Tasha stepped into the lobby of the Agency hospital. She'd just come from interrogating a man who knew the terrorist funder Khalid Ramon, and it turned out he didn't know as much as he'd said. He'd been full of rumors but few substantial facts. She sighed and leaned her head in her hand, her elbow on the counter. This case had hit a dead end. Ramon knew how to cover his tracks; he was one of the best she'd ever encountered.
There was another possibility to get someone on the ground in Paraguay, but she hesitated to even consider it, at least until she found out if Gray would be of use or not….
Footsteps neared. She looked up to see Doctor Abrams approach. "Good morning," she said, although she hadn't slept the night before, and so it didn't feel like a morning at all, much less a good one. "How is our patient?"
"He's…well, we've mostly kept out of his way, like you requested. Gave him a checkup every day, gave him food and anything he asked for within reason. He's still barely responsive, although he seems to have improved a little."
"Good. Has he said anything of interest?"
"Nothing of bearing on the case, although last night he did say thank you."
"Thank you?"
"When the nurse brought in his food."
"Hm. Well, I'm not sure what it means, although it could mean that he's starting to believe our intentions aren't to hurt him. I'll have to see for myself."
"One more thing," said Abrams. "After he started going ballistic on us and we had to restrain him to examine him, among his other injuries, we found evidence of…." The doctor sighed. "I know he wasn't the most upstanding citizen—I've seen parts of his file. How he tortured others without mercy."
Tasha flinched; Abrams had no idea how close to home that hit.
"But there are some things that no one should have to endure. No wonder he was basically catatonic."
"What happened?"
"As far as we can tell, he was sexually assaulted."
She couldn't comprehend it for a moment. "Raped?"
"Yes. Raped."
Her stomach turned over. "I can hardly believe even the CIA would go that far."
"I know. But the evidence is there. And it makes sense, after we've seen how he's reacted, especially to being undressed and touched."
Tasha swallowed. "Well, this does put a different spin on things—but now I can figure out how to proceed. I don't know if it would be a good idea to get his thoughts on what happened?"
"You could try. It's always better to get it out in the open rather than keep it bottled up. It could help heal him."
Perhaps, to gain his trust, she'd tell him about…that, although she dreaded dredging up the old memories…especially to someone like him. She hated the fact that she had this in common with him, of all things…but she also couldn't help but feel sympathy. He was evil, but some methods should be off-limits, no matter what the stakes. The inhumanity of it angered her. We are supposed to be the good guys.
A nurse brought a tray of food; Tasha took it and stepped into the room.
Gray was standing by the window. When she entered, he turned toward her, his body rigid, as if ready to take flight like a wild animal.
She stepped toward the table beside the bed, and set the tray onto it. Then she walked toward him, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible.
He backed away, fear in his eyes.
She stopped. Would asking him questions even be possible today?
"It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you." She took another step toward him, but he backed up until he pressed against the window.
He looked more like a scared little boy than a sociopathic killer. She needed to find out the information before the plot to bomb the US embassy was carried out, but she wouldn't get anywhere if he withdrew again, just when he was beginning to recover.
She sat down at the table. Lifted up the cover off the tray to reveal a pile of sausages with two eggs and a piece of toast. It smelled wonderful, especially since, Tasha realized, she hadn't had any breakfast, except for several cups of coffee.
"Do you want something to eat?" she asked.
He didn't move. Just stood by the window, watching her. When she tried to catch his eyes, he dropped his gaze to the floor.
"Maybe later, then." She put the lid back on the tray. And took out her notebook and pen and began to write some notes in code in order to try to focus her thoughts. The next time she looked up, she saw him looking through the window, the broad lawn of the Agency hospital gleaming under the sun, the trees at its edge framing Washington, DC, which shimmered in the morning haze.
"You have a nice view," she said.
He looked back at her. The sunlight illuminated his face, highlighting the scar down the side of his cheek, making his hair look almost white. With his hair cut, his face clean shaven, he almost looked like the Gray she knew, except there was none of the hard, cool superiority. Just a look of suspicion, superimposed over the fear and tension that had gripped him since she had stepped in. According to the doctor, he had begun to recover, become responsive; she wondered if it was her presence in particular that frightened him. Of course, he knew she was an agent here to interrogate him. And the last time she'd seen him, she'd hurt him; he probably expected more of the same.
It was true she had a personal history with Gray, but she had enough distance now to keep herself in check. She could see him as a subject, made easier by the fact that he seemed more like a victim than a torturer. Although there was something inside her that was gratified to see the scar on his face—the fading bruises along his arm—at least he'd gotten some of what he'd given.
She shoved that feeling back down. Besides, she wouldn't wish rape on anyone. Except—the men who had—
No. Focus on him. Approach him obliquely, so he won't be spooked. "Your breakfast is getting cold," she said. She lifted the lid off of the tray of food again. She was tempted to take some of it herself; her mouth watered just looking at it. But taking it would defeat the purpose of helping him trust her.
He looked away again. His hands were clenched at his sides.
Tasha was used to interrogations, often of hostile subjects, but she was at a loss when a subject was afraid to talk to her. She must have been on the right track when she'd offered him freedom for his cooperation—who would want to be trapped where he had been?
"Gray," she said. "I hope you know all of this is my doing. I could just as easily take it away; put you back where you were. But I won't. Not until I've given you a chance to earn your freedom."
"Freedom," he said, in a barely audible voice, laced with bitterness.
She took a step forward. He stood his ground, but looked ready to leap away at any second. "I can keep you from going back to the detention center. I want to help you, Gray."
"Why—" he said, in a hoarse voice, as if barely used—or used for too much screaming.
Silence. Just the sound of the faucet dripping in the bathroom, and the sound of muffled footsteps past the door.
He cleared his throat. "Why would you want to help me? I h-hurt him."
Anger flared in Tasha's chest. "Jason. His name is Jason."
"Jason." There was a strange tone of reverence in his voice. And regret? Tasha hoped he regretted every second he'd been with Jason, touched him, given him pain. He had more than paid for it, but at the same time, it would never be enough. The pain of the man that Tasha loved could never be repaid; each drop of blood could never be replenished.
Tasha realized she was glaring at Gray, who'd shrunk back against the glass, his hands lifted as if to protect himself. She took a step back, reined herself in. Not personal. Lives are at stake. The moment that I let him get to me, let my feelings take over, I've lost.
"But we're not here to talk about him," said Tasha. "I am here to help you because we have mutual interests. You were of no use to me in the shape you were in. You could barely answer any questions. Now that you can talk to me, I want to know if you will."
He lowered his head. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then he said, "What do you want to know?"
"I want to know about someone you worked with in South America. Khalid Ramon."