Interrogation Room - Security Wing
US Diplomatic Mission
Calzada
Havana
Cuba
As a spy, finding yourself caught on the wrong side of the fight was always a possibility, although only a rare twist of fate could turn your own side to the wrong side. It was not a pleasant place to be either way, and that was why the spies got trained on how to deal with all types of interrogation.
While his ordeal at Oksana Zhirkova's hands had been relatively short, it had been a brutal and excruciatingly painful week of physical torture. Still, it was the expected outcome, since Micahel had been responsible for the total dismantling of her operations, turning her into his sworn enemy. Torturing an enemy for information, revenge or propaganda was par for the course, an understandable course of action, even if knowing that hadn't made enduring it any easier.
However, things tended to be quite different, complicated and not quite black-and-white when you found yourself the enemy number one on your own side, which was what Michael became the moment he stepped inside the embassy grounds.
Even though he had expected it all, the constant, almost tangible contempt that was directed at him on all sides was still a difficult thing to deal with, as was the complete isolation. The only time when he knew that he wasn't actually forgotten by everyone was when he was led out of his cell to meet the lead agent of the investigation team they already had in the country - the man whose single bullheaded determination was to get Michael to talk before Pearce arrived.
There were times when Michael had to wonder which form of torture he actually preferred: electrocution and waterboarding by an enemy or being contained and treated like a level-4 biohazard by his own people.
During his time under Zhirkova's mercy, Michael had at least known where he stood, and exactly what his future held. That knowledge had provided the determination and strength he had needed to make his escape. Now, a prisoner of what used to be his own agency for the second time, he had no such clear distinctions. He had shown up and thrown his chips up in the air without the slightest clue as to where they might fall.
Despite all the training, it was that uncertainty that crept in to whittle away at the little hope he had left, the endless questions about what the future would hold for him, or if there'd be a future of any kind left for him at all.
The interrogation room was located at the opposite end of the hallway of the same wing. It was designed more-or-less to the same specifications they used to design the ones at a police precinct or any law enforcement agency. It was a generic 8' x 10' room with grey, well-insulated walls and ceilings, along with a single entry/exit point barred by a steel door that had a biometric lock.
It was the third time Michael found himself in it since his arrival at the embassy. A cursory once-over revealed that some things remained the same as his previous visits, while the others were a little different.
For instance, the bolted-down, stainless-steel table and the two chairs were the same, and Michael's hands were cuffed to the back legs of the same chair he had occupied the last two times.
Then there was agent Gareth Winters, a giant of a man of about 6'5" in height and 250 lbs in weight, in a rumpled suit and tie. The way he glared down at Michael from the front left corner of the room was also a familiar sight.
However, the popping vein on his forehead, sweat-sodden face and the twitching muscle in his clenched jaw, were what marked the difference in his demeanour compared to their last two chats. The man had been rather civil those times, not quite friendly, but to the point and brisk. Not barely holding back a raging fury like he did now.
The surveillance camera affixed to the wall above Winters' head was pointed at Michael, as it should have been according to the specifications of a regular interrogation room. Only the red light that should have been blinking next to the lens was suspiciously dark, signalling that it had taken over interior decoration duties instead of monitoring the proceedings.
SOP required his two military minders to be in the adjacent observation room, watching through the two-way mirror that was to Michael's right, and intervene in case something went wrong. The absence of electronic surveillance, however, made Michael think that those two also may have been ordered to take a long, leisurely coffee break.
What it all amounted to was that Winters had finally run out of patience. He had decided to try his hand at a more serious interrogation session to get Michael to cooperate before the case slipped through his fingers to Michael's handler of choice.
"Michael Westen," said Winters in his gruff, southern drawl, "You know, all the stories I've heard about you paint you as a smart man, some would even say a genius. From where I'm standing, I can't see it, I just can't."
Michael flashed him a sideways grin. "You know what they say about believing everything you hear."
"I don't think you understand just how much trouble you're in," Winters pushed off of the wall he was leaning against and walked over to the opposite side of the table, which put the steel door at his back. "How long do you think it'll take me to haul your ass back to Gitmo and start this conversation on a different foot, huh?"
Michael looked up, silently studying the massive man hovering over him. It was obvious to him that the agent was not handling Michael's resistance to questioning in a logical, objective manner. He was letting his own intense emotions and personal feelings get in the way of clear and rational thinking, therefore becoming an obstacle to his own goals.
