Chapter Eighteen
In which interrogation can be torture.
Mala…
Walking to class that morning is a surreal experience. On one hand, the campus seems a little lighter, more people are smiling and talking to each other again. On the other hand, I can’t stop looking around me, wondering who’s betraying us all.
This is the Ares Academy. We are all from families who do horrific things. Everyone here is prepared to commit all manner of outrages to get ahead. But a systemic, years-long effort to wipe out the Elite families and the school that teaches us how to hold this insane world together? It means people I’ve studied alongside for years could be the ones who knew all along what really happened to my brother.
Meiying snaps her fingers in my face. “Woman! What is with you?”
Blinking my eyes, I try to focus. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about last night.” No lie there.
“Yeah,” she nudges me gently with her shoulder, “that was a good memorial. I especially enjoyed watching Konstantin’s puckered face when he found out it was Ronan’s idea.”
“Why does he hate poor Ronan so much?”
“Because Ronan has made it painfully apparent over the years that he’s hot for Mariya, even though she’s been a perfect little lady,” Meiying explains.
“Ah… I did not know that. Kon has always been a possessive lunatic, so that makes sense.”
“Yes, fortunately, truly falling in love with his fiancée made him so much less asshole-ish,” she agrees. “Now, let’s go see what kind of mood Professor She Who Sees All is in. I swear that woman’s gaze can drill into my soul.”
“Welcome, students!”
Professor Fitzgerald is in a good mood today, she’s smiling with a certain anticipation. “We’ll be conducting some practical exercises today in interrogation.” She’s striding the length of the lecture hall, looking at us, one at a time. “While physical pain and deprivation are effective techniques, they’re…” her nose wrinkles as if she’s stepped in something, “They’re often sloppy. Untidy. Accuracy when extracting information is key. Wasting manpower and resources on faulty data is unforgivable when it can be avoided. Your challenge today is working with the fact that the student you’re interrogating already knows that you cannot cause them physical harm. Well… unless you’re participating in one of the Leader Challenges, it seems.”
There’s a round of laughter at that.
“Now, we’ve already covered all the basics, the boring minutiae of a liar’s ‘tells.’ Talking too much, hardly saying anything, new behaviors, a complete shutting down. But the trick here is tocreate a framework to build on to read your subject. You cannot know how their behavior shifts until you know what to look for.”
Her pale blue gaze is still sweeping over the students, slowing when it lands on me.
“So we begin by asking questions to which we already know the answers. Let’s see… Miss Chandler and Mr. Magomadov, join me.”
I know Doku Madomadov a bit, he’s a year behind me and quiet, which is a quality approved of for a spy. He’s lanky and dark-haired, and he’s staring at me expressionlessly.
Okay, no friendly exchange.
“I’m giving you both a piece of information I expect you to extract. You are not required to answer your opponent’s questions honestly if you think it benefits you, but your responses may leave you at a disadvantage if it allows them to learn your ‘tells.’ Am I clear?”
“Yes, Professor Fitzgerald.” We answer together like a comedy team that isn’t really funny.
I open my folded piece of paper.Have they killed anyone they were related to, due to betrayal of the family?
What the actual… Just getting Doku to tell me this could be considered a betrayal to his family!
He reads his piece of paper, looking up at me. Putting it in his pocket, he raises a brow at me and nods. Thanks, pal. No pressure.
“Doku, your family’s from Grozny. That’s a gorgeous city.” I’m struggling to remember what I know about Chechnya. “The city was named after Ivan Grozny - Ivan the Terrible, right?”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” he says flatly. He’s got his arms folded, feet a bit apart, and looks perfectly happy to stand there all day. Most of the students from Chechnya stick together. Two main Chechnyan syndicates send their heirