Collected short stories, p.196
Collected Short Stories, page 196
The prisoner was known as Lemonade-7.
That designation was entirely random. But the copious records showed that yes, he was given that drink once, and after two sips he said, Too sour, and ordered that it was never to be brought to him again.
Ramiro was the name he went by. And for reasons that might or might not be significant, he had never offered any surname.
So what about Ramiro? Jefferson asked.
What do you mean?
When will you actually get to work on him?
Thats what Im doing, I replied.
Jefferson was the prisons CIA administrator. This had been his post from the beginning, which was remarkable. In any normal operation, he would have been replaced by a sequence of ambitious, usually younger types. New guards and fresh staff would have come and spent their allotted time and then gone away again. But that would have swollen the pool of individuals who knew too much about matters that didnt exist, and what the public had never suspected would have soon leaked out into the world.
I realize youre doing work, Jefferson said. But are you ever going to talk to Ramiro?
Actually, Im speaking to him now.
Jefferson was a short, squat fellow with thinning brown hair and a close-cut beard that turned to snow years ago. His files gave the portrait of an officer who had been a success at every stage of his professional life. Running this prison was an enormous responsibility, but until last week, he seemed to be in complete control. Then events took a bad, unexpected turn, and maybe more than one turn, and the stress showed in his impatient voice and the irritability that seeped out in conversation and during his own prolonged silences.
Jefferson glared at me, then looked back at the monitors.
Okay, he whispered. Youre speaking to him now.
In my head, I said. Looking at Jefferson, I used my most ingratiating smile. Im practicing. Before I actually go in there, I want to feel ready.
Youve had five days to prepare, he reminded me.
Circumstances put a timetable on everything. Two days had been allotted to a full briefing, and then I was brought here, and for three days I had enjoyed the freedoms and pressures of this ultra-secure compound.
Collins went straight in, said Jefferson.
Collins was a certified legend in my little business.
Right into Ramiros cell and started talking with him. That was twelve years ago, but Jefferson still had to admire what my colleague had accomplished.
He also stopped the torture, I mentioned.
Jefferson shook his head. He liked claiming that, I know. But everything about the interrogation was my call. Im the one who put an end to the cold rooms and sleep deprivation.
I offered a less-than-convinced nod.
And by the way, he continued, I was responsible for bringing Collins in from the Bureau.
I guess Id read that, I admitted.
And I just happen to be the hero who let your colleague work however he wanted, whatever method he thought was best, and fuck those hundred thousand orders that Washington was giving us then.
The old bureaucrat still had a belly full of fire and bile. He offered a very quick, completely revealing grin, sitting back in his chair while thinking hard about past glories.
But you didnt select me, did you?
I guess not, he said.
Collins picked me, I said. Last year, wasnt it? Not that anybody told me, of course. But in case he couldnt serve anymore, I was his first choice as a replacement.
Jefferson shifted his weight, saying nothing.
Ill grant you, the candidate list is short. But youd have to admit, Im rather well regarded.
Jefferson shrugged.
If you want, I mentioned, I can suggest a viable candidate to replace me. In the event you lose all faith in my methods.
He was tempted. I saw it in his face, particularly in the sly smile.
But that would mean more delays, I warned. And I doubt if my replacement would be as effective as me.
Youre a cocky gal, arent you?
It has been said.
Help you get ahead, does it?
It helps keep me sane, mostly.
Jefferson turned away, staring at the largest screen. The prisoner was sitting at his desk, reading Jane Austen in Portuguese. The date and time were fixed in the bottom right corner: August 5th, 2014. Three minutes after three in the afternoon.
Before I go in there, I began.
Yeah?
Tell me about the first days, I said. Before you brought in Collins. Right after Ramiro was caught . . . what was your mood, early on?
My mood? His smile grew bigger and sourer, wrapped around a painful memory. You can imagine what I was thinking. March 2002, Osama was still the big monster, and some stateless warrior slips across the Canadian border with five kilos of bomb-grade U-235. Thats what I was thinking about. But his luck hit a stretch of black ice in Montana, and the state trooper found his Maxima flipped on its back, this bastard behind the steering wheel, unconscious.
I had seen hundreds of images of the crash scene.
The mans fingerprints were unknown. His passport and identity were quality fakes, but we couldnt tell which foreign power had done the work. Nobody knew who he was. Al Qaeda, or Iraqi, or was he something else? All we knew was that, at the very least, our prisoner was part of somebodys A-bomb project.
You needed to know everything, and as fast as possible.
How many like this guy were there? Jefferson turned in my direction, but never quite made eye contact. And would his associates be happy hitting New York or Washington? Or did they have more terrible targets in mind?
I found it interesting: The person most familiar with the full story was still jolted with a simple replay of known events. Jefferson tensed up as he spoke about that heavy lump of gray metal, shaped like a cannon ball and hidden by the spare tire.
