Chuck Bartowski stared through the one way mirror into the dank, subterranean cement chamber. A man clothed in nothing more than a pair of underwear, sat handcuffed to a small, ridiculously uncomfortable-looking chair. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, dangling a foot or so above him. The stark glare of the light combined with his state of near total exhaustion, caused the man's head to droop forward, leaving his chin resting on his chest. He was dangerously close to losing his balance and toppling over, which was exactly what they wanted.
Chuck checked his watch. He was running out of time and patience. He'd just as soon shoot this piece of human refuse and get it over with, but the present situation was more complicated than that, the outcome of this interrogation would ultimately impact the lives of two undisclosed C.I.A. agents and thousands of American civilians.
He rubbed his forehead in frustration, he needed the man to talk that was the point of this endeavour. They all talked eventually, of course, that wasn't the problem. The trick was to get them to tell you the truth. This was no exception. So far, he was sticking to his story, a story Bartowksi knew to be an outright lie.
Agent Carmichael was in some ways, the alter ego of Chuck Bartwoski. He was the man who looked back at him in the mirror when he fixed his tie, or buttoned up his shirt. He was smooth, unemotional, and secretive all the qualities that were essential in being a spy, but there were certain elements that had given him his premature status of a legend. One being, he was the intersect.
Almost four years ago, the rogue spy known as Larkin, Chuck's ex- roommate and ex-friend sent him an e-mail on his twenty-fifth birthday and in it, hosted the buried secrets of the American government. At that moment his life had changed, he had become what is known as the intersect, or simply the governments own super- computer. He was assigned two handlers for his protection and lived for a further two years under the scrutiny of American intelligence.
He, naively fell in love with one such handler known under the identity as Sarah Walker, she left a shattered man and thus the final stage in his new creation commenced- The C.I.A. agent was born, Charles I. Carmichael.
He hated coming to this place. It literally made his skin crawl. It had all the charm of a mental hospital without the barred windows and the beefy orderlies stuffed into their white uniforms. It was place intentionally designed to starve the human mind of stimuli. It was so secret, it didn't even have a name. The handful of people who knew of its existence referred to it only as the facility.
The facility was not a pleasant place, but it was a necessary evil in a world chock- full of sadistic deeds and misguided, brutal men. This was something Carmichael was more aware of, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He was neither delicate nor squeamish. Carmichael had killed more men than he could even attempt to count, and he'd employed his craft in a variety of imaginative ways that spoke to the sheer depth of his kill.
He was a modern day assassin who for the good of his work continued to battle occupational demons and insomnia. He also lived in a civilised country where such a term could never be used openly. His was a nation that loved to distinguish itself from the less refined nations of the world. A democracy that celebrated individual rights and freedom. A state that would never tolerate the open recruiting, training and use of one of its own citizens for the specific purpose of covertly killing the citizens of another country. But that was exactly who Carmichael was. He was a modern day assassin who was called an operative so as to not offend the sensibilities of the cultured people who occupied the centres of powers in Washington.
Under their narrow definition the Washington elite would call this place a torture chamber. Carmichael, however, knew what real torture was- both physical and emotional, and this wasn't it. This was coercion, it was sensory deprivation, it was interrogation, but it wasn't real torture.
Real torture was causing a person so much pain that he or she begged to be killed.
Carmichael, was a practical man, however and the prisoner on the other side of the glass knew first hand what real torture was. The organisation he worked for was notorious for its treatment of patriotic prisoners. If anyone was deserving of a good beating it was this vile bastard, but still there other things to consider.
Carmichael, being the essence of Chuck didn't like torture, not only because of its effect on the person being brutalized, but for what it did to the person who sanctioned and carried it out. He had no desire to sink to those depths unless it was a last resort, but unfortunately they were quickly approaching that point. Lives were at stake at that was a top priority in both Bartowski and Carmichaels books. The sole difference was the extremes one would take to prevent this from happening.
The door to the observation room opened and a man approximately the same age as Carmichael entered. He walked up to the same window and with his deep-set green eyes looked at the handcuffed man. There was certain clinical detachment in the way the man carried himself. His hair was elegantly cut and his beard trimmed to perfection. He was dressed in a dark, well-tailored suit, white dress shirt with French cuffs, and an expensive red silk tie. He owned two identical set of the outfit, and in an effort to keep his subject off balance, it was the only he had worn in front of the man since his arrival three days ago. The outfit was carefully chosen to convey a sense of superiority and importance.
James Clifton was one of the C.I.A's best interrogators. He was a true patriot American, who served diligently for his country. Carmichael respected him and his life. Clifton had controlled every detail of every second of his prisoners incarnation. Every noise, variation in temperature, morsel of food and drop of liquid had been carefully choreographed.
