"This is a story for the
When A Man Loves a Woman event
."
"So, no shit, there I was...."
Some of my best personal stories begin with those words. And this one is no different. I had just stepped out of the gate from Russia to the US when two men in black suits and dark glasses flashed their IDs and directed me to a waiting vehicle where a third figure, a woman this time, drove me downtown for a little chinwag.
"...so I was balls deep in this tiny little Asian gal when her husband walked in on us. And do you know what he says? This is the best part... he says, damn it all to hell, woman, you started without me."
When I am nervous, I start rambling on about anything and everything. The driver laughed while the two stoic sorts just cracked a smile. I had no clue what the NSA wanted from me, and they weren't talking at all, not yet, anyway. I noticed something unusual about Agent John and Agent Doe as I thought of them respectably. John and Doe wore matching suits, and my first thought was they weren't NSA but Men in Black. After what had happened at the dig site, anything was possible, and nothing was off the gaming board.
"Same suit, same glasses, damn, you two even wear the same shoes. Tell me, who is your fashionista? Is it Claire Browne? No, she only works for the ultra-wealthy. Bobbie Bo Brownstone? Nah, he died in that skiing accident," I said, using air quotes when I used the word accident. "We all know that was a professional hit."
"I heard a rumor that he was fucking the Vice President, and his wife put out the contract on poor old Bobbie Bo," the driver joked, but John and Doe visibly reacted to her jest.
"Hmm, white knuckles, profuse sweating, and I can practically hear your hearts doing the Fandango. So, someone did off Bobbie Bo, interesting; I can put that in my memoirs."
"Jesus guys, lighten the fuck up," the driver continued. "It was just a fucking joke."
The silence was oppressive, and I recognized hostility just before it broke the surface, as well as anyone.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I nailed a nun on the altar of an Evangelical church? No. Oh, you guys are gonna love this one. Her name was Sarah, which means princess in Hebrew or something or other. Anyway, Sister Sarah was out of her habit, the clothing not the routine, and pounding down tequila like it was nobody's business in this little dive near Tijuana, that's in Mexico, in case you didn't know." Five minutes later. "And that is how I busted a nut in her ass, and Sarah found God again, all in the same day."
"We are here," Doe said in a voice that lacked anything I would call emotion.
The driver never left the car, and John, Doe, and I took the elevator to the local NSA subsidiary office. As we descended, I began counting, and when the doors opened, I announced that we were one hundred and fifty feet from where we started. John's mask broke for just a second and confirmed my assessment. He may or may not know that my dad designed and built elevators for a living. He taught me a few tricks when estimating how far, up or down, an elevator car will travel. The environment was unassuming, as any office space would be, but the background of white noise fiercely wore on my inner ear. Did they pick a frequency that affected potential interviewees? I decided to ignore it for now and see if anything stood out as we headed to one of the interrogation chambers. As we walked along a long hallway, I began.
"Nope. Nope. Mmm, nope. This one is perfect. It is in the exact center of the floor. Ooh, number six, how can you go wrong with lucky number six?"
"Fine, it doesn't matter. Step inside."
"I noticed you didn't say please. That's okay; I'll let it slide for now. Well, would you look at that, a drain in the middle of the floor? I suppose that makes waterboarding easier to clean up, eh?"
That did get a visceral reaction from both agents. If I had expected them to perform the interview, I was wrong, dead wrong. They left, and three minutes later, the older man wearing sweatpants and a hoodie joined me.
"Welcome back, Professor Pickman. I hope your journey was uneventful," he said, and I tried to figure out his place of birth from his accent. It was a subtle thing, but the way he emphasized certain vowels, this guy had been to a speech coach.
"Boston," I said, and the man flinched. "I have a secondary degree in language and phonetics. Let me guess, you had a lisp as a child, and your wealthy parents sent you to someone to get rid of it."
"I must have missed that in your file. Your main field of study is protoculture and archaeology, is it not?"
"Give the man a cigar," I replied. I slipped off my shoes and tried to get comfy in the not-so-comfortable chairs. "I give you credit; these chairs suck."
