Higgins

by C. G. Cooper

  “You arrived after me which means you’re late,” Zyga said as he opened the door for them.

  “Just give me one more chance, sir,” the man pleaded.

  Higgins studied Zyga’s face. The man smiled. It wasn’t due to any mirth. Rather, it was because of what he was about to do to the poor guy.

  “Interesting,” said Zyga. “Give you one more chance. Tell me, how do you justify your existence?”

  The man’s lower lips quivered. “Sir?”

  “Dig the dogshit out of your ears, son, and tell the group here how you justify your existence on this earth.”

  “I—”

  “Are you wasting our time?” said Zyga with obvious relish. His smile colored his words. “Out with it, or go home this instant.”

  “I-, uh...” He stammered for a moment. The room was rapt. “I have a wife.”

  “A wife. That’s very interesting. What’s her name?”

  “Um, Angela, sir.”

  “Angela. So, you allow other people like this Angela person to justify your existence for you?”

  For God’s sake, just send the poor guy home already, thought Higgins. You’re going to anyway.

  “I-, uh... I want to serve...”

  “You want to serve. Serve whom? Angela?”

  “My country, sir.”

  Zyga lifted his head in mock understanding. “Oh, your country. How noble of you.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the man licked his lips.

  “Anything else?” said Zyga.

  “No, sir,” the man said with half a voice. Higgins wasn’t the only one in the room who knew what was coming.

  “Folks,” said Zyga. “We’ve got a gentleman here who lives not for himself but for others. How utterly goddamned delightful.” He turned back to the man. “Tell us, please, so that we may learn from your example: How does tardiness serve anyone?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Hold it, I’m not through. We all want to know how you imagine your laziness helps to serve your country. You did say that you justify your existence by serving your country, didn’t you? So, we’d all like to know. Unless, of course, you can’t justify your existence. In which case, your existence is worthless.”

  Another moment of silence, this one like a thunderclap.

  “I wonder how you’ll face Angela tonight when you go home and tell her the reason you were booted out of here.”

  “S-sir...”

  “Go the hell home, boy,” said Zyga. “We’re not in the market for worthlessness.” “Both of you.”

  The men slunk out of the room looking lower than a snake’s belly. That answered the question about whether or not the game would be fair, Higgins thought.

  “To those of you who just lost one of your team members, I have no sympathy for you. You will be working at a disadvantage today on a team of two instead of three. If you have a problem with that, you can go follow the slug trail that miserable excuse for a human being just left on his way out the door.”

  The two groups that were down a member exchanged looks, but kept their mouths shut. They might be at a disadvantage, but they were still in the game. For now.

  One of the trainers, Kinkaid, passed out manila envelopes with their assignments as Decker stepped forward to explain the day’s task. Higgins, sitting closest to the aisle, received the envelope and immediately passed it to Johnson. Throw the man a bone now, and maybe Higgins would get one later.

  “Each of you will be directed to a series of interrogation rooms,” Decker began. “Each one holds a prisoner. There will be three subjects in total, one for each team member. Your goal for today is to gather as much information as possible about the terrorist attack found in your folder. There is also a codeword in your packet. If you speak this word to your subject, you will be sent home. You must get him to say the word on his own. That’s when the game is over.”

  Decker paused and took a moment to look at each person seated in front of him. “This isn’t the little leagues, people. Each one of your cases is an open investigation. These are real suspects connected to the act of terrorism detailed in your packet. You are free to employ any tactic you see fit in order to gain the necessary information, except for physical contact. Any questions?”

  Higgins looked around. Something didn’t feel right. If they were truly talking to real life suspects on their first day, then someone on high must be desperate to upgrade the CIA’s interrogation capability. Way more desperate than Higgins had initially gathered.

  His gaze flicked to York for a moment. Her eyebrows were knit together. She was looking down at the paper in front of her, but it didn’t seem as though she was taking it in. Were they the only ones who thought something was off here?

  A hand shot up from the other side of the room. Decker nodded, and the man cleared his throat before speaking. “How long do we have to complete the task?”

  “You will not go back to your quarters until each of your team’s subjects has spoken the word in your packet. It might take one day or twelve. You will complete the task, or you will remove yourself from the program.”

  Zyga stepped up beside Decker. “Are there any other questions?”

  No one dared to raise a hand.

  Decker scanned the room one last time. “Begin.”

  Chapter Five

  Johnson opened the envelope and pulled out three pieces of stark white paper. Higgins and Abrams leaned in to get a good look.

  The first page contained basic information on a bombing that took place in France two years before. An explosive device had gone off in a park, killing several vacationing families from England, Spain, and the United States. The explosive was homemade, meaning officials weren’t able to track any of the materials. It was also a unique piece of equipment known as a one-and-done. This meant that its function was to leave no clues in the destruction that could identify a known suspect or terrorist cell.

  The second page contained grainy black-and-white photos of three men. Two of the shots were taken in a park while the third was taken behind a car on a street. One man looked Middle-Eastern while the other two were obviously Caucasian.

