screams himself hoarse.”
Roger looked up from his notebook and smiled, the way an old professor might greet a favorite student, though Roger and Hicks were roughly the same age. “There you are.” He looked at the monitor and froze the image. “Don’t worry. This feed isn’t live. I was killing time waiting for you by listening to one of our prisoner’s greatest hits. I’m glad you’re finally here. I was beginning to worry about you.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Hicks more closely. “What’s wrong? You’ve the look of a Russian opera about you, maudlin and overdrawn.”
“Bad morning. I’ll tell you all about it later.” He looked at the monitor. “Give me a live shot of the prisoner.”
Roger toggled to a live view inside The Cube. The Moroccan was sitting in the dark on his cot, holding a filthy towel up to the left corner of his face. The quality of the night vision cameras was excellent, and it was clear the entire left side of the prisoner’s face was sagging.
“What the hell happened to him?”
“Oh, that.” Roger winced. “Let’s call it an unintended consequence. He had a stroke during one of our sessions late last night.”
A bad day had gotten worse. “A stroke? Jesus, Roger …”
“He’s fine.” Roger handed him his tablet. “It’s all documented right here. His vitals were reading perfectly normal at the time of the interrogation. We were hitting him with a steady flow of electricity when he suddenly seized up.”
Hicks shoved the tablet back at him. If The Moroccan died, they didn’t only lose a valuable source of information or violate their agreement with the Mossad. They lost their leverage with Stephens and the Barnyard. “I warned you to take it easy with that shit.”
“There was no reason to expect he’d stroke out. We’ve given him a hell of a lot more current in the past. Electricity is the only thing that’s ever gotten the bastard to talk, not that he has told us anything.”
“I’m not happy, Roger.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. These things happen in the interrogation process.”
Hicks knew he couldn’t win an argument with Roger, so he didn’t even try. “The son of a bitch is no good to me if he’s a fucking vegetable.”
“Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear for the poor bio-weapon terrorist. He’s perfectly fine now. Most of the sensation has returned to his extremities and he’s able to speak.” He brought up a new screen on his tablet and showed it to Hicks. “These are live scans of his brain waves and they show he’s got full mental capacity. The only obvious residual effect is the palsy on the left side of his face, which will physically impact his speech. I’ve got him on Prednisone, which should clear up his condition within the next day or so, assuming we keep him alive that long.”
Hicks pointed at the monitor. “His left leg looks limp.”
“So? It’s not like you’re going to take him golfing, are you? We’ve given him a mild dose of stimulants. Not much, but enough to make him ready for your interrogation.” He brightened. “And, like I said in my report, he might be ready to crack.” He flipped to yet another new screen on his tablet. “Take a look at his sleep patterns. Even when we do let him rest, his nightmares have become more frequent and severe. He’s been crying out in his sleep for the past few days. Our scans of his REM activity are off the charts as his nightmares seem to be getting progressively worse. He was showing mental strain even before the stroke, which is good news. I believe he’s finally primed to fall if you’re ready to push him.”
“That the same belief that told you he wouldn’t stroke?”
Roger set his tablet on the table. “You’re not a nice man.”
“I know. Lucky for me, this isn’t a nice line of work. I want you watching his vitals the entire time I’m in there to make sure we don’t lose him. We need him alive until he gives us some hard Intel we can
Roger looked up from his notebook and smiled, the way an old professor might greet a favorite student, though Roger and Hicks were roughly the same age. “There you are.” He looked at the monitor and froze the image. “Don’t worry. This feed isn’t live. I was killing time waiting for you by listening to one of our prisoner’s greatest hits. I’m glad you’re finally here. I was beginning to worry about you.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Hicks more closely. “What’s wrong? You’ve the look of a Russian opera about you, maudlin and overdrawn.”
“Bad morning. I’ll tell you all about it later.” He looked at the monitor. “Give me a live shot of the prisoner.”
Roger toggled to a live view inside The Cube. The Moroccan was sitting in the dark on his cot, holding a filthy towel up to the left corner of his face. The quality of the night vision cameras was excellent, and it was clear the entire left side of the prisoner’s face was sagging.
“What the hell happened to him?”
“Oh, that.” Roger winced. “Let’s call it an unintended consequence. He had a stroke during one of our sessions late last night.”
A bad day had gotten worse. “A stroke? Jesus, Roger …”
“He’s fine.” Roger handed him his tablet. “It’s all documented right here. His vitals were reading perfectly normal at the time of the interrogation. We were hitting him with a steady flow of electricity when he suddenly seized up.”
Hicks shoved the tablet back at him. If The Moroccan died, they didn’t only lose a valuable source of information or violate their agreement with the Mossad. They lost their leverage with Stephens and the Barnyard. “I warned you to take it easy with that shit.”
“There was no reason to expect he’d stroke out. We’ve given him a hell of a lot more current in the past. Electricity is the only thing that’s ever gotten the bastard to talk, not that he has told us anything.”
“I’m not happy, Roger.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. These things happen in the interrogation process.”
Hicks knew he couldn’t win an argument with Roger, so he didn’t even try. “The son of a bitch is no good to me if he’s a fucking vegetable.”
“Forgive me if I don’t shed a tear for the poor bio-weapon terrorist. He’s perfectly fine now. Most of the sensation has returned to his extremities and he’s able to speak.” He brought up a new screen on his tablet and showed it to Hicks. “These are live scans of his brain waves and they show he’s got full mental capacity. The only obvious residual effect is the palsy on the left side of his face, which will physically impact his speech. I’ve got him on Prednisone, which should clear up his condition within the next day or so, assuming we keep him alive that long.”
Hicks pointed at the monitor. “His left leg looks limp.”
“So? It’s not like you’re going to take him golfing, are you? We’ve given him a mild dose of stimulants. Not much, but enough to make him ready for your interrogation.” He brightened. “And, like I said in my report, he might be ready to crack.” He flipped to yet another new screen on his tablet. “Take a look at his sleep patterns. Even when we do let him rest, his nightmares have become more frequent and severe. He’s been crying out in his sleep for the past few days. Our scans of his REM activity are off the charts as his nightmares seem to be getting progressively worse. He was showing mental strain even before the stroke, which is good news. I believe he’s finally primed to fall if you’re ready to push him.”
“That the same belief that told you he wouldn’t stroke?”
Roger set his tablet on the table. “You’re not a nice man.”
“I know. Lucky for me, this isn’t a nice line of work. I want you watching his vitals the entire time I’m in there to make sure we don’t lose him. We need him alive until he gives us some hard Intel we can
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