Higgins

by C. G. Cooper

  Higgins sat up. “I assume you’ve talked to them?”

  Another look was exchanged. “You’ll have to talk to Baker about that.”

  “Who’s Baker?”

  Johnson let out a groan. “Not an easy guy to talk to.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  By the time Higgins stepped out of the car, his stomach was still doing gymnastics, but he was sure the remainder of his breakfast was relatively safe. Johnson kept looking around like he expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any second. Higgins wondered if Johnson was just nervous about making it back home to his son, or if something else was going on here. York was flipping through her copy of the dossier and mumbling to herself. Spencer looked stoic. Abrams kept smiling and waving at everyone he passed.

  The group stood awkwardly just inside the building being used as headquarters while the driver fetched their contact. Higgins tried to focus. Despite the sounds of everyday life occurring on the other side of the walls, the silence inside roared in his ears. He was about to open his mouth to say something, anything, when the driver jogged down a set of stairs ahead of them and motioned for them to follow.

  Spencer led the way, and the rest of the team followed. Higgins didn’t miss the fact that Johnson brought up the rear, eyeing all the escape routes with a palpable sense of longing. Higgins was about to fall back and ask him what he was so worried about when a booming voice greeted them from above.

  The voice belonged to a man who stood at least two heads taller than Higgins. He looked like he could be an NFL linebacker, though the military seemed to be suiting him just fine. His eyes were dark and piercing, and when the man looked at him, Higgins couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t quite living up to expectations.

  “Agent Spencer.” His voice was the deepest of baritones. He held out a giant hand, and Spencer shook it with something that bordered on reverence. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Agent Baker.” Spencer held out a hand to the team. “These are our interrogators.”

  “Thatcher says they’re green.” Baker’s gaze landed on Johnson, and his mouth tightened.

  “We’ve got some seasoned agents.” Spencer introduced Abrams and Johnson. “And some newcomers. York and Higgins are our points when it comes to the down and dirty. You’ll have to see it to believe it.”

  “I’m gonna be straight with you, Spencer, and it’s no offense to you, but I didn’t want your team here. You know I’ve got a lot of respect for you, but this is our op. We’ll get Salhab to talk one way or another.”

  “We’re all with the CIA, aren’t we?” Higgins asked. The attention of the room turned on him, and the feeling of inferiority amplified. He swallowed it back.

  “Just because you’re running with the team doesn’t mean you belong on it,” Baker said.

  “I’m no stranger to hubris, Agent Baker, but I’d like to think when it comes to the important matters, even I can set that aside.”

  When Baker took two steps toward him, it was all Higgins could do to hold his ground. “This isn’t about pride,” Baker said. “We’ve got one shot at this. If we screw it up, a lot of people die.”

  Johnson walked up next to Higgins. “From what we’ve heard, you’ve tried it your way. It didn’t work. Now let us try ours.”

  Baker’s gaze slowly slid from Higgins’s face to Johnson’s. Higgins was trying to read the emotion there, but both men had it locked up. For once, his powers of observation were of no use to him.

  Spencer placed a hand on Baker’s shoulder, and Higgins got a sense that he was the only person in the room who could do so. “Director Thatcher sent us because he thought we could help.” He swallowed hard. “You’re not the only one who has a stake in this.”

  Baker held Johnson’s gaze for a few more beats. “Clear the room.”

  Immediately, Baker’s agents dropped what they were doing and went downstairs.

  Spencer turned to their group. “Johnson, Abrams, I want you guys downstairs doing whatever needs to be done. Perimeter checks, weapon maintenance, sweeping the goddamned floors, if you have to. No complaints. Do it.”

  Neither Johnson nor Abrams looked happy about their lot, but they said nothing. Johnson shook his head and cast another glance at Baker before following everyone else out of the room.

  The tension didn’t leave with him. Baker looked Higgins and York up and down before throwing a thumb over his shoulder and saying, “This way.”

  Baker led them to a corner of the room with a long wooden table and a single, bright desk lamp. The table was covered in papers, some written in Arabic and others written in English. There were a few with schematics of a building.

  Before Higgins could get a good look at the papers on top, Baker snatched them up, straightened them on the table, and tucked them into a folder that he threw in a drawer and locked. When he turned back to the three of them, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

  Spencer was the first to speak. “Aren’t we kind of on a timetable here?”

  “Salhab’s been in custody for over twenty-four hours. A few more minutes won’t kill him.”

  “Why are you stalling?” Higgins asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  Higgins pointed a finger at Baker’s chest. “You’re stalling. Why?”

  “I’m assessing.” He turned toward York. “You’ve been quiet.”

  “You’re not the only one assessing,” she said.

  The slightest hint of a smile crossed Baker’s face. “Fair enough. What have you come up with so far?”

  Higgins sighed. “Are you sure you want to waste time doing this?”

  Baker leveled that piercing gaze at him, and Higgins felt the full weight of the other man’s presence. “Look, I understand Director Thatcher trusts you not to fuck this up, but that only got you through the door. If you want to get in the room, you’re gonna need to impress me. This is my op, and these are my men on the line. No offense to the director, but he’s not here. I am. I call the shots.”