Agent Winters' visible display of anger meant he had a personal stake in the investigation of the armed assault that took place at the airstrip next to Guantanamo Bay. Michael assumed that he was connected to one of the agents who died during that attack. He had a feeling that Winters' assignment to the case was on purpose. It was easy to emotionally compromise a man and manipulate him towards a certain direction when he was so personally invested.
"I think you'd have done it already if you didn't have orders stating otherwise," Michael said calmly. "I also think you're just wasting your time, standing there, barking at me."
Winters leaned forward and flipped open the folder he had placed on the table earlier.
The first page contained the crime scene photos of the Globemaster that had been set on fire after Michael had been extracted. There were shots of the interior of the cargo bay with seats, panels and bulkheads burnt and charred. The mercenaries seemed to have doused the cargo bay with an accelerant before setting the explosives.
The next page was an image of a dead body - a barely identifiable one with just enough camouflage material stuck to the body to reveal that it used to be military personnel.
"Major Timothy Brown, age 30, married with two kids. Staff Sergeant Flint McCarthy, married, three kids," Winters snarled as he flipped to the next page to show him the burnt remains of the second soldier. "Both were shot in the back of their heads. They were dead well before the fire burnt their bodies. Guess who's gonna have to have a closed casket for their funerals? Their families, the two widows and five fatherless kids, that's who."
Michael stared at the photos, taking a moment to let the wave of grief he felt for those unexpected and unnecessary deaths recede. When he looked up again, Winters was leaning close enough to his face that Michael could see the burst blood vessels in the whites of his eyes. The agent was teetering on a fine edge between controlling his anger and letting loose.
"There were ten of them," Michael said quietly, just as he had done the two previous times. "All dressed in BDUs and face covers. Spoke in Spanish. Two went inside the cockpit the moment they breached. The pilot and the chief died first."
It only served to anger Winters even further. More images were ripped out of the folder and slammed on the shining surface of the table with a bang, forcing Michael to look at more dead bodies.
"Agent Jerome Walker, he was engaged just last year. Dr. Kripke is no longer planning a wedding. Mr and Mrs Walker no longer have a son, and Adrian Walker no longer has an older brother," Winters' voice gradually rose from frustrated muttering to full-blown yelling as he continued to recite the lives of the dead agents, "This is agent Drake Sullivan, married with two kids, another widow and kids. For what? Just so a fucking criminal could escape his fucking prison sentence!"
Michael turned away from the photos and the sweat-drenched face of the angry agent to stare at the two-way mirror. Winters was slowly reaching his boiling point, and Michael had a feeling there was no one to come crashing in when the agent eventually tipped over the edge to do something reckless and stupid.
"Look at them!" Winters roared, banging both his palms flat on the table.
"I had nothing to do with this, Winters." Michael sighed.
"These people died because of you, Westen," Winters continued, ignoring him. "You destroyed their families. You're responsible for this."
"A terrorist named Randall Burke is responsible for all of this."
"Why would he do that? Huh?" Winters countered, starting to pace around the small room like a caged animal. "According to all records, apart from one mission years ago, you had no other connection to the bastard. So, why the hell would he go to all this trouble out of nowhere just to break you out?"
Michael knew why he did it. But Winters was not the man who was going to learn about it. So far Michael hadn't witnessed anything that suggested Winters was a calm, intelligent or level-headed investigator.
"Agent Andrew Strong – he was my friend," he said in a low voice from behind Michael, forcing him to crane his neck back to see the agent glaring at a spot on his skull. "I served with him in Iraq. Two tours. He was the best damned commanding officer I ever had. Saved my life not once but twice–"
There was a layer of grief underlying his words, not just outrage. Bonds forged on the battlefield ran deeper than familial bonds at times, and Michael now understood why the man was so riled up about his silence. He was a man with a grudge and Michael was his target.
"If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was hunting and taking down scumbags like Burke," Winters snarled in his ear. Michael tried not to wince at the way the man's hand clamped around his shoulder like a vice. "His family, ex-wife and three kids, all on the other side of the hemisphere because they couldn't compete with his single-minded focus. His only goal ever was to take this bastard out. You were supposed to help him achieve that. Instead, what did you do? You got them all killed!"
"Look, I get it,' Michael murmured when Winters let go of him and started to pace again. "You lost a friend. People died. Blame it on the terrorist who arranged all that, Randall Burke. I'm telling you, I had nothing to do with it. The reason I was out of prison in the first place was because it was Strong's idea, not mine. Burke outsmarted him, that's not on me."
