriously,” a thin, prematurely balding twenty-five-year-old said as he came out of a side room. “I’m reduced to human search engine?”

  “Cyril Latham,” Dorran said as he pointed at Jack and Peter. “Womack and Keeler.”

  Latham handed them each a file. They quickly scanned them as they continued to walk. Peter finally looked up and said, “So, this guy he killed, this general, he’s a despot?”

  Latham nodded. “The list of people who wanted him dead is long. We’re running ballistics against both ours and Interpol’s database. We’re cross-referencing everything Carter has given us against the world stage. This guy was bad news. The only person who would truly mourn him is his mother, but he killed her years ago.”

  “Nice,” Peter said.

  “As terrible as the general was,” Latham said, “the United States has an international obligation to try this man.”

  “And the Pashir government isn’t looking for extradition?”

  “They barely have laws,” Latham said, “let alone a judicial system. They want him tried and hung on our soil so as not to create a martyr or make a mistake.”

  “And the CIA’s position on him?” Peter asked.

  “Unless we can somehow tie him to some other activity, Director Turner will not stand in your way. He’s currently an unknown to us.”

  “I suggest the three of us do the initial interrogation,” Peter said to Jack and Dorran. “Let’s see where this goes.”

  “I’ll lead,” Carter said. “Feel free to interject, ask questions, whenever you want.”

  Jack was actually a very skilled interrogator; he was good at getting people to speak, whether it be on the stand, in an interrogation room, or at a party, but he was happy to defer and step in when needed.

  A man approached from the opposite end of the hall.

  “This is Alex Casey,” Dorran said, introducing Jack to the red-haired FBI agent.

  “Mr. Casey will escort
us and remain during the interrogation.”

  Jack looked the man over. He was dressed in dark loose-fitting clothes, not the usual dark suit and tie or blue windbreaker of the FBI. Like the other guards, he had a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol at his side, while an HK submachine gun was strapped over his shoulder. Casey possessed the lean, strong body of a swimmer, his eyes focused and alert. There was no question about the man’s abilities.

  Casey slipped his key into the lock, opened the door, and ushered Dorran, Peter, and Jack into a dark room. The only source of light leaked through enormous red velvet curtains that had been drawn across a picture window.

  Casey flipped a switch, flooding the room with a harsh, bright light courtesy of a temporary flood in the corner of what was now seen to be a parlor. The walls were covered in chintz wallpaper, the floor in wall-to-wall burgundy carpet. A guard stood silently in the corner, his rifle clutched tightly against his chest.

  All furniture had been stripped away except for a metal table in the center of the room and several hard wood chairs. Casey drew back the curtains, revealing an eerily lit backyard, the leaf-filled pool, a tennis court with a torn net. The picture window was obscured by a chain-link fence that reached from floor to ceiling; its galvanized metal links stood in sharp contrast to the room’s decor.

  In the center of the room sat Cristos in a large wooden high-backed chair, his wrists cuffed to the thick oak arms, his ankles chained to the heavy legs. He was dressed in the dark charcoal-gray suit he was captured in; the knot of his blue tie was perfect. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The day’s growth on his face only served to enhance his ominous appearance, which agitated even the guards. It was as if they had caged Satan and were awaiting his retribution.

  But it was his eyes that disturbed Jack the most. They were dark, malevolent, and fixed on Jack, like a predator lying in wait to strike down its innocent prey. He studied Jack for several seconds before turning his assessing eyes on Peter and Dorran.

  Casey walked backward, practically disappearing into the corner. He spun his rifle forward, gripping it tightly to his chest, thumbing off the safety as if to send a message.

  The three sat down before Cristos, Dorran in the middle, Peter to his left, Jack to his right.

  “I am Special Agent Carter Dorran. You are in the custody of the United States government and the state of New York and are being charged with murder. This is Peter Womack from the U.S. Justice Department.” Carter pointed at Peter and then at Jack. “And Jack Keeler, the DA from New York City. Would you like an attorney?”

  “Not yet,” Cristos said softly.

  “Understand that our legal system provides-”

  “You should be aware that I understand your judicial process as well as, if not better than, you.” Cristos spoke as if he wasn’t bound, as if he wasn’t being interrogated, as if he was before a legal committee in a large corporation.

  “Do you wish to offer a confession,” Dorran said, “or should we proceed?”

  Cristos nodded.

  “Can you explain what you were doing in that building’s elevator shaft?”

  “No,” Cristos answered.

  “Were you in the Bonsleys’ apartment?”

  As Dorran continued his questioning, Jack opened the file and examined the images of the dead general, a single bullet hole above his left eye; of the Bonsleys’ laid out against each other, their heads tilted at odd, impossible angles. Jack fought the sour feeling in his stomach, trying to hide the emotion from his face.

  While most would succumb to the horror and reality of death, of brutal murder, their minds overcome with grief and revulsion, Jack was different. Anger had arisen in him at the violation of the most basic tenet of human existence.

  As he continued listening to the line of questioning, in a slow reveal of emotion, Cristos smiled as he glimpsed Jack’s reaction.

  “You killed a head of state,” Peter said. “Was this on behalf of a foreign government?”

