The Last Good Man

Interrogations

Are we at war?

Lincoln asked himself that question only last night. The destruction of the Hai-Lins has answered it affirmatively, emphatically.

He wondered as well where the warzone might be. Traditionally, wars have been fought along geographical fronts, but geography may not be a limiting factor in this conflict. Hit ’em where they live, Shaw Walker had said—even if they live seven thousand miles away.

He is returning to his office from the auditorium when he gets an alert that a black SUV with government plates is waiting at the automated security gate. The driver holds up a badge for the camera to see. Two other agents are in the vehicle.

“Let them in,” Lincoln tells Friday.

By the time the trio walks in the door, he’s waiting in the lobby. Handshakes are traded, introductions made. Lincoln scans their badges, confirming their identities, but he’s disappointed. All three are young men, recent college graduates.

Lincoln asks what they know about Hussam’s operation, about the security he had in place, and about regional military companies who might have done business with him—but they shake their heads. Their spokesman says, “We work out of the Seattle office, sir. Our focus is the Pacific. We’re here today as puppets for the department’s Middle East experts.” He slides a tablet out of his coat pocket and holds it up. “They’ll be looking in, overseeing the interviews.”

“I’d like to talk to them,” Lincoln says.

“You will be, when you’re talking to us.”

“I like to see who I’m talking to. Why don’t we set it up?”

“We can’t, sir. Security.”

Lincoln considers this, staring down the young men, who appear increasingly uneasy under his half-mechanical gaze. He has his own questions to ask, but not of these kids. He considers refusing the interviews until he’s allowed to talk to someone more senior. But his business requires a cooperative relationship with the State Department.

“How long do you expect these interviews to last?” he asks.

Their spokesman looks relieved at the concession. “Fifteen or twenty minutes per person, sir. That’s assuming you’re willing to turn over video of the operation.”

“I’ll need a confidentiality agreement and limited liability.”

The youth hesitates, gaze unfocused as he listens to instructions from someone in authority. He nods. “Yes, sir, Mr. Han. I can have signatures by the time we’re done here.”

The legal documents are sent to the DC office, Lincoln assigns rooms for the agents to use, and the interviews commence. When his turn comes, he asks a question for every question he’s asked—and some get answered.

“How did you locate Hussam El-Hashem?” his interviewer wants to know.

Lincoln addresses his answer to the tablet, set up on the table between them, knowing that a senior official is present behind its little camera lens. “I employed local contractors to track him down. What can you people tell me about an outfit known as Variant Forces?”

The kid listens to instructions Lincoln can’t hear, then says, “We believe it’s a syndicate of unlicensed military contractors operating in north and central Africa. Sir, how many local contractors did you employ in your operation?”

“Every reliable one I could find.”

“Could you provide us with a specific number, sir?”

“Under twenty,” Lincoln allows. He doesn’t want to say three because that will lead to too many questions about the surveillance equipment he used—equipment the State Department is not allowed to use, not if they are operating legally. He moves immediately to his own question. “What information have you got on a mercenary with a crippled hand associated with Variant Forces, name of Jon Helm?”

The kid cocks his head, taking several seconds. Then he tells Lincoln, “They say no such man. Seven or eight warlords like to claim the identity. They use it to hide crimes or enhance their reputations. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Lincoln asks suspiciously.

“Yes, sir.”

“What about a mercenary with a crippled hand, Caucasian, by any name?”

“There are a lot of mercenaries in the region, sir. Could you tell us how many fatalities occurred during your mission?”

Lincoln: “Not precisely, no. We’re guessing at least four on the road. Those were defensive kills, undertaken to protect my people.”

“This would be the personnel in the technicals that were hit by your squadron of Hai-Lins?”

“Yes.”

“Were those UAVs operating under a customized artificial intelligence?”

“Absolutely. That AI is proprietary. I’m sure you’re aware we had trouble from a squadron of Arkinsons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was flying the Arkinsons?” Lincoln asks.

The young man hesitates. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s classified.”

This is not an answer Lincoln expected. “Are you telling me those Arkinsons were allied assets?”

The kid looks worried. He gives a slight shake of his head. “There are ongoing operations in the area, sir. The answer is classified.”

Lincoln nods, hiding his frustration behind a neutral expression. What this agent is relaying to him… it doesn’t make sense, not in the context of what Miles reported, of what True was told. But even disinformation can be useful. Jon Helm is not a fictional person. He’s sure of that much.

He’s sure too that the State Department would not lie about it unless the identity of Jon Helm mattered.

Later, the agents ask to take possession of the intelligence material recovered during the mission. This Lincoln denies. “We need time to look it over.”

Given the backlog of evidence awaiting analysis in federal labs, he knows that if he turns over the recovered electronics now, it will be weeks, maybe months, before anyone bothers to look at it.

No, he’ll let Tamara examine it first. In ten days or so, he’ll hand it over to the feds as a goodwill gesture that might earn him favors down the road.