"Hello, Nicky. My name is Dita Mandy."
Nicky folds her hands on the table and studies the carefully groomed woman who's just entered the room. Dita takes a seat at the heavy wood conference table, facing Nicky. Nicky's been waiting at the table for twenty minutes. She was escorted from her cell by two men who are now flanking the door like guards. Their lack of weapons is deceptive: they are weapons.
Like all interrogation rooms, this one is stark and sparsely furnished, consisting of little more than the long metal table and chairs. Behind Dita is a glass wall – a one way mirror through which others are observing them. In front of Dita on the table is a file folder two inches thick; to her left is a pitcher of water and clean pint glasses.
"We met once a few years ago when you accompanied Director Conklin to a meeting with NRAG," continues Dita. Her smile is warm but it never reaches her eyes.
Nicky doesn't answer; of course she remembers this woman, even before she saw her nearly a week ago in her mother's conference room. Dita Mandy is non-descript: brown hair, brown eyes; medium height and slender. Her dark hair is parted in the middle and gathered in a simple knot at the back of her neck. She is graceful, kitted out in dark colors and a conservative pant suit, glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. She speaks with a measured cadence, her demeanor unrushed. Nothing about her stands out – which is exactly why she's one of Eric Byer's trusted lieutenants: Nicky knows that behind that placid demeanor is a perspicacious mind, a steely judgment that can sway Byer's life and death decisions.
Dita waits for Nicky to acknowledge her comment. Nicky stays silent.
Dita presses on, gesturing to the pitcher of water on the table. She pours a glass of water for Nicky, then for herself.
"You must be thirsty. Please have some water."
Nicky watches the careful manner in which Dita lifts her glass to her lips and drinks, as if to show Nicky that the water is safe.
Nicky keeps her hands on the table in front of her. She does not avert her gaze, meeting Dita's stare. Dita sets her glass down, her gentle smile at odds with the hardening eyes as Nicky makes no move to drink, or speak.
"Are you hungry? We can have something brought in for you. I'm sure the kitchen can bring you a sandwich or a salad."
Nicky mentally perks up. Whilst in her cell, she'd tried to derive clues about the location of her prison. She knows she's still in Paris; there's no way they had time (or reason why) to take her out of the city. The question is, where in Paris? Treadstone's operations have likely moved to a different location since she last served them, but Nicky doesn't think they'd take her to a Treadstone safe house. Why potentially compromise one of their facilities? Where would they take her that had a fully stocked kitchen? The first thought is a government facility – the embassy?
The Paris police were involved, which means diplomatic channels were tapped. That indicates cooperation at a much higher level. She assumes the State Department is on board with Byer; if that's so, then the American Embassy is likely involved. But she doesn't recognize this room and during her tenure with Treadstone, she's been to the embassy building countless times.
"Nicky? Would you like something to eat?" Dita asks again.
Nicky studies her now loose hands, spreading her fingers apart. Despite her awful habit of biting her nails, they're actually smooth, and not ragged.
"Nicky?" Dita's voice is still calm, but there's a edge now.
Mummy didn't particularly care for her nail chewing, but never criticized. Nicky pauses, tries to recall at time when Heidi censured her for anything, and comes up blank. It's possible Heidi Parish is the most awesome mother in the universe. Actually, more than possible; it's a fact.
"Where are Dr. Marta Shearing and Aaron Cross?"
Nicky looks back up at Dita, her generous mouth set in a straight line.
"We know you were with them recently in Vietnam, most likely with them in the last few days in Paris." Dita's voice is so smooth, so steady. "Where did Jason Bourne go after you separated earlier?"
Nicky looks back up at Dita.
"He didn't want to leave you." Dita pauses, delicately. "He can't."
Again Nicky doesn't react.
Dita nods faintly. She gets it: Nicky's not going to talk. Nicky's been part of so many interrogations, has conducted so many herself; there's no reason for her to open up her mouth and give away her game.
What Dita wants to know is what Nicky's willing to talk for.