  Cristos took a deep breath and turned his full attention to Jack. “Mr. Keeler is the most skilled man in the room, yet he is silent.”

  Peter paused a moment before continuing. “Are you working on behalf-”

  “I’m only going to have a conversation with one of you,” Cristos said, still staring at Jack.

  “You don’t dictate how this interrogation goes,” Dorran said.

  Cristos glanced at Jack’s wedding ring. “Married?”

  Jack didn’t respond.

  “Children?” Cristos paused. “Children are amazing. They make us see the world from a whole new perspective. They teach us patience, tolerance, and sacrifice.”

  Jack stared at Cristos, assessing him, letting him continue.

  “It’s interesting how every child starts off innocent,” Cristos continued, “but each follows a different path. Some become men like you; some become men like the general; some become like me.” Cristos paused. “Do you think it’s fate, someone pulling strings, or do we choose our own path?”

  Jack had conducted too many interrogations to count. There were moments to listen, moments to speak, moments to challenge, and moments to play mind games. He knew the personality types: the passive-aggressive who attacked with charm; the ultraviolent whose rage was obvious and explosive; the compliant and cooperative who answered every question without hesitation, weaving stories on the spot that they believed as much as they hoped the interrogator would. And then there were the types like Cristos.

  “What you did today was monstrous,” Jack finally said.

  Cristos leaned forward, becoming more attentive.

  “In the last twenty-four hours,” Jack continued, “you took three lives.”

  “And how many did I save in the process?”

  “Save?” Jack asked with a raised brow.

  “How many people would have died at the order of the general just in the next month?”

  “So your defense is that you killed three to save more?” Dorran said, trying to reenter and resume control of the conversation. “Well, that’s not how it works.”

  Cristos ignored Dorran and spoke directly to Jack. “When a soldier, a military man, kills another man, when a fighter jet drops a bomb destroying a village, it’s for honor and country. But when an individual kills, it is called murder. Why is that?”

  “Don’t equate war with this,” Jack said.

  “We’re all at war in some way or another. Some people use their words to fight, to tear the opposition apart emotionally. Others”-Cristos tilted his head at Jack and Peter-“use their legal system of laws, to take down and destroy their opponents’ freedom and security. And others forgo destroying the character, choosing just to eliminate the individual altogether.”

  “Did the Bonsleys deserve to die?”

  “Do the people in a poor village where an errant bomb was dropped deserve to die? Dispatching death in a war, when a country deems it necessary to success, is understood by humanity, but when it deals in eliminating a single man, when the public doesn’t understand its purpose, it’s horrific, shocking, evil.”

  “Did you kill those three people today?” Jack asked.

  Cristos smiled. “You’re going to have to do at least a little work here, Jack. Let me ask you a question. Are you the type who is more interested in justice, truth, or an eye for an eye?”

  Jack said nothing.

  “Could you look me in the eye and kill me so others might live? Put your lawyerly self aside. Could you be the hangman? Hold the pistol to my head and pull the trigger to save lives?” Cristos paused, waiting for Jack to answer. “I didn’t think so. It’s always so much easier from behind the curtain, pulling other people’s strings to do your bidding. Well… I just think you should know, if you asked me the same question, I’d have no problem laying that pistol right up against your temple and pulling the trigger.”

  “Too bad you’ll never get that chance. You no longer have control of any strings.”

  “You think you’re in contro
l here.” Cristos smiled. “But are you?”

  Jack stared at him.

  “Do you know whom to trust? You don’t think I’ve been captured before? You don’t think I have ever escaped?” Cristos smiled again. “Always remember, control is tenuous at best.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Jack said with a placating tone as he looked at Cristos’s chains.

  The two men studied each other, the moment drawing out.

  “OK,” Dorran said. “I think-”

  “I was in love once.” Cristos ignored Dorran, cutting him off.

  “And she loved you in return?” Jack asked.

  “She died before I ever knew the truth.”

  “Is that supposed to make me sympathetic?”

  “No, just a reminder.” Cristos looked at Jack’s wedding ring. “We never know how long we have with the ones we love.”

  Anger flowed into Jack’s face, wiping his calm away as he realized that he had let Cristos lead the conversation. “We’re done,” Jack said as he stood up. Dorran and Peter followed his lead.

  “Are we going to finish our conversation?” Cristos said.

  “You are being charged with the murder of three individuals,” Jack said as he looked into Cristos’s dark eyes. “We have every intention to try, convict, and see you executed for the deeds you have done. Your smugness, your overconfidence, will only help me make this happen quicker.”

  Jack turned and headed for the door.

  “I’d hold tight to your wife and kids,” Cristos said. “God knows what might happen if a monster like me ever got hold of them.”

  Jack, Peter, and Dorran silently walked through the grand mansion, past the library and the parlor; this time, the rooms didn’t even register.

  “What do you think?” Peter asked.

  “This guy is far more than I or anyone thinks,” Jack said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Hired gun, very cool, and very experienced. He has a resume we probably couldn’t even fathom.” Jack looked at Dorran “Think we can tie him to anything else?”

  “No. Not yet, at least,” Dorran said. “The fact that we caught him is pure luck.”