Higgins

by C. G. Cooper

  Higgins moved his jaw around a stifled sob. “Anyway, all I’m saying is that I know what it’s like to live up to a name. I’m grateful for mine. I’m happy I never truly failed my dad. My name. I’m sorry for those who feel they did.” He leaned forward. “Arthur – can I call you that? We can reverse the damage we do to our name. By just telling our side of it. By standing up and saying, ‘No, this isn’t who I am.’”

  Kinkaid stared at Higgins. He looked over at York once, in an apparent search for an answer.

  Higgins lowered his voice to a whisper. “We just want to know why you did it.”

  Kinkaid looked genuinely confused. “Did what?”

  “Do you know why York and I are here?”

  Kinkaid’s expression remained in place for a beat or two before he erupted into a wide Cheshire grin. “Yes,” he said. “I do.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Kinkaid leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his neck, his smile unwavering. He looked totally at ease. The arrogance made Higgins’s blood boil, but he kept his emotions in check. The last thing Higgins wanted to do was play into the other man’s hands.

  “We just want to know why,” Higgins said.

  Kinkaid’s face slipped into a mask of faux distress. “Why what?”

  “You know what you’ve done,” York said. “You can drop the charade.”

  “Do you have any evidence?” Kinkaid’s eyes were wide with innocence.

  York and Higgins both knew they didn’t have the proof. They had a motive and a means but no physical evidence that linked Kinkaid to the crimes they suspected him of.

  “You and I both know the answer to that,” said Higgins, leaning back in his chair to mirror Kinkaid’s posture.

  Kinkaid threw his head back and laughed. “I hope you haven’t gone to Decker or Zyga with this. You’ll be out of the program. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they locked you in super max for the rest of your lives.”

  “Let us worry about that.” Higgins crossed one leg over the other. “Like I said, right now, I just want to know why you did it. That’s it. It’s done, Kinkaid. York and I are giving you a chance to make it right.”

  “Why in the world would I throw Agent Spencer under the bus? I was on that mission. If he’s in hot water, I’m in hot water.”

  “Except you have the luxury of your last name,” Higgins said.

  “Plus, you never really did anything wrong,” York added.

  “That’s what I keep trying to tell you,” Kinkaid said.

  Higgins leaned forward again. “The mistakes in Beirut fall squarely on Agent Spencer’s shoulders. What you’ve done here to jeopardize the future of this program and the integrity of the agency is on you.”

  There was a flash of anger in Kinkaid’s eyes. Higgins zeroed in on it like a shark sniffing out a drop of blood in the water.

  “I would never jeopardize the integrity of the agency,” Kinkaid said.

  “I don’t think you would, either. I think you made a mistake. But unless you talk to us and come clean with the whys, what else can we assume? All I know for sure is that you’ve sullied your family name. What would your father think? Your grandfather?”

  “We can’t possibly know.” Kinkaid’s voice was hard now. The mask had disappeared. “They died for this country. They did their duty.”

  “Have you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have you done your duty?”

  Kinkaid leaned so far forward, he was inches from Higgins’s face. “Every day since I joined the army at eighteen, you little shit.”

  Higgins held up his hands in surrender, but he let a smile play around on his lips. He could see how it bothered Kinkaid that he wasn’t cowering. It was all Higgins could do not to break out into a grin.

  “You’re getting awfully upset,” said York.

  “Well I don’t like what I was just accused of.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop Agent Spencer from going too far?” said Higgins.

  “He was my superior. It wasn’t my place.”

  “I learned a little something about your father today. Do you want to hear it? Agent Zyga knew your father, as I’m sure you’re aware. They served together for many years. Zyga moved up the ladder much faster than your father.”

  “Get to the point, Higgins,” Kinkaid snapped.

  Higgins held up his finger for patience. “We know Zyga was a hothead in his youth. I believe it, don’t you? He made a call that didn’t sit well with your father, and you know what your father did? He stood up to Zyga. They went toe to toe. A couple punches were thrown, too, but at the end of the day, Zyga says your father talked him off a ledge. Imagine that.”

  “You’re saying I should’ve stood up to Spencer?”

  “Oh, I know you should have. What happened in Beirut may not have been directly your fault, but you still share in the responsibility.”

  Kinkaid stood up suddenly. Higgins, surprised, jumped to his feet, too. York joined them, and Higgins noticed she had planted her feet in anticipation.

  “Spencer fucked up,” said Kinkaid. “I’m sorry, but that’s on him. This whole program is on him. My brother called me and had the balls to tell me I was tarnishing our family’s legacy. Me! Because of what Spencer did in Beirut.”

  Higgins relished the feeling of that final puzzle piece clicking into place. “This whole program must be like a slap in the face, then. For forty years the CIA has been going about its business, and the minute you walk into the picture, it all goes to hell. You, a Kinkaid!”

  Kinkaid was vibrating with anger now, but he was trying to keep it in check. Higgins had to find the one line, the one sentiment that would send him over the edge.

  “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s not only what this program represents to you, it’s what it represents to the world at large. Forty years of interrogation techniques, the very foundation of how we interact with our enemies, have now been thrown out the window because of you.”

  “What? So now we’re meant to be their friends.” There was a dangerous sneer on Kinkaid’s face now. “Talk to them. Get to know them. Understand them.”

  “Understand them, yes,” Higgins said. “Be their friends? Not quite.”

  “The longer you spend in their heads, the more you’ll start sympathizing. Then how can we trust those who are supposed to protect us?”

  “I’d rather learn from our enemies than become one of them.” Higgins adjusted his jacket and looked directly into Kinkaid’s eyes. “Because that’s exactly what you’ve done. You’ve betrayed the agency you claim to be protecting. You’re no better than that dead terrorist in Beirut.”

  Kinkaid’s face gave nothing away before his arm cocked and he swung at Higgins. Luckily, York was faster. She stepped forward, knocking Kinkaid’s arm aside, blocking the punch. It took Kinkaid by surprise and cast him off balance. She used that moment of distraction to send Kinkaid to the ground with a well-placed knee to the groin.

  Higgins stood in shock as York placed that same knee in the middle of Kinkaid’s back and twisted his arms behind him. He was spitting and swearing, but York held him steady.

  “Good work.” Zyga was standing in the doorway, looking down at Kinkaid with contempt. Behind him were Decker, Abrams, Johnson, Spencer, and Director Thatcher.

  Decker pulled out a pair of handcuffs and slapped them on Kinkaid’s wrists, then hoisted him to his feet. “What a waste,” he said. Higgins had heard anger in Decker’s voice before, but it was nothing like this mixture of disappointment and disgust. This was much worse.

  Decker pushed Kinkaid into Johnson’s and Abrams’s arms. “Make sure you put him somewhere uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, sir,” Spencer said. His face was unreadable, but Higgins was sure he wanted to do more than just lock Kinkaid up.

  Thatcher turned toward Higgins and York with an eyebrow raised. “You two make quite the team.”

  The two candidates exchanged a look. Higgins could
n’t help the smile that found its way to his lips. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Although not an ideal circumstance, this is what we’re trying to do, sir,” Decker told the director. “Psychological analysis before physical intervention. It’s not a perfect system, but if we can teach our agents to use their brains before their brawn, we may save lives, money, time—”

  The director held up his hand. “You don’t have to convince me. I’ll work on getting your funding, but you have to keep bringing results.”

  Decker looked vindicated. Zyga looked more relieved than Higgins thought he would. It didn’t last long.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “But we don’t have time to celebrate. I’ve gotten word from my contact. It’s definitely him, and now we know where he is.”

  “Who?” York asked, looking at all three of their superiors.

  Zyga turned toward her and Higgins. “The mastermind behind the Beirut bombings.” His face was tight. “Are you ready for your next mission?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Zyga and Decker stood at the head of the conference room table. All the files had been stacked and pushed to one end of the room. Higgins, York, Abrams, and Johnson huddled around a map that had been spread out before them.

  “Lebanon?” Higgins looked up at Decker, questions in his eyes.

  “That’s where he is,” Zyga answered. He pointed to a spot outside Beirut in the mountains. “He’s been holed up here since the Beirut bombing.”

  “Is this solid intel?” Johnson asked, leaning closer. Higgins could see the tactical gears turning in his head.

  Zyga nodded. “We’ve had a man on the inside for some time. The group is calling themselves the Islamic Jihad. They’re mostly underground, but they’ve got pull in the communities who didn’t want us in Lebanon.”

  “Our target?” Johnson asked.

  “His name is Salhab. He’s not the head of the Islamic Jihad, but he’s one of its commanders. He’s the brains, and according to my source, he’s the guy who ran the Beirut operation.”

  Abrams crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you need us? There are other ways to deal with him.”

  “As in take him out?” Higgins asked, looking back and forth between Decker and Zyga.

  “America needs a win,” Decker said. He looked tired. “Taking Salhab out would get us the revenge we all want, but it won’t do anything for morale if no one knows about it.”

  “So, we want the glory?” York said, her nose wrinkled. “We want to rub it in their faces?”

  “We want to send a message,” Zyga said. “To our people and theirs.”

  “While I understand the tactic,” Higgins said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “the Elite Interrogators Unit just got approved five minutes ago. Calling us green would be a compliment.”

  Decker smiled ruefully. “You’re not wrong, but we like the trial by fire method. Besides, if everything goes according to plan, this won’t play out too differently from what just happened with Kinkaid. We’ll keep you safe, Doctor.”

  For some reason that didn’t make Higgins feel any better.

  Johnson looked like he was itching to get on a plane. “So, what’s the mission?”

  Zyga leaned forward and tapped the spot on the map again. “Find Salhab. Interrogate him. Get him to admit to what he’s done. Make him give up every damn jihadi he’s running, right down to the water boy. Bring him home, and show the rest of the world that it’s a bad idea to come after us.”