We didnt know anything, he continued, but it was obvious our man was the biggest trophy in the ongoing war. Thats why another Maxima and a compliant corpse were rolled off that Montana highway, the crash restaged and the wreckage burned up. It was treated like an ordinary accident. Now our prisoner had a good reason to miss his next clandestine rendezvous, wherever than might be. Because he was officially dead.
You unleashed a lot of specialists, I said. Working their delicate magic on his stubborn corpse.
Jefferson didnt like my tone.
You had to make the call, I continued. The stakes seemed treacherously high. The proverbial fuse was burning down.
Dont give me that attitude, Jefferson warned. Your career has seen its share of hard interrogations.
I admitted, It has, without hesitation. And believe me, I will never question those early decisions.
What was the point now, after all?
Jefferson heard resignation where none was offered, and because he was a good career officer, he made his features soften.
A frustrating subject, the records say.
He was.
Hard interrogations and potent drugs, in tandem. But how much good did all that do?
He didnt answer.
I asked, So who figured it out first?
Figured what out?
Ramiros list, I said.
With only his eyes, Jefferson smiled. Its all in the files.
I dont always believe what I read.
No?
But heres my understanding of the story, I said, leaning forward. For five months, that man was abused relentlessly. Every half-legal method was applied to him, often several at once. Then you brought in a fresh crewold KGB hands, as I understand itwho brought tricks that made everybody feel Hells breath. And what did you get in the end? Nothing. Your prisoner gave us nothing. He didnt offer any name. He didnt even utter an intelligible word. He screamed on occasion, sure. But only after his elbows were pulled from their joints. And the curses werent in any known language.
I paused, waiting.
Jefferson said nothing.
And then one day, when his arms were working again, he motioned to his interrogators. He indicated that he wanted a paper and a pen. And when those items were delivered, he filled several pages with letters and numberspeculiar looking to the untrained eye, if not out-and-out bizarre.
The original list was sitting in an important vault. I pulled out one of the three copies that had been made since, the writing neat and legible, with a few artistic flourishes, particularly in the 5s and Ts.
So tell me, I said. Who figured this puzzle out?
Jefferson named one of his staff. Then he quietly reminded me, Its all in the records.
No, I said. I think the genius was you.
Surprise turned to wary pleasure. With a smug little wink, he asked, How could it be me?
Because you would have gotten the first look at his list. And youre a bright, bright fellow with a lot of hobbies. I know that because Ive checked your files too. I think what happened is that something he wrote jogged a leftover memory from your school days. In particular, from astronomy class. The first sequence in each line is obviously a position in the sky, if you know the subject. But it takes a bigger leap to realize that the second sequence is a date.
It took me five minutes, he boasted.
Easy to do, as long as you understand that the dates are based on the Islamic calendar. The significance of both notations, taken together, would have been answered on maybe a dozen websites. But that answer was crazy. And it left you with a much bigger puzzle sitting inside a cold, cramped cell. Even the earliest dates on Ramiros list occurred after his incarceration. And each one marked the day and position of a supernova bright enough to be noticed by earthbound astronomers.
Jefferson put his arms around his chest and squeezed, shaking his head with an enduring astonishment.
You were the one, werent you?
He admitted, Yes.
But you didnt trust your insight, I suggested.
Like you said. It looked crazy.
So in a very general fashion, you told your subordinate to see if the list might just have something to do with the sky. Because youre a smart player, and if your wild idea didnt pan out, you wouldnt be held accountable.
Jefferson knew better than to respond.
And how long did you have to wait? I asked. Before the next supernova sprang into existence precisely where it was supposed to be?
You know.
Seven days, I answered. And thats when you were certain. Sitting in the cold room was something far more dangerous than a few pounds of uranium. Somehow our terrorist, or whatever he was, knew the future. Against all reason, Ramiro could predict celestial events that nobody should be able to anticipate in advance.
Tired, satisfied eyes closed and stayed closed.
Thats when you went out and found Collins. An entirely different species of interrogator. A smart, relentless craftsman with a history of convincing difficult people to talk about anything. And for twelve years, you have sat here watching your prize stallion slowly, patiently extract an incredible story from your prisoner.
Jefferson nodded, smiled. But the eyes remained closed.
I stared at the creature sitting inside his spacious, comfortable cell. And with a measured tone, I reminded both of us, This is the most thoroughly studied individual in the world. And for a long time, he has given us the exact minimum required to keep everyone happy enough. And as a result, he has maintained control over his narrow life. And yours.
Jefferson finally looked at me, squirming a little in his chair.
Fuck timetables, I said. I think that Im being exceptionally sensible not to march in there and offer my hand and name.
I see your point, he allowed.
To be truthful? This entire situation terrifies me. I hesitated, and then said, Its not every day you have the opportunity, and the honor, and the grave responsibility of interviewing somebody who wont be born for another one hundred years.
