The Interrogator – Part 2: Cleared

The interrogation was a long, exact, entirely controlled game of pressure, and she played it brilliantly. She stood behind his chair. She sat on the edge of the desk with her ankle crossed and watched him. She asked the same question four different ways and listened to his answers without a flicker. She set him small tasks, to stand, to turn, to repeat, and corrected each with a measured word. She told him what she knew, and what she did not know, and let him wonder which was which.

It was discipline of the mind, and it left him wonderfully, helplessly empty. Every half hour she lowered the folder. "Do you wish to continue?" "Yes, ma'am." And again. And again. The rain went on.

At last, around one, she slid the folder across the desk.

"Sign."

It was his own confession, three lines in her handwriting, absurd and ridiculous. He signed with a trembling hand. She took it, read it with deep attention, and nodded.

"Cleared," said Natasha.

It was her word. The grey coat came off. The lamp turned up to full, warm and golden, and she was suddenly her own self, soft in the face, kneeling beside his chair with her hands on his knees.

"Are you all right?"

"I feel," said Owen, hoarse, "like I've been rinsed."

"Good rinsed?"

"The best." He laughed, and his eyes were wet. "How did you know what to ask?"

"I paid attention." She stood and pulled him up and into her arms. "You were extraordinary. You were perfect."

"Will the Agency need me again?"

"Debriefing is at breakfast." She smiled against his neck. "There is a very large pot of coffee. I have a feeling you will need it."

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