King of All I Survey
Chapter 79: Dmitri the Interrogator

Chapter 79: Dmitri the Interrogator

"Joe, how is our knife attacker doing?" I asked.

"I am working to sooth his mind and repair the fear mechanisms. I would like two days uninterrupted if possible."

I looked at Dad, "We can start with the others and see where that leads."

He nodded, "I’m not sure this guy deserves sympathy. He was planning to stab your mother to death, Tim. But there’s no harm saving him for last."

I stopped in my tracks. I turned to face my father. "As King of Earth, I have to believe that everyone deserves sympathy. It may not be in my power to grant it to everyone, but they all deserve it. We will rehabilitate everyone for whom that is possible. In those cases where it isn’t possible..." I sighed, "We’ll deal with them." I paused and looked up into my father’s eyes, "Dad, we will not act out with violence because of anger, fear, or a need for revenge. I need you to understand that if you’re going to be involved in strategic planning and operations."

He stared back at me for an uncomfortable few seconds before closing his eyes and nodding. "Yes. I understand, Tim. I just hope that’s a promise you can keep. People and situations are going to push you hard at some point, and it’ll challenge your commitment to that philosophy."

"If it was easy, anybody could be king," I said with a smile. "Joe," I called out, "Transport us to Blue Island, I want to be present for the interrogations."

In less than a second, we were standing in a hallway lined with doors on both sides. I looked up and down the rows of identical doors. "Joe, can you mark the identities of the occupants on the outside of each door? Name, if known, and circumstances- you know, location from which he was taken, his or her crime, prognosis for successful rehabilitation, that sort of thing."

"Of course, King Tim," Joe replied as the information appeared on the outside of each door.

"Highlight our RPG snipers in red and the fake police in blue, please," I requested.

Six doors suddenly had red outlines, with four more lined in blue on the opposite side of the hall.

"So, the RPG guys saw their launchers sliced in half, before they were apprehended. The fake cops, though, just went to sleep. They don’t even know they’ve been captured, right?"

"That is correct," Joe responded.

"So, just thinking out loud...," I began, "Since they are in simulation rooms, you could make them believe they are still in their police car, waiting to attack. You could simulate a successful attack, see where they run to afterwards and see who they try to contact? Could you keep them separate and just create sims that relay each other’s reactions, so they are all acting together? The problem is when some other party needs to respond to them, we don’t know who or what the responses would be..." I had a vision of the bad guys leading us straight to their bosses and maybe reviewing the entire plan, the way arch villains always do before they try to kill the superhero in the old TV shows.

"I can try," Joe answered, "I can string them along for some time, I think."

"That will take time," Dad said.

"That’s ok," I nodded and pointed toward the red doors. "While they’re driving the getaway car to wherever they’re going, we can talk to these guys. Joe, you said you can tell if their lying with 100% accuracy?"

"Yes, certain physiological reflexes like those you use for your primitive lie detectors can be trained and faked but monitoring the brain activity directly will always reveal lies and basic emotional reactions."

"All right, then, wake up the first guy. When he’s alert enough, simulate his prison door opening and three men entering, two tough looking guards, and one interrogator. The interrogator should look more... I don’t know, like a scholarly evil genius. You know, suit, glasses, sharp narrow features. Not physically imposing, but dangerous looking because of his genius and evil intent, if that makes sense. Maybe give him a facial tick whenever the guy lies as if he knows he’s lying, and it makes him mad."

Dad laughed, "You should write comic books."

The three men I described appeared in the hallway. Two wore what I would call standard security uniforms, black with too many ’tactical’ pockets, belts with holstered tasers and billy clubs. No guns. The other wore a black suit with fine white pinstripes, a red pocket square was neatly tucked into the breast pocket, a red tie matched it. He wore large wire-framed glasses with a slight blue tint. Sharp, thick eyebrows were raised at the outside edges giving him the look of a perpetual scowl. His black hair was meticulously combed and parted in the middle. Overall, he had a sinister, but eccentric look.

I smiled. "Maybe that’s too much. How about you lose the pinstripes. Get rid of the tie and handkerchief, leave the top button of the shirt open."

His appearance shifted. "Much better," I said. "Can you just relay my words through him as if he’s speaking?"

"Yes, of course," Joe said.

"All right send them in and put a display of what our interrogator would see on the wall beside the door, here."

The three men disappeared. A rectangular display appeared beside the door. It showed the prison door being opened from outside, the hinges creaking as it swung. The prisoner stood back from the door. He was dressed in a camouflage patterned jump suit with a zipper down the front. It was designed, no doubt, to be quickly ditched when he tried to flee after the operation to reveal some other completely ordinary clothes underneath.

Our men stepped into the cell, one of the guards closing the door behind them. The sound of locks being engaged could be heard inside.

The interrogator looked the man up and down as if he were an expert tailor measuring him for a new suit.

