Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Why did you do it?" says the man across the table.

The Marines had taken me to a small conference room with my hands cuffed behind me. The dim light casts deep shadows over the face of my interrogator. His voice has the same tone that doctors use to tell people about their deceased relatives. The man's good eye moves constantly, as if scanning my every gesture. His glass eye is permanently trained on me, steely like a shark's, and appearing to pierce my very soul. He said that he was here to "ascertain facts regarding the assassination."

He identified himself as Nathan Blake, an officer with the CIA.

"Why did you kill the President, Mr. Caine?"

"I don't know," I say, feeling the absurdity of my words.

"You don't know," Blake says as he opens a file.

Assessing the spook's square shoulders, immaculateness and straight posture, I say he's ex-military. His professional and self-assertive demeanor is that of a soldier from an elite unit. The beauty mark on his left eye looks like the product of shrapnel; I've seen my share of them, I even have one on my leg. Scarface is right-handed and has broken every finger in his hand.

"That's not what I mean," I shift uncomfortably in my chair. His silence is unnerving. "Something happened to me... I got this massive headache and then..."

"You suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder," Blake says reading the dossier. "There are police records of some of your episodes."

"I'm not some deranged veteran," I say. "I was seeing a specialist every day for three months back in Miami."

"Doctor Linares," he reads, before I can continue. "Why did you stop treatment?"

"I got better," I say. "I haven't had a bout of PTSD in over six months. Listen, I came here of my own accord to ask for help. Now, I know what it looks like, but you have to believe me when I say it wasn't on purpose. Whatever happened to me, I can't explain, but I'm not an assassin."

"Is there a particular reason why the Venezuelan intelligence has been keeping track of you since you entered the country?" Blake says.

"I don't know, why don't you ask them? Look, where's my lawyer?"

He ignores my question. He just flips through the pages, takes out a photograph and slides it in front of me.

"Who is this man?"

It's a surveillance picture of Tony. Blake slides another picture on top of the first. This one shows Tony and me at his house. It must have been taken from a boat.

Where's he going with this? I try not to give anything away. "Where's my lawyer?"

"Mr. Caine, even though you surrendered to us, that doesn't change the fact that you've committed a serious crime. You're in a very precarious situation. Now, I believe you saw the crowd gathered outside."

I stare at him in silence.

"The country is on the brink of a civil war," Blake says. "What do you think is going to happen when they hear that you're alive and in our custody? The loyalists will see you as nothing but an 'imperialistic Yankee'-a tool of oppression. To the opposition, you'll certainly be a national hero, who would unfortunately have to stand trial in order to unify the country. Either way, you'll end up with the short end of the stick. Even to the American people, you'll be just another terrorist from a third world country."

"What are you talking about? I came seeking asylum! I'm an American citizen; you have to protect me!"

"And we'll provide you with all the help we can. But we need to assess the situation before handing you over to the local authorities."