"But you can still tell me where that bastard is!" Winters yelled, and his closed fist found a barely acceptable substitute for what Michael assumed was his own face on the surface of the steel table, which slightly dented at the impact. "I could bring him in and make him pay for his crimes–"
Michael held Winters' infuriated gaze with a calm, uncompromising one of his own. They were both fighting for what they believed: Winters for the burning need to bring justice for his dead friend and Michael…against an entire agency full of people he couldn't trust for the safety of his friends and family.
For Michael, it was not an option to give up what little leverage he had so the mission would end up in the hands of the likes of Winters, ones who wouldn't give a damn about anything else other than righteous revenge.
"You're not the one that gets to debrief me on that subject, Agent Winters." He said, ending their staring contest.
"Why?" Winters rounded on him, his gnashing teeth barely an inch away from Michael's face.
The moment his hands tightened around his shirt collar, Michael knew Winters was past his self-restraint. With each question, his voice steadily rose to thundering levels, heralding the imminent violence.
"So you can talk to your friends and make a deal? Is that what this is about? You want to shield a terrorist for your own gain? You piece of shit."
When the punch came, there really wasn't much Michael could do in his thoroughly restrained state other than to turn his head to the side just as the flying fist connected with his jaw. Some of the impact dispersed with his move, while the rest of it painfully rearranged the entire left side of his face.
"Calling me names won't get you anywhere." Michael groaned, spitting out the blood from his split lip. He gingerly moved his lower jaw from side to side, and was relieved to find out that it hadn't been dislocated, despite how it felt.
"Oh, believe me, that's not all I'm gonna do." Winters got in his face again, specks of spit landing all over Michael's face as his large right hand went to wrap around his neck. "How long are you willing to keep this up, Westen? Let me tell you right now, boy, you're sitting on the wrong side of the table–"
Winters shook him hard, applying pressure to the grip he had on Michael's throat, starting to cut off his air supply. Blind fury and desire for revenge were powerful motivators, and it felt like Winters was convinced he could pry the answers out of Michael's lifeless body if needed.
"Winters–" was all he had the chance to say before the grip tightened even more.
No amount of struggling or thrashing loosened the meaty fingers intent on crushing Michael's windpipe. Winters' face gradually turned into a rapidly blurring sight of flashing eyes, flaring nostrils and a twisted mouth baring too-white teeth. He seemed beyond reason when he glared down at Michael, who was having a hard time breathing.
"Where. The fuck. Is. Randall. Burke?!" Winters screamed, and Michael couldn't have answered even if he wanted to. The only sounds he could make were choking coughs, weak gasps and frantic rattles of the short chains of his cuffs. His heart was beating wildly inside his ribcage, desperately searching for oxygen his starved lungs couldn't find.
"Damn it! Answer me!"
Michael knew Winters was still screaming. But the sounds were starting to fluctuate as his ears started buzzing with a wave of static. Black spots started to appear in his vision, distorting the already macabre sight of the enraged agent hellbent on killing him.
Strangely enough, it was the analytical part of his brain that stayed around to fight against the rapidly approaching darkness, not the part with all the fight or flight instincts, or the one that carried his memories and emotions. It calmly analysed that he had seconds before losing consciousness, and that if Winters continued choking him, there would be nothing to stop him from slipping into his death.
The last practical thought that floated in his mind before winking out was that the probability of Pearce showing up in time to prevent that particular outcome was most likely, next to nothing.
Security Headquarters
US Diplomatic Mission
Calzada
Havana
Cuba
Meanwhile…
The embassy complex had three buildings:
The main one with three wings, which was located in the front and centre, held the offices of the diplomatic mission, consular services, administration and public relations. The separate one at the back shielded by the main building was the private residence of the ambassador and his family. The building next to the apartment complex was where the security headquarters of the embassy and its platoon of Marines were based.
Upon arrival at the embassy, Dani went through the regular, brisk and efficient ID verification and security checks before being permitted inside. Her credentials allowed her to drive in through the private entrance and veer around the back to reach the entrance of the security HQ without any delays or questions.
She was met by two Marines as she climbed out of the SUV into the direct heat of the Cuban sun in the mid-afternoon. One politely offered to park the vehicle in the underground parking lot while the other led her to the office of the head of security, which was located at the end of the left hallway from the entrance.
Unless agent Gareth Winters had gone through a rapid height, weight and hair loss, the man she found sitting behind a desk, nervously wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, was not the agent she was supposed to meet.