The goal with this specific target, as with many, was to get him to talk. The first step had been to isolate him and strip him of all sense of time and place by immersing him in a world of sensory deprivation until he craved stimuli. Clifton would then throw the killer a lifeline, he would begin a dialogue. He would get the man to talk, not even necessarily to divulge secrets, at least not at first. The secrets would come later. To do the job thoroughly took a lot of time and patience, luxuries, both men did not process. Intelligence was time sensitive and that meant things had to be expedited.
Turning to Carmichael he said. " It shouldn't be much longer."
" I surely hope not" he muttered back, his eyes showing clear distain for the enemy behind the looking glass.
Both men stood on the frontline of this war against there enemies who became only known in their line of work as ' The ring". It is believed that they were created from the last survivors of Fulcum.
For Carmichael it was protecting the innocent people against the aggressions of a growing threat, oddly for Clifton it was the sense of adventure and purpose.
Clifton checked his watch and asked "are you ready?"
Carmichael nodded his head and looked again at the exhausted, bound man.
" He's going to fall over any second. Are you sure you want top go forward with your plan now?" He asked one again as he stopped at the door.
" This is far bigger than you or I Clifton, the time for budding friendships and slaps on the wrist are up. I need him to talk. I need to find our men." Carmichael said with a clear sense of authority and clinical detachment.
Clifton nodded thoughtfully, he was not opposed to his words.
The prisoner had no idea how long he had been here, how long he had been in the hands of his captors, or even which organisation his captors belonged too. He had no idea where he was, what state, what country, what continent. He had heard only one man speak and that was Clifton. He had been drugged and deprived of all sense of time and routine. He was an exhausted man awash in a sea of sensory deprivation. He was ready to break and when he saw Carmichael enter the room, his hopes began to crumble.
Clifton sat in his usual seat in front of Jack Lepton. His two assistants removed their prisoners bounds. On the table that separated the captor from his hostage was a glass of water.
" Now, Jack" Clifton begun. " would you like to start telling me the truth?"
The man glared at his interrogator with bloodshot eyes, " I have been telling you the truth. I am not a Ring operative. I am an ex-fulcum agent. I deal with them only because its my job to keep tabs on them" He said pointing to himself. His free hand grabbed the glass of water.
" you know General Beckman has made it very clear that any person who is working with ' the ring' is to be terminated immediately. A job I see as my patriot honour."
" I keep telling you" the man replied firmly. " The only reason I still meet with my contacts is to keep tabs on them. I am ISI." Lepton had maintained the fiction that he was a member of the ISI fraction, a story that grew increasingly annoying to both C.I.A. men.
" and you're still sympathetic to their cause aren't you?"
" I am an ISI officer, I know where my allegiance lies." the man buried his face in his hands. " I do not know what to say. I am not the man you say I am." He looked pleadingly at his captors.
" Ask my superiors. Ask General Ross. He will tell you I am only following orders."
Clifton shook his head. " Your superiors have forsaken you. You are nothing but a plaque to them. They claim to know very little to what you have been up to."
" You are a liar" Spat Lepton.
This was exactly what Clifton was after, Uncontrollable mood sings. Desperate and leading one second and then angry an antagonistic the next. Raising his hands in surrender, Clifton's expression spoke of a sad resolve that he could do no more. " I have been very patient with you, and all you do is reward me with more lie and insults."
" I have told you the truth"
" Would you say I have been kind to you" Clifton replied almost instantly. The lack of sleep and drugs caused Lepton to slip. He opened his arms and looked around the room. " Your hospitality leaves much to be desired" In a defiant tone he said. " I want to speak with General Ross Immediately!"
" Let me ask you something, Lepton, how do you treat your prisoners?"
Lepton's eyes lowered to the ground, ignoring the question.
Clifton tried again. " Have I laid a hand on you since you've been here?" Lepton shook his head reluctantly.
" Well…..all of this is about to change." This was the first time Clifton had threatened violence, either implicitly or explicitly. Their conversations up until now had consisted of Leptons talking about his contacts, and going over the same well-rehearsed story, Lepton slipped up on a few details here and there but for the most part holding his ground.
Clifton studied his subject intently and said, " There is someone here ho would like to see you."
Lepton looked up his eyes glimmering with hope. " No" Clifton shook his head. " I don't think you want to see this man. In fact," Clifton stood, " He is probably the last person on the planet you want to see right now. He is someone who I cannot control and someone who knows for a fact that you are a liar."
" I am telling you the truth" Lepton cried out as his interrogator left the room.
Carmichael collected himself. " I am a agent and I am saving lives. Ellie, Devon, their two girl, Sarah, Casey, everyone." he whispered silently to himself. His eyes turned emotionless again. It was these moments he hated when his subconscious came to the surface.
Carmichael did not enter straight away, Clifton told him it was better to build tension. They watched through the mirror as Lepton begun nervously pacing back and forth along the back wall. He grew more agitated by the minute, until finally the overhead light came on and Agent Carmichael entered the room.