  The third page contained a single word, typed out in the middle in a large font.

  “Pasadena?” Abrams whispered. “We must to get them to say Pasadena? How are we supposed to do that?”

  “Zyga and Decker must know more than they’re letting on,” Higgins offered. “They’re using us to gather more information, right? We’re doing the legwork on an open investigation. But they probably have intelligence on these cases. It’s unlikely they only know a couple of paragraphs’ worth of info.”

  “So, if we can lead them down the road to saying Pasadena, it means they may know something more about the bombing.”

  “I’ll take this guy,” Johnson interjected, pointing at the Middle-Eastern man. “He looks like he’d know what’s going on, and I need to let off some steam.”

  Higgins bristled. He was all for letting Johnson be the pseudo leader of the group, but he couldn’t risk something going horribly wrong and the entire team taking a hit because of it. “Decker said no physical contact.”

  Johnson stared ahead and worked his jaw before he answered. “You don’t know much about game theory, do you, Higgins? This guy’s in no position to rat me out. With that in mind, there’s a threshold of what I can get away with. You see? So, you worry about your methods, and I’ll worry about mine. Speaking of, how are you going to get any information out of your subject, Higgins? Planning to torture him with Calculus lessons?”

  “Alright, fellas, let’s quit with the infighting,” Abrams said, holding his hands up like a referee. He turned to Higgins. “That said, I’ve gotta say, Al – can I call you Al? – Johnny boy here’s got a point. You got an idea of how you’re gonna tackle this one?”

  “I have my methods. I’m here for a reason, just like you.”

  “Right you are, right you are.” Abrams turned his smile on Johnso
n. “Let’s give the guy a chance before we count him out. I’ve got a feeling ol’ Al here has a trick or two up his sleeve.”

  Johnson ground his teeth, but kept his mouth shut. Even he had to realize that ostracizing a team member this early on wouldn’t do him any favors. They all had to complete their task to stay in the program.

  Abrams leaned forward. “Heard a rumor this morning from my good friend Dave.”

  “Who’s Dave?” Higgins asked, scanning the room for the man who had been sitting with Abrams that morning at breakfast.

  Abrams waved away the question. “He’s not in the program. He’s friends with a friend of a friend of a friend of Zyga’s or something like that. Anyway, he said the team that comes in last place is goin’ home “.

  “So, let’s not fuck this up.” Johnson looked right at Higgins when he said it.

  Higgins did not respond.

  Two loud claps came from the front of the room. The candidates turned in unison to see Zyga back at the front, hands on his hips, looking even more perturbed than the day before.

  “Alright rookies, Agent Spencer will take you to your interrogation rooms and give you further instructions. Fall out.”

  Spencer stepped forward and motioned for the candidates to follow him out the door. He was about as warm and comforting as Zyga.

  “Each team will have a shared common room that leads into three separate interrogation rooms,” Spencer said, his voice pure gravel. “Each of the interrogation rooms is divided by a two-way mirror. You will have a copy of the information found in your packet. You will not take it, or anything else, inside the room with your subject. Understood?”

  As militant as Spencer was in his instruction, he looked as though he didn’t want to be there. He had the air of a man with too many things going on in his life. Busy fingers that labored at some invisible task on the outside. Creases beside his mouth, tailor-fitted to his frown.

  “You may not venture outside the common room until all three members of your team complete their mission. You will eat, sleep, and relieve yourselves in the common room. Once you pick a subject, only you are allowed inside that interrogation room. You may exit at any time into the common room in order to confer with your teammates, but they may not follow you into your interrogation room or help you interrogate your prisoner. Understood?”

  The candidates following Spencer down a long, brightly lit hallway all murmured their consent.

  “Sir?” someone asked from the back.

  “Keep your questions to yourself,” Spencer said, stopping in front of a pair of doors. “This exercise is meant to test your ability to complete a mission with a minimal amount of information. Figure it out, or go home.”

  Spencer opened the first door on the right and ushered a team inside. Across the hall, York and two men entered the next room. Two doors down, Higgins, Johnson, and Abrams were escorted inside their own room. The chuck-chunk-click of the self-locking door resounded behind them.

  The common room consisted of one neatly-made cot, a bare silver cart that would presumably hold whatever food their team leader deemed appropriate to provide for them, and a toilet in the corner. There was more emptiness here than anything else. They’d left their spirits outside as well.

  “Charmin’,” Abrams remarked.

  Each wall contained a door with a piece of paper taped to it. Johnson walked over to the one on his left. “That’s my guy,” he said, pointing to the image of the Middle-Eastern man. “See you on the other side, ladies.”

  As soon as Johnson disappeared behind the door, Abrams whistled and turned to Higgins. “I don’t know about you, Al, but Johnny boy there is getting on my last nerve.”

  Higgins didn’t say anything. He couldn’t get a good enough read on Abrams to tell if he was being genuine or if he was looking for information to use against him later. Better safe than sorry.

  Abrams waited a beat before nodding his head and turning on his heel. He pointed at the door across from him. “I’m gonna take this fella for a spin. Good luck in there, Al.”