  “Interrogate him there?” Higgins asked. The familiar feeling of anxiety-driven acid reflux started creeping up his esophagus. “Why not bring him home first?”

  “We need to hit him hard and fast,” Decker said. “He’s smart. The longer we give him to think, the lower our chances of getting anything out of him.”

  There was a knock on the door, and everyone turned toward it when Spencer walked in. He looked as tired as Decker did, but determined. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Zyga clasped him on the shoulder. “Glad you could make it.”

  “I figured I should be here,” he said, looking down at the map. His eyes were distant. “I should do something to help.”

  “We could use you. But you’re sure you’re up for it?”

  The distance in Spencer’s eyes disappeared, and they hardened. He nodded once, sharply. “What’s the plan?”

  Zyga smiled, looking exhilarated, like everything in the past year had been building to this. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  The sun had just crested the horizon when the team landed in Beirut. Higgins hadn’t fared well on the plane. There had been plenty of turbulence, which he handled with about as much grace as a newborn foal, but the touchdown had really gotten to him. As soon as the wheels hit the landing strip, his breakfast hit the floor.

  The others had been kind enough not to rub it in his face, but he was sure that was just because they were focused on the mission ahead. Chances were that Johnson or Abrams would relay the story in horrifying detail once they were back on American soil.

  Higgins apologized to the stewardess as he sidestepped his mess and descended the stairs on wobbly legs. The cool morning air helped revitalize him, but his stomach was still doing cartwheels. He felt another rush of heat take over his body as his vision went spotty. He put his hand out and found Spencer’s shoulder. The other man gave him a once over and shrugged him off, motioning for Abrams to come over and lend Higgins a hand.

  “How you doin’, Al ol’ boy?” Abrams sounded distracted. Higgins couldn’t blame him. They weren’t entirely sure what they were walking into.

  “I’ll be fine sooner or later.”

  “You’re doing great, pal. Just make it sooner.” Abrams maneuvered them in the direction of a black sedan sitting outside the hangar they’d parked in.

  Higgins’s stomach rolled at the thought of sitting inside another confined space that was sure to bounce and jerk him around, but he tamped down on the feeling. He had to focus. His nausea had kept him from looking over the dossier that had been passed around the cabin. He didn’t have any more time to waste.

  Decker and Zyga had gotten in contact with a team of fellow agents who were stationed in Beirut, tasked with keeping an eye on the situation. They had heard rumors of a man named Salhab who had apparently orchestrated the bombing a year ago. He had been bragging about his deeds to an informant and word had gotten out. The taskforce found him holed up in some cave and dragged his ass back to their base. They’d tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t crack.

  That’s when Director Thatcher decided to send his new team of interrogators out on their inaugural mission.

  Bile threatened to force its way back up Higgins’s throat as soon as he pulled himself inside the sedan, but he clenched his jaw and took long, deep breaths of stale air.

  Johnson got in next to him, glaring. “You blow your chunks again, Higgins, and I’ll make you sit in it for five minutes and then walk the rest of the way.”

  Higgins ignored him and leaned forward to talk to one of the two unfamiliar agents up front. “Any chance we can turn the air on?”

  “Doesn’t work.” His words were muffled by a truly impressive beard.

  Higgins leaned back and grabbed the handle to roll down the window. It moved it about two inches before stopping and refused to go any further. He groaned.

  “Keep it together, Higgins,” Johnson said. “I mean it.”

  Higgins stuck his head as close to the cracked window as he could. As much dust as air came through the opening, but he didn’t care. The sweat on his forehead turned cool. “Read me the file.”

  “Read it yourself.”

  Higgins leveled a glare at Johnson. “Either you read me that file or what little is left of my breakfast is going to end up in your lap.”

  Johnson worked his jaw back and forth, but relented. Higgins caught no more than the name on the file before his stomach and the car lurched in unison. He closed his eyes and let the air wash
over his face while he listened to Johnson drone on.

  “Salhab in his early 60s. Went to a university in England. He—”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where did he go to school?”

  A pause. “Oxford.”

  “Hmm.”

  “That mean something?” Johnson asked.

  “Maybe. Keep going.”

  Johnson cleared his throat. “Has a wife and four children. Ten grandchildren.”

  “Do we know where any of them are?”

  “Nothing here says so.”

  “He keeps his wife away from all this,” the other agent said. He was sitting in the front passenger seat. Unlike his companion, he had a clean-shaven face. He looked back at Higgins with piercing blue eyes. “You really gonna be able to crack him by just talking to him?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Rumors.”

  “We’re not miracle workers,” Higgins said. He paused to take another breath of dusty air. His tongue was beginning to feel like sandpaper. “But, yeah. That’s the general idea.”

  “How?” the clean-shaven one said.

  “By knowing as much about him as possible. Drawing conclusions. Getting him to dig his own grave.”

  The two men in the front of the car exchanged a look but didn’t say anything.

  “We know about his wife,” Higgins said. “What about the children?”

  “Three of them are here. One lives in England with his family. Doesn’t want anything to do with him.”