"Agent Pearce," he said, standing up quickly when she entered the office and offered a clammy hand. "Harry Ferguson, the acting head of security. Welcome to Cuba."
"Thanks," she said, returning the handshake and carefully keeping her face blank. A sliver of unease started to creep up in her mind and she chose to keep standing, which forced Ferguson to do the same. "I was informed my point of contact would be agent Gareth Winters. Is he here?"
Gareth Winters was the leader of the team that was handling the investigation of the assault near Guantanamo Bay. He was supposed to meet her and bring her up to date on his progress before she debriefed Westen. Or at least, that was what she had been told to expect when she got to the embassy.
"Ah, yes, yes," Ferguson replied with an agitated stutter, and started to look around, avoiding eye contact with her. "He arrived a few hours ago."
"Where can I find him then?" Dani asked, flashing him a sharp smile.
"Uh, let me find out." Ferguson took his phone out and made a call. A few seconds passed as he kept tapping his fingers on the wooden surface of the table, and the call went unanswered.
"He's, uh, probably on another call," he said apologetically before turning to the silent Marine standing behind Dani. "Um, corporal–"
"Summers, sir."
"Summers, yes," Ferguson nodded before turning to Dani with a chuckle that didn't really do a good job hiding his visible nerves. "She can show you where you're staying, Agent Pearce. I'm sure you'd like to settle in and get some rest? Probably have a good lunch too before, um, all the work starts?"
Dani didn't like where things were going. "Not, really no," she said. "If Winters is busy, I'll go see the detainee, Michael Westen. I'm sure he's definitely not busy."
"Uh, no, I suppose not," Ferguson muttered, before frowning. "Are you sure you want to see him right now?"
"Very much so," Dani said, and walked out of the office before the acting head of security could come up with any more excuses to keep delaying her.
There was an elevator right there, across the hallway, and Ferguson stumbled out of the office to join her just as the car arrived. The short trip down to the basement level was spent in tense silence, occasionally broken by Ferguson's heavy breathing and audible swallowing.
"Holding cells are this way." the Marine Corporal said and took the lead.
They walked past two empty ones before coming to a stop in front of the third one that was located at the far end of the dimly lit hallway. The signs were there that the cell was occupied, but the occupant was nowhere to be found.
Dani turned around to face her two companions. "Don't tell me he broke out already."
She found it interesting that the Marine was the one who looked surprised, although she did an admirable job covering it with a blank expression before pulling out her radio. Dani had a feeling she was trying to raise the two equally absent Marines who should have been on guard duty.
Ferguson, however, looked extremely uneasy, as if he knew exactly what was going on with both the missing agent and prisoner.
"Sir, ma'am," said Summers, drawing their attention. "The prisoner was escorted to the interview room thirty-five minutes ago."
"Agent Winters was ordered to stand down from his attempts to debrief until my arrival," Dani snapped, her own apprehension turning into full-blown worry at what they were playing at. "Ferguson, you were copied on the same orders!"
"Ah," Ferguson visibly gulped and fidgeted. "Uh, you see–"
Dani didn't have the patience to let him scramble around for yet another excuse.
"Interview room?" She rounded on the Marine and barked, "Now! Corporal."
"This way, ma'am."
The interview rooms were on the opposite end of the same hallway as the holding cells. The three of them arrived at the observation room to find it completely dark and empty, which was again, against regulations when the interview room was being used. A quick visual sweep revealed that the blinds for the two-way mirror were closed, and the monitors that should have been recording the session were conveniently switched off.
Dani went straight for the closed door and unlocked it, not bothering to waste time searching for missing Marines or berating Ferguson about misconduct and negligence. She had more immediate matters to worry about, such as what exactly Winters was doing with Westen, with zero oversight.
The sight that was revealed to her the moment she burst through the door confirmed her worst fears.
Winters was a large man, six feet five inches of well-trained muscles weighing over two hundred pounds, and Dani knew right away she was not going to be able to pry him off of Michael in time to stop him from killing the man, even with the help of the Marine.
So she went for the next best option.
Dani drew her gun, aimed it at the out-of-control agent and barked at him with her best drill sergeant voice from her days back in the army. "Agent Winters. Let go of him, right now!"
Corporal Summers followed her lead and brought her Carbine to bear on the agent. Winters paid no attention to Dani, and kept strangling Michael who was hardly even struggling by then.
"I said, release him right the fuck now!" Dani yelled, and took a few more steps forward, making sure Winters could see the gun she was pointing at him. The loud click of the safety going off on the Marine's rifle was what got through to Winters, which made him finally let go of Michael and take a step back.
"You wanna shoot me over a fucking traitor?" He snarled, his furious gaze glancing back and forth between Dani and the marine corporal.
"I'm gonna shoot you to stop you from killing a restrained, unarmed man," Dani snapped. "Now, keep your hands where I can see them and back the fuck off."
While Summers kept Winters covered against the wall, Dani moved closer to Michael. He was slumped in on himself, not moving.
"Westen?" She called out, checking his pulse, which was still there to her immense relief, albeit a little rapid and irregular. "Michael, hey, wake up." she tapped him on the cheek softly.
His face gradually twisted into a pained grimace as she watched. He coughed, trying to drag in a few shallow, panicked breaths all too quickly, only to dissolve into coughing again.
"You with us?" Dani asked, squeezing his shoulder once reassuringly, "Take it easy."
Michael couldn't really answer in the middle of his coughing bout but managed to nod twice to let her know that he understood. Two more Marines - the ones who should have been on guard duty, Dani assumed - hurried into the interview room then, presumably answering a hail from Summers.
"Please escort Agent Winters out of this building," Dani ordered the Marines, straightening up and stepping back to let Michael get himself under control. "He can wait in the admin wing in the main. As of now, neither Agent Winters, members of his team, nor Agent Ferguson are allowed to have any contact with the detainee here, understood?"
"Ma'am." One of the Marines, the one who was even bulkier than Winters, snapped and clamped a hand around Winters' shoulder, ready to drag him out. The other two had their weapons trained on the agent, unwilling to take any chances.
"Pearce," Winters growled in protest. "You have no right to cut me off from this. Strong was my friend!"
"That's a great reason for me to do exactly that," Dani countered. "You just proved you're in no shape to keep your head on the level in this case. You almost killed the only guy with the leads."
Winters bared his teeth, and tried to take a step forward, only to be held firmly back by the marine who had him. "That scumbag–"
"That's enough," Dani snapped, raising a hand to cut him off mid-rant and turning her attention back to the Corporal. "Take him out. And send your medic in here. Westen needs medical attention."
Once they were all out of her sight, she turned around to find Micheal studying her with his head tilted to the side. His breathing was still visibly laboured, but he was out of immediate danger for the moment. It was the first time she had the chance to take a good look at him, and her heart sank at the sight.
He hadn't had the best time as a prisoner, or wherever he had been during the period between his abduction and his arrival at the embassy, that much was obvious.
She was used to seeing him in his tailored suits, or the BDUs that actually fit him, not in nondescript black scrubs that hung on a far leaner, almost malnourished frame. The patchy beard that covered the lower half of his face was not enough to hide the split lip, or the rapidly swelling bruising around his neck. There was also a small cut near his left eye, which made her realise that Winters may have clocked him before ending up strangling him.
All in all, he looked like he had been through hell, and the look in his eyes was what bore the most damning evidence of the fact. Instead of the sharp gleam she was used to seeing in his gaze, the one that hid his quick wit and uncanny intelligence behind a deceptively blasé facade, all Dani could now see was a weary, dull resignation.
It was more than enough for her to realise that everything Jesse had told her was the truth.
"Michael–"
"Still alive," he murmured softly, trying not to put too much strain on his abused larynx. His lips, however, curled to the side in a tired grin, which Dani knew was his way of assuring her that he was fine. "Great timing."
Dani shook her head, smiling, relieved to find out that at least Winters hadn't caused any permanent physical damage. "You look like shit."
That remark earned her a peculiar squint, his expression warping in a way that managed to convey both pain and amusement in equal measures. "Right back at you."
"I was in the air for twenty hours," Dani accused, putting her hands on hips and aiming a mock glare at him, "Not to mention all the driving around and the heaps of files that landed on my lap to read and catch up on. If I look like shit, that's your fault, Westen." She let her glare dissolve into a smile at the end of her tirade, letting him know she wasn't really angry.
"I'm sorry," Michael said in a hoarse whisper, ducking his head. "Thanks for coming."
"Of course, Michael," Dani said, turning serious. "You asked for me. I'm here now. Do you need anything at all before we start debriefing?"
Michael looked up and blinked, considering the offer. "Honestly, I won't say no to a decent shower and a chance to shave before we do," he looked down at himself with a grimace. "Think you can arrange that?"