  “Fair enough,” York said. She crossed her arms, mirroring Baker, and gave him a once over. “How long have you been in the CIA, Agent Baker?”

  “Going on seven years now.”

  “Before that?”

  “The Marines. Since I was 18.”

  “Married?”

  Baker stiffened. “I don’t talk about my personal life.”

  Higgins rolled his eyes. “We gather information and make assessments based on what we know.” He pointedly looked at the locked drawer behind Baker. “If there are gaps in our knowledge, there are gaps in our assessment. We need to know as much about our subject as possible.”

  Baker’s eyes narrowed, but Higgins could see the gears turning. After a moment, he said, “Married at 22. She died three years later. Cancer. No kids. No one since her.”

  “So, this is your life? This is all you have?” York asked. There was a touch of sadness in her voice.

  “This is all there is for me. It’s what I live for.” There was an edge to his voice; less contentment and more resignation than Higgins had expected. Perhaps once this was not the only thing he’d lived for.

  “So, either Johnson got in bed with your wife or he almost derailed your career,” Higgins said.

  York hissed his name at the same time Baker took two giant steps toward Higgins and stood toe to toe with him.

  “Do you want to repeat that?” Baker said.

  Higgins adjusted his glasses, forcing his hand not to shake. “You asked us to prove ourselves. The kind of things we uncover are not always easy to take in.”

  “He didn’t sleep with my wife,” Baker growled.

  “So, he almost derailed your career.” Higgins forced himself to breathe slowly to lower his heart rate. “What happened?”

  It was difficult staring down a bear of a man like Baker, so when he stepped away, Higgins felt his knees weaken in relief. He took a step back and leaned against the wall to make sure he wouldn’t fall over. York was l
ooking at him with an air of disappointment, but he wasn’t apologetic. He didn’t like beating around the bush. It took too long and they were short on time.

  “Let’s just say our rivalry went from friendly to not so friendly pretty quickly. We both did things we regret. Only difference is, I was the only one who got in trouble for it. He could’ve copped to some of it to save my skin, but he didn’t. Luckily, my punishment didn’t involve packing my bags and heading home.”

  Curiosity burned through Higgins. He wanted to delve deeper, but now was not the time.

  Spencer stepped forward and tapped his watch. “What’s in the drawer, Agent Baker?”

  Baker ran a hand down his face, then looked up at the ceiling and mumbled to himself. By the time he set his gaze back on the three of them, Higgins could tell he’d given in. They’d been working on Salhab for twenty-four hours. It was time to try a different tactic.

  Chapter Forty

  Baker slapped a stack of papers down on the desk. They were the schematics from the drawer. Higgins itched to get his hands on them.

  “When we picked up Salhab, he and his men were scrambling to hide these. Our analysts here in Beirut have been going over them since yesterday.”

  “What did they find out?” Spencer asked.

  “We know they’re planning another bombing. The schematics here are too generic to pinpoint it to one particular location, but we’re fairly certain they’re targeting the United States. Other than that, we haven’t gotten a clue.”

  “And Salhab isn’t talking?” York asked.

  “He’s talking plenty, but he’s not saying anything. He keeps giving us the runaround. We think he’s stalling until his people can rescue him. Chatter has been quiet, but he’s important enough that the jihadis will rally. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Higgins felt the nausea rise up again. “Are we safe here?”

  “For now.” Baker looked to the door. “We’re not exactly hiding, but we’ve got defenses in place that will slow them down long enough for us to get out.”

  “You hope, at least.”

  Baker’s gaze returned to the group in front of him. “We hope.”

  “Let’s not focus on that right now,” Spencer said. “We need more information.”

  “You can go through what we have here.” Baker swept a hand out toward the table. “But I doubt you’ll be able to gather anything more than what we have. No offense.”

  “I’m more interested in learning about his family.”

  Baker’s forehead creased. “Why?”

  “He has several kids and grandkids, right? A wife that’s close by? And one child who’s not involved?”

  “That’s right.” Baker looked between Higgins and Spencer and back again. “I’m still not following.”

  “You’ve talked to him? The son that’s not living here?”

  “We sent a team to find him. He’s changed his name, but we’ve been keeping an eye on him. He doesn’t want anything to do with his father and was agitated when we talked to him. Obviously annoyed that he was being questioned, the son answered all our inquiries anyway. Didn’t try to give us the runaround.”

  “How many children does this son have?” Higgins asked.

  “Just the one. A little girl. She’s five, maybe six years old. Salhab’s never met her. He hasn’t seen his son in close to a decade.”

  “And the other kids?” Higgins asked. “What are they like?”

  “Loyal.” Baker leaned back against the table. “All of them have positions within the organization. Some of the grandkids are old enough to start hanging around, but for the most part they’re kept out of the way.”

  York turned to Higgins. “You think there’s something here?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Wouldn’t hurt to test the waters. You have another angle?”

  “Maybe.” York turned back to Baker. “What’s he like? His personality? Is he stoic? Funny? Personable?”

  Baker bristled. “You’re asking me if a terrorist is personable?”

  “I remember hearing about an Afghani terrorist who loved horses,” York said, unflinching. “Salhab is still a human being, even if he is a terrorist. He has quirks. He has weaknesses. If we know what he’s like, we’ll be closer to finding the truth.”

  Baker sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s chatty. Charismatic, even. He’ll try to derail your line of questioning. Distract you with pointless stories.”

  “No stories are pointless,” Higgins said.

  “He’s proud,” Baker continued. “He’ll tell you all about his British education and his trips to America. He’s devout, both in his religion and his nationalism.”

  “Pride could be a trigger.” York was playing with her lip, deep in thought. “Question his pride and he’ll start talking.”

  “Or he’ll shut down,” Spencer offered. “Make him angry and we may never get what we want.”

  Higgins stepped forward. He was done waiting. “We’ll never know until we get a chance to talk with him, so let’s get on with it. We don’t have any more time to waste talking about the hypothetical.”

  Baker pushed off the desk and swept his gaze over them one last time. Then he walked over to the door and opened it up. “We’re counting on you,” he said. “Don’t screw this up.”

  Salhab was tied to a chair that sat in the middle of a mostly empty room, his back to the door. The ropes that bound his arms and legs were thick and lightly stained with blood. Higgins wasn’t sure if their discoloration had been caused by physical intimidation or if Salhab had tried to escape. Higgins guessed the former.

  When Baker, Spencer, York, and Higgins entered the room, Salhab turned his head to the side and looked at them out of the corner of his eye. Higgins thought perhaps his hair would stand on end, that he would feel the evil rising off this man. He didn’t. Mostly, he just found himself itching to get started.

  “You’ve brought guests.” Salhab’s voice was uniquely accented, a cross between his Middle Eastern upbringing and British English education. There was a smile on his face. “Is this a special occasion?”

  York was the first to step forward in front of Salhab. Higgins followed, but Spencer and Baker hung back. Higgins wasn’t sure what he had expected to see when he finally faced Salhab. Perhaps someone in rags and a wild beard. The media had not been kind to Arabs, and Higgins was sorry to say he had allowed himself to be fed that prejudice by the spoonful.

  Instead, what he found was a well-dressed man with a neatly-trimmed beard and clear eyes. His nose was too large for his face, but his smile was bright and genuine. There was a boyish quality to his face that made you want to trust him. Higgins tamped down that urge.

  “We’re a special interrogation team, Mr. Salhab,” York said, her body language all business.

  “Oh, in that case, I give up,” said Salhab. “I did it! I kidnapped Patty Hearst and killed Jimmy Hoffa!”

  York gave a smirk and pulled a chair up in front of him. Then she sat down with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap. Her back was straight, and her focus was laser-sharp. Higgins stayed standing, just behind her shoulder. He kept his focus trained on Salhab’s every move.

  Salhab spoke directly to Higgins. “I take it you are not the leader of this little group.”

  York leaned forward, pulling his attention back to her. “Does that surprise you?”

  Salhab’s shrug was slow. There was an amused smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Oh, I don’t mind. I consider myself a progressive, much to the chagrin of my colleagues.”

  “Because of your British schooling?” York asked.

  Salhab tried to shift in his seat, but he could only move a few inches one way or the other. “I think it has more to do with my wife. She’s quite strong-willed.”

  “So, she runs the show, does she?” York looked up at Higgins. “I think I like her already.”

  Salhab flashed a broad smile. “I’d like to think we balance each other wel
l. I am still the head of the household, but I hold her opinion in high esteem. She is an intelligent woman. I would be a fool not to consider her counsel.”

  “Interesting.” York leaned slightly to the side and nodded her head at Spencer as if this confirmed a piece of information.

  Salhab looked back up at Higgins. “Who are you?”

  “Specialists,” York said, uncrossing her legs and crossing them the other way.

  “Does he not know English?”

  “Tell us more about your family.”

  Salhab looked weary now. “What about them?”

  “Your children. What are they like?”

  “My sons are loyal and good. Their families are thriving. They are blessed. As am I.”

  “All of your sons?” York asked.

  There was a split second’s hesitation. “All of my sons.”

  “So, you have been in contact with your son in London? The one who wants nothing to do with you.”

  Salhab’s lack of reaction was more telling than if he had ground his teeth together. He had mentally prepared to talk about his estranged child. “I have friends who keep an eye on him.”

  “But you have not seen him in nearly ten years, is that correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And your granddaughter?” York asked. “You’ve never met her?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  Salhab tried shifting again, looking more annoyed by the restraints than he had so far. “My son has chosen his path. I do not agree with it, but I will not fault him for it. He is still my son.”

  “What about his second-born? Do you think you will ever meet him?”

  This time Salhab couldn’t control his reaction. He froze his gaze like lasers boring into York. “He doesn’t have a second child. I would know. Someone would have told me.”

  York knit her eyebrows together and leaned to the side again. She tilted her head in question, then nodded it again. Baker had just enough time to wipe the confused look off his face before Salhab whipped around, nearly toppling himself over in the process.