stale, dead air and the thick dust that rose with each footstep hazed the room in a curtain of gray, increasing Daggettâs sense of claustrophobia. His throat went powder dry. The stifling heat prickled his skin and scalp, and he longed to be anywhere but here.
A handcuffed Bernard was seated in a chair in the center of the room. Hairless, the Smoker, and Daggett pulled a desk from the corner and used it as a bench, like fans in the bleachers. Backman wormed his sweaty hands together and glowered, pacing in front of Bernard like a man attempting a stage audition. He looked more suited for the role of headwaiter than cop.
âWeâve read you your rights. Youâre lucky to have them. Officially, youâre being detained under the Terrorism Act of 1988. It gives us some rather broad powers, Bernard. Perhaps youâre familiar with it?â He added, âYou seem like a reasonable man.â
Daggett cringed with the line. The Smoker lit a cigarette and exhaled toward the grate. The smoke mushroomed into an enormous cone and seemed to hang in the air. Hairless cleaned his impeccably clean nails with a penknife.
Backman tried again. âI can see what youâre thinking. Youâre thinking that maybe itâs not so bad you were caught here in the United States. After all, we guarantee due process even to international terrorists. Youâre thinking that on the federal level we havenât used the death penalty in decades, that if you remain silent and wait me out, some crafty attorney may take your case just for the publicity. What the fuck? Maybe somebodyâll turn you into a TV movie, right?â It was true. Bernard displayed a disturbing confidence. Where did such monsters come from? Justice for a man like Bernard came at the end of a weapon. No jury. No trial. Two or three randomly placed shots and the excuse the man had tried to escape.
âDonât even think about it,â Hairless whispered. He went back to his nails like an old lady at the hair salon.
Daggett realized that his hand was on his weapon. It was as if that hand didnât belong to him. He withdrew it, leaving the gun in the holster, and nodded as if he understood; but he didnât. Who was he becoming? What had this investigation done to him?
Backman continued, âWhat you probably arenât aware of is that two years ago Scotland Yard lifted a partial print from EuroTours flight ten twenty-three. A piece of your handiwork.â
Daggett cringed. This was just the kind of technical information they should protectively guard at all costs. You tell a person like Bernard this, and if he should get word to his people, no one in Der Grund will ever make this same mistake again. In point of fact, the tiny partial print in question had required four weeks of sifting through rubble to locate, another ten months to identify, an identification that, because the print was only a partial, would not be considered hard evidence by any court of law, but was nonetheless one those in law enforcement felt could be trusted. Backman had stupidly volunteered this information. âSir,â Daggett interrupted, quickly silenced by Backmanâs harsh expression.
Backman continued, âWe know what you were up to in your Los Angeles hotel room.â
That snapped Bernardâs head. He was losing his confidence. His eyes began blinking quickly.
Backman paced. âOne thing you donât know,â he said, âis that Daggettâs parents and little boy were on flight ten twenty-three.â The Smoker and Hairless looked over and stared at Daggett in disbelief.
Bernard also glanced at him, but showed no remorse whatsoever.
âI could leave you and Daggett alone for a few minutes,â Backman suggested, his implication obvious but again ineffective. There would be no rough play in a dingy room at National Airport. It just wasnât done that way.
âYou have an offer to make?â Bernard asked
A handcuffed Bernard was seated in a chair in the center of the room. Hairless, the Smoker, and Daggett pulled a desk from the corner and used it as a bench, like fans in the bleachers. Backman wormed his sweaty hands together and glowered, pacing in front of Bernard like a man attempting a stage audition. He looked more suited for the role of headwaiter than cop.
âWeâve read you your rights. Youâre lucky to have them. Officially, youâre being detained under the Terrorism Act of 1988. It gives us some rather broad powers, Bernard. Perhaps youâre familiar with it?â He added, âYou seem like a reasonable man.â
Daggett cringed with the line. The Smoker lit a cigarette and exhaled toward the grate. The smoke mushroomed into an enormous cone and seemed to hang in the air. Hairless cleaned his impeccably clean nails with a penknife.
Backman tried again. âI can see what youâre thinking. Youâre thinking that maybe itâs not so bad you were caught here in the United States. After all, we guarantee due process even to international terrorists. Youâre thinking that on the federal level we havenât used the death penalty in decades, that if you remain silent and wait me out, some crafty attorney may take your case just for the publicity. What the fuck? Maybe somebodyâll turn you into a TV movie, right?â It was true. Bernard displayed a disturbing confidence. Where did such monsters come from? Justice for a man like Bernard came at the end of a weapon. No jury. No trial. Two or three randomly placed shots and the excuse the man had tried to escape.
âDonât even think about it,â Hairless whispered. He went back to his nails like an old lady at the hair salon.
Daggett realized that his hand was on his weapon. It was as if that hand didnât belong to him. He withdrew it, leaving the gun in the holster, and nodded as if he understood; but he didnât. Who was he becoming? What had this investigation done to him?
Backman continued, âWhat you probably arenât aware of is that two years ago Scotland Yard lifted a partial print from EuroTours flight ten twenty-three. A piece of your handiwork.â
Daggett cringed. This was just the kind of technical information they should protectively guard at all costs. You tell a person like Bernard this, and if he should get word to his people, no one in Der Grund will ever make this same mistake again. In point of fact, the tiny partial print in question had required four weeks of sifting through rubble to locate, another ten months to identify, an identification that, because the print was only a partial, would not be considered hard evidence by any court of law, but was nonetheless one those in law enforcement felt could be trusted. Backman had stupidly volunteered this information. âSir,â Daggett interrupted, quickly silenced by Backmanâs harsh expression.
Backman continued, âWe know what you were up to in your Los Angeles hotel room.â
That snapped Bernardâs head. He was losing his confidence. His eyes began blinking quickly.
Backman paced. âOne thing you donât know,â he said, âis that Daggettâs parents and little boy were on flight ten twenty-three.â The Smoker and Hairless looked over and stared at Daggett in disbelief.
Bernard also glanced at him, but showed no remorse whatsoever.
âI could leave you and Daggett alone for a few minutes,â Backman suggested, his implication obvious but again ineffective. There would be no rough play in a dingy room at National Airport. It just wasnât done that way.
âYou have an offer to make?â Bernard asked