2
Jefferson can write the history however he wants. Collins arrival was what brought real, substantive changes for the prisoner. The still nameless man was unchained and allowed to wash, and under newly imposed orders, his guards brought him clean clothes and referred to him as sir. Then after the first filling breakfast in twenty weeks, he was escorted to a comfortably warm room with a single folding chair of the kind you would find in any church basement.
In those days, Collins worked with a partner, but the two agents decided that it was smarter to meet the mysterious visitor on a one-to-one basis.
Collins carried in his own chair, identical to the first, and he opened it and sat six feet from the prisoners clean bare feet.
For a long while he said nothing, tilting his face backward so that the overhead light covered him with a warm, comforting glow. I have watched that first meeting twenty times, from every available angle. The interrogator was a bald little man, plain-faced but with brilliant blue eyes. I knew those eyes. I first met Collins in the late nineties, at some little professional conference. From across the room, I noticed his perpetual fascination with the world and how his effortless, ever-graceful charm always found some excuse to bubble out. Collins had ugly teeth, crooked and yellow. But his smile seemed genuine and always fetching, and the voice that rose from the little body was rich and deep. Even his idle chatter sounded important, as if it rose from Gods own throat.
For a full ninety seconds, the interrogator made no sound.
The prisoner calmly returned the silence.
Then Collins sat back until the front legs of his chair lifted, and he laughed with an edge to his voice, and waving his hand at the air, he said in good Arabic, We dont believe you.
In Farsi, he claimed, We cant believe you.
And then in English, he said, Im here to warn you. One lucky guess wont win you any friends.
Which guess is that? the prisoner replied, in an accented, difficult-to-place strain of English.
Those were the first words he had uttered in captivity.
You have some passing experience with astronomy, Ill grant you that. Collins had the gift of being able to study arcane subjects on the fly and then sound painfully brilliant. For the next six minutes, he lectured the prisoner about the stars, and in particular, how giant stars aged rapidly and soon blew up. Then he calmly lied about the tools available to the Hubble telescope and the big mirrors on top of Hawaii. You had access to this data. Obviously. In your previous life, you must have studied astronomy. Thats why you took the chance and gave us some random dates, and by pure coincidence, a few stars happened to blow up in just about the right slices of the sky.
A thin smile and a dismissive shrug of the shoulders were offered.
Or maybe you are genuine, Collins allowed. The implication, as far as I can tell, is that you can see the future. Which is insane. Or you know the future because you came from some to-be time. Which seems even crazier, at least to me. But if thats true, then I guess it means I should feel lucky. Just being in your presence is a privilege. How many times does somebody get to meet a genuine time traveler?
Silence.
But if thats true, Collins continued, then I have to ask myself, Why spring this on us now? And why this strange, cosmic route?
The silence continued for most of a minute.
We cant break you, Collins finally pointed out. Believe me, I know how these things work. What youve endured over these weeks and months . . . any normal person would have shattered ten different ways. Not that youd be any help to us. Torture is a singularly lousy way of discovering the truth. Beaten and electrocuted, the average person ends up being glad for the chance to confess. To any and every crime we can think of, particularly the imaginary misdeeds. But everybody here has been assuming that were dealing with a normal human specimen. And what I think is . . . I think that isnt the case here. Is it?
The prisoner had a thin face and thick black hair that had been shaved to the skull, and in a multitude of ways, he was handsome. His teeth were white and straight. His shoulders were athletic, though captivity had stolen some of his muscle. He was mixed-blooded, European ancestors dancing with several other races. The best estimate of his age put him at thirty-two. But nobody had yet bothered to examine his genetics or his insides. We didnt appreciate that his indifference to pain had organic roots, including novel genes and buried microchines that insulated both his body and stubborn mind.
Okay, you want us to believe that youre special, Collins said.
The prisoner closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he took a dramatic breath and then said nothing.
But I dont think you appreciate something here. Do you know just how stupid and slow governments can be? Right this minute, important people are thinking: So what? So he knows a few odd things about the sky. Im impressed, yes. But Im the exception. Maybe there are some bright lights in the administration who see the implications. Who are smart enough to worry. But do you actually know who sits in the Oval Office today? Do you understand anything about our current president? He is possibly the most stubborn creature on the planet. So when this clever game of yours is presented to him, how do you think its going to play out?
The prisoner watched Collins.
We wont torture you anymore. I promise that. And after a long sigh, Collins added, But that isnt what you care about, Im guessing. Not really. Something else matters to you. It deeply, thoroughly matters, or why else would you be here? So lets pretend for the next moment that your list of supernovae is true. You can see the future. Or, better, you come from there. And if it is possible to travel in time, then I guess it stands to reason that you arent alone, that others made the journey with you.