The look on Lepton's face was at first one of disbelief and then dawning horror. The arrival of the infamous American intelligence officer changed everything. Things began to fall into place, and Lepton instantly knew he was in much more trouble than he could ever have imagined.
Pointing at the uncomfortable chair, Carmichael barked " Sit!"
He then looked at the two guards by the door." I can handle him by myself"
As the guards left, Carmichael laid a letter- sized manila envelope on the table then slowly took of his jacket revealing his holstered 9mm FNP-9. He draped his jacket over the back of his chair and began yanking at his tie.
" Do you know who I am" He asked, placing the tie on top of his jacket. His hostage nodded nervously the stories and tension that Clifton had created continued to build inside of Lepton until he mercilessly believed that the man in front of him was not an ex-buy more nerd but in fact a cold blood killer. Carmichael watched him, as Chuck turned away and withered under his cold stare.
He retrieved two photos from the envelope. " Do these people look familiar to you" He said as he rolled up his sleeves.
The alleged ISI officer looked reluctantly at the photographs. He knew exactly who they were, but also knew it was exceedingly dangerous to admit such a thing. Lepton had been on enough interrogations to know he had to stay the course and stick with his story. He shook his head, " No"
Carmichael thumped his left hand down on the table and brought his right hand around with blinding speed, hitting Lepton so hard he knocked him out of his chair and sent him sprawling across the floor.
" Wrong Answer" Carmichael screamed as he proceeded after him around the table.
It was the first time one of his captors had touched him and panic set in, he set his arms up in defence. " All right! All right I know who they're, but I had nothing to do with their deaths."
He grabbed him by the throat and even though Lepton was a good twenty pounds heavier, he yanked him of the floor and slammed him against the wall like he was a rag doll. " Do you ant to live or die"
" Do you want to live or die?" He repeated into the the man's ear.
" Liive" he croaked.
" Then you better get smart fast" Carmichael circled around him, his fist clenched and his face flushed with anger. " Now, Lepton!" He shouted. " I am only going to ask you this one more time. I know about you than you can possibly imagine." He pointed once more at the two black and white photographs. " Did you any part in the death of these two C.I.A. operatives?"
" No…I don't think so." He stuttered.
" You don't think so, Lepton I think you can do a whole lot better than that."
" I don't know" he said nervously. " This is a dangerous part of the world, people disappear all the time."
Carmichael grabbed two more photographs from the envelope and let them it fall into his hostages lap. " Recognize this man?" he asked pointing to the man in the first picture.
Lepton looked at Michael Georgino. A high ranking figure, son of Fulcum war lord Edward Georgino. He remembered the meeting well and as he listened to the audio of their conversation, he felt nauseated.
" Pretty sloppy business for ISI officer"
Carmichael placed the last set of photographs in front of Lepton. One was of an infant and the others of two toddlers. " Any idea who they are?"
Carmichael broke the silence. " They are the children of the agents you have murdered." He left his words hang uncomfortably in the air so he could proceed with the next stage and last stage of his plan. He Took out a series of small photographs from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and laid them across the table.
" God, no" He sobbed as he looked over each one of the photographs. " Please.. I beg of you, don't do anything to my children. This is my fault…. Not theirs."
Carmichael coughed roughly his eyes wide and he stifled back the growing urge of disgust. " I don't kill children" He said with much more emotion.
" They will never see their father again" He began circling the table. " Look at their faces!" He screamed. " Tell me why your kids should never see you again?"
Lepton began tracing the faces of his kids and sobbed uncontrollably. Behind Agent Carmichael stood, his eyes closed, a gun firmly in his hand. He begun to screw into place a thick black silencer.
I am a C.I.A. agent and I am saving lives he repeated to himself again.
When the silencer was attached, he extended the weapon and grabbed the well-oiled slide, pulling it back and letting it slam forward with a resounding metal on metal clank.
With a hollow-tipped round in the chamber, he pointed his weapon at the murderer and said. " I am a man of my word, Lepton, If you ever want to see your children again you better give me a reason to let you live. I want to know everything. Where are my men? Where are you hiding them? I want to know what is the bold plan you made with Georgino and when the war will begin! And if at any point I think you are so much as lying to me, the deal is off and I will blow your brains all over the floor."
Carmichael flicked the safety off and pulled the hammer all the way back into the cocked position. " So what's it going to be, Lepton? Are you going to tell me the truth and see your kids again or are you going to die?"
His finger shifted around the metal of the trigger, just another statistic, he told himself. He was doing the greater good. But just as he started to apply pressure to the trigger. The hostage shouted an address. His words were barely decipherable, but on the third time they rang clear.
" 924 Algarve oaks Hill, California"
Agent Carmichael withdrew his weapon, his fingers trembling as he placed his 9mm back into its hoister. He left not uttering a word, it took ten minutes before his hand relaxed and the images of her left his mind.
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