  Higgins waited until the door clicked closed before walking over to the final picture. The man was young, younger even than him, compounded by his clean-shaven face. Upon opening the door and stepping through, Higgins found himself in a tiny room with a door on the opposite end. A single chair and table sat in the center with several pieces of paper on top, presumably containing more information about his subject.

  To the right was a two-way mirror, and on the other side sat the young man at a table, his arms handcuffed behind his back.

  Higgins ruffled the pages of information. The first was a copy of the debriefing from the bombing in France. He read through it again and placed it on the bottom. Next was a page on the young man in the interrogation room. His name was Henri Moreau, and he was twenty-two years old. He hailed from a small town in Southern France called Nogaro, had left home at 16, and had found his way to Paris. He went to Paris Descartes University for one year before dropping off the grid. He emerged two years later in the park on the day the bombings took place and was subsequently captured three days later when he was spotted leaving a train station.

  Moving this page to the bottom as well, Higgins noted the word “Pasadena” on the last page before getting up and walking over to the mirror.

  The young man had unnaturally dark hair and bushy eyebrows that drew attention to his hooded eyes. His nose was sharply pointed, and his mouth turned down in what was probably a permanent scowl. His arms were strong, but his back was hunched. He kept shifting around in his seat, glancing in turn at the door, the mirror, and the camera on the ceiling.

  Higgins waited a full fifteen minutes before entering the room. He had watched plenty of interrogations, had read countless reports about how this person or that was finally convinced to give up the information they had. Funny how it was only at this very moment that he realized he had never sat in on an interrogation, let alone conducted one himself.

  Alvin Higgins took a deep breath and entered the room.

  “Bonjour, Henri. Hey, those things too tight?”

  Chapter Six

  “They’re ok,” the prisoner said in a plaintive voice.

  “Ok, that’s good.” Higgins sat down in the chair and smiled again. “Just let me know if you need me to loosen them for you, alright?”

  The young man shifted, twitched, sniffed, and knitted his eyebrows together.

  “I want you to just relax,” said Higgins. “We’re here to have a conversation, that’s all.”

  Higgins shook his head as thoughts raced through his mind. A conversation. That was a rich word indeed. Here was a possible terrorist. At the very least, a suspect in a bombing that killed a dozen other people including a three-year-old girl. And he just wanted to have a conversation.

  Easy does it, Alvin ol’ boy...

  The man’s eyebrows were raised. He was staring at Higgins’s neck.

  “Are you staring at my bow tie? Nobody wears them anymore. I always liked them. Makes me feel like I’m smarter than I am. But I guess it’s also because they’re from an era when people took pride in their appearance. They didn’t just wear certain things because they were expected to. But it can backfire on you, I know that. People make fun of me all the time. Anytime you see fit to express yourself these days, you open yourself up to scrutiny. It’s almost as if people feel threatened by it or something. Expressing yourself. Higgins paused and began speaking to Henri in French. ‘I had a friend who was a high school math teacher. His first day on the job, he wore a beautiful silk tie from Japan. It had this beautiful dragon design on it and everything. Anyway, he enters his first class on his first day, and this big fat freshman sitting in the front row scowls at him and told him his tie sucked!’”

  Henri gave a half-hearted smile.

  “I’m glad you understood that story. My French is passable, but I must admit it would not sound pleasant to a native speaker.”

  Higgins felt his hands beginning to
sweat. A thousand thoughts were flying through his mind, but one stuck to the forefront: whenever he watched interrogation tapes, they never revealed their real names. He scrambled for a pseudonym and came up short. Better to just dive right in.

  “First thing I want to do, Henri, is to talk about why you’re here, and what happened in the Jardin des Tuileries. And all I want to do is to give you a chance to tell your side of the story. Sound good?”

  A shrug in response.

  “May I ask? Is Henri Moreau your real name?”

  Henri shrugged again, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips.

  Any inclination to Higgins that this would be easy flew out the window like a lark bolting for freedom. He wished he could’ve brought the packet of information inside the room with him. His memory, usually impeccable, was fading in the face of his daunting task. Higgins cleared his throat and pushed on, latching onto the first bit of information he remembered.

  “I’ve been told you went to Paris Descartes University for a year. That’s quite a prestigious school, especially for a young man of your upbringing. I can’t imagine you had much money growing up.”

  “We did not.”

  “You wanted to be a doctor?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I asked if you wanted to be a doctor.”

  “Oui.”

  “Any particular kind?”

  “I hadn’t decided yet.”

  “You’d be Dr. Moreau. That’s an H.G. Wells novel. The Island of Dr. Moreau. You familiar?”

  “Non.”

  “Oh, it’s a wonderful book. Anyway, I have two degrees myself. One in psychology and one in philosophy.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I think so. My mother was quite proud. Was yours?”

  “Was mine what?”

  “Was your mother proud of you? Getting into a Parisian school must have been a big deal for your family. Was she proud?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did she say when you dropped out?”