She leans back in her seat, a faint smile on her face. Nicky mimics Dita's posture, sliding back against the back of her chair.
The women eyeball one another, expressions and carriage similarly neutral. Nicky knows this game because it's a cornerstone of Treadstone interrogation. Silence is uncomfortable, unnatural to the human psyche's need to connect and communicate. Given enough time, an interrogee eventually caves. Nicky counts off time in her head and knows Dita is doing the same.
Neither woman speaks. Within fifteen minutes, the guards at the door begin to shift, moving their bodies in unconscious discomfort. Nicky considers the one-way mirror, wonders if the people behind it are fidgeting or pissed.
Forty-five minutes in, the soundless room is oppressive, as if deprived of air.
Fifteen minutes later, Dita glances at her watch, her lips compressed in a thin line. She's angry. Nicky fights the impulse to smile: Dita's time limit has been exceeded and she doesn't like the disadvantage.
Dita opens the folder in front of her, pulls out several sheets. She lays a series of photos on the table, spinning them so they're right side up for Nicky's viewing. Her movements are slightly jerky, betraying her agitation.
"These photos were taken today." She points to a photo of Jason and Nicky standing by the Peugeot earlier in Paris. Nicky studies the image dispassionately: Jason's face is hard, angry as he glares at her. Nicky knows exactly when this photo was taken.
I am so goddamned tired of people using me.
"This one was last week in Ho Chi Minh City." It's the image that went out on the wire, the one of her with Marta Shearing.
Nicky inhales deeply, as if containing a yawn.
"When did they contact you? How long have you been working together?" Dita leans forward. "What are you planning?"
Nicky and Dita both know Nicky has no intention of answering any of those questions; but these are formalities, the first steps in a long dance.
"Nicky, you're one us," Dita says smoothly. "Give us what we need and come back in. You were a good handler." She pauses. "We could still use you."
Nicky cocks a brow, sees her image in the mirrored window behind Dita. Her expression is ironic. Really? You want me to believe that?
Dita's face is pinched. "That sounded stupid to me too," she confides tightly.
Nicky remains impassive.
"We don't have to talk." Dita says calmly. She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a Sig Pro SP2022 like the ones carried by the agents earlier. With swift movements, Dita chambers a bullet and points the barrel in Nicky's face. "We don't actually need you."
Nicky tries not flinch but her breath stutters. She stares at her reflection in the mirror behind Dita, wondering what they see on the other side. Is Dita acting on their orders or on her own?
Dita's finger is on the trigger, her eyes cold. Then she grimaces, and reaches up with her right hand to remove an ear piece. She places it down on the table. Nicky can hear the tinny sound of someone shouting. Dita makes a fist, and pounds the delicate electronics. "No one saw you," Dita asserts. "We dispose of you like the trash you are, no one knows better."
A car chase in Paris, people shooting at one another, dead bodies, and a take down in public view where people were recording with their smart phones? Nicky isn't stupid – she was in plain sight of a restaurant and caused enough commotion to draw attention from street journalists and social media hounds.
Still Nicky says nothing.
The door suddenly opens. Zev Vendel's neat appearance is at odds with the harassed look on his bearded face.
"Dita."
Dita does not waver, her gun steady, barrel facing Nicky.
"Dita," he says again.
Nicky can't tell if he's telling Dita or asking her.
A moment passes, then another. Dita's hand does not shake. Nicky's breath does not stutter again.
Then Dita purses her lips and stands, racking her slide and emptying the chamber. Nicky can barely contain the gasp as adrenaline seeps from her body, leaving her shaky. She clenches her fists.
Dita doesn't look at Nicky again as she walks briskly to the door. As she leaves the room, Vendel enters and takes Dita's place at the table. Unlike Dita, Zev doesn't bother with fake sincerity. He taps the file folder lightly, studying Nicky.
"What's in Berlin, Nicky?"
Nicky starts at Vendel's bald statement.
Goddamn Marta.