"Will you tell me your name?" I asked and heard the words in the interrogator’s voice, in Spanish although I spoke English. That surprised me, I hadn’t thought of translation.

The prisoner looked at the interrogator, meeting his gaze defiantly. He did not answer.

"All right, I shall call you... Wallace. You look like a Wallace to me." The interrogator pronounced. "You may call me Dmitri." Dmitri smiled politely.

"I know, I know, it is maybe difficult to say for Spanish speakers." Dmitri shrugged, "but that is my name, what can we do. Spanish is your native language, yes?" Dmitri raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

The prisoner’s brow furrowed as if he were a bit surprised and maybe a little confused. He did not reply. "Spanish is his first language," Joe told us in the hallway.

"Oh, I see from your reaction that it is indeed. Excellent. I have practiced so much to speak Spanish, is my accent good?" Dmitri asked.

Silence. "He thinks it is good," Joe told us.

"Excellent." Dmitri said. "I would like for you to confirm for me who sent you to blow up a warehouse in Sacapulas? I would so hate to kill the wrong person." Dmitri smiled, then chuckled, "Actually, I lied. I would not mind killing the wrong person at all. Provided, of course, I also killed the right person." His smile faded suddenly, and his face was cold.

"Now, are you going to be of any use to me at all?"

The prisoner remained silent, his face resolute. He looked to be in his thirties.

"Tell me Wallace, are your parents still alive?"

The prisoner’s face hardened. He did not respond. "Yes," Joe told us. "The question made him angry and more defiant."

"Good, good," Dmitri said. "No matter how desperate our own situation may be, it is always comforting to know there is someone out there," he waved his hand in the general direction of the door, "who has our best interests at heart. Don’t you agree?"

"He’s resisting, he feels you want him to agree," Joe said.

"Your employer, I’m afraid has no such care for your well-being. You know this."

"He agrees, somewhat," Joe said, "but he is not bothered by that."

Dmitri shrugged, "Of course, that is to be expected in your line of work. Those who work for cartels especially."

"He agrees, but he doesn’t work for a cartel, at least not entirely. It’s complicated. Sorry I can’t be more precise," Joe said.

Dmitri raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that your allegiance belongs to the cartels. That would be an insult to your character, wouldn’t it Wallace?"

"He agrees strongly," Joe said.

"Of course, it would," Dmitri continued. "Only small men are motivated by the promise of wealth. Men like you and I, however, believe in... higher principles, don’t we?"

The prisoner, apparently deciding his face was revealing too much, looked around him then sat down against the wall, lowering his face so that it wasn’t visible to the men standing in front of him.

"We believe in higher truths," Dmitri continued, "...and we hold these truths to be self-evident."

Joe cut in out in the hallway, "He is American, strongly patriotic."

"Yet, I wonder, sometimes," Dmitri continued, "why some of us think that basic values like freedom and liberty only apply to people within their own borders? That liberty exercised by others is somehow... I don’t know, lesser, or even at odds with our own ideas of liberty."

"He is worried. He is resigned, a bit guilty... I am guessing that he feels he has given away his identity somehow."

"Wallace, I’m sorry to say that even though we share the same devotion to the higher nature of humanity, I just can’t let you go. You tried to murder hundreds of innocent people and I’m afraid you might try something like that again if I were to turn you loose right now."

"He rejects that they were innocent," Joe told us.

"Yes, I said innocent. They have made mistakes in the past, but even now they are renouncing that past and dedicating themselves toward a positive future. You were there to murder them and turn the survivors back toward lawlessness and crime. I hope you don’t think you have the moral high ground in this affair, Wallace. ’All men and women are created equal...’ even those who might disagree with you or with me. Everyone deserves a second chance in life... even you."

The prisoner lifted his head and looked at Dmitri, trying to study his face. Dmitri’s expression was relaxed and calm. He smiled at the prisoner. "I’m going to have dinner sent in, do you have any dietary restrictions? Allergies, vegetarian... religious restrictions?"

The prisoner shook his head from side to side.

Dmitri smiled, "Good. Wallace, it has been my pleasure to talk with you. Perhaps we will chat again." Dmitri turned to leave but paused before the door. Without turning, he said, "Please, Wallace, do not do me the discourtesy of trying to hide a butter knife or something, planning to use it as a weapon to affect your escape. There is a limit to my patience." He knocked once on the door and the sounds of locks opening could be heard before the door swung open noisily and the three left the room. The heavy metal door closed and locked behind them.

"He appears undecided about keeping the knife," Joe said.

I chuckled. "Wrong, Joe. I’ll bet you a dollar he makes no attempt to keep the silverware as a weapon."

Dad raised his eyebrows, "Really? I’ll take that action."

"You’re on," Joe said.

"OK, one dollar each, it’s a bet," I said smiling.