"I know. Why are you back? I thought after what happened; you'd never set foot on US soil ever again."
"When needs must."
"That's not an answer," he fired back.
"No, it is an answer, not the answer you want; there is a difference. I am here to settle my late brother's affairs. He left me the entirety of his estate. His widow isn't thrilled with the situation, but hey, that's life."
"I think you missed my point. You could have handled things via a lawyer. Why are 'you' back?" He placed a heavy emphasis on the word you.
"Not sure I catch your drift," I said and watched the spot between his eyebrows as it furrowed as his annoyance grew. While my dad built elevators, my mom was a psychologist and trained people in interrogation techniques, and I grew up with this shit.
"You made a public spectacle when you left that you'd rather die than face that woman again."
"Oh, that... well, shit happens, and the world revolves whether you like it or not."
Mom called it foreplay when an interrogator and interviewee first met. The first few minutes are crucial to set up any kind of rapport. I touched my smartwatch and started a timer. My best estimate is that the second interviewer would arrive within five minutes and change the dynamic. The older man didn't miss my action.
"Checking the time?"
"Nope. Testing a hypothetical. You'll see. Shall we continue? I came back to confront the bitch who murdered my brother."
"His death was declared an accident."
"Pfft," I made a rude noise. "I read the reports, and it stinks how poorly they handled the scene, and the so-called professionals dropped the ball. She fucked the lead investigator, and no one returned to reassess the evidence. They closed it, fired the detective, and walked away."
"I can't argue with you," he said, and I smiled. The first thing to create a connection is to agree before you verbally corner them. Use their words against them and force them to crumble. I gave him enough to chew on until his partner arrived. "Can you tell me about the dig?"
"Sarnath?"
"Yes. How did you deal with the threat of radiation?"
"We wore badges that measured our exposure, but the site is at the bottom of a river valley, and the terrain surrounding it is composed of diorite, which shielded the village from the blasts. The shortest war on record, thirteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds."
"It still leaves me in a cold sweat when I think of how close we all came to annihilation. There are rumors you found some interesting artifacts in that abandoned tin mine."
"I can't talk about that; anything related to the carbon dating reports or the objects unearthed is strictly taboo, like when you shtupped your little sister in the ass back in the day."
I hadn't meant to say that; it slipped out, but the visual impact on the agent was immediate and impactful. The plume of scarlet followed by his breaking out in a sweat, a clear indicator I had hit home and deep, just like his pecker buried in his dear sweet sibling. Was it her idea or his? I was leaning on him coercing her and promising how good it would feel. These flashes of insight since the event at Sarnath had become a two-edged sword. I watched his mouth open and shut several times, and as he began to speak, two things happened simultaneously, my watch's alarm sounded, and the door to this room opened. Enter the partner. I bet they would blow a gasket when they played back the video.
"Welcome, Special Agent," I said. "You are right on time."
The woman, young, beautiful, and noticeably stacked, did that Spock thing and raised one eyebrow as her gaze drifted between her partner and me. I openly stared at her tits and began to ponder, pierced, puffy, inverted nipples, or all three, now that would be epic. By the time she sat between me and the door, a common enough tactic, I had her figured for a racing stripe girl with red pubic hair to match the dark scarlet mane she had on top.
"Your mother trained negotiators and interrogators for twenty years," the woman said. "Impressive, and it is clear she passed on her wisdom to you."
'Gisella,' the name popped into my head along with the song Hotel California.
I began humming the tune, and she reacted but very subdued; ooh, she was good at this. "Special Agent Gisella, I grew up with psychology, tactics, math, and engineering. My parents were loving, and my childhood was delightful."
She was still emotionally reeling from her name coming from my lips. The old man swooped in to save her, and I let him. I began talking about the things that happened at Sarnath not covered by the gag order. Ooh, speaking of gags, I knew down to my bones that Gisella liked to be tied up and fucked rotten. She could deep throat like a champ, and her ass was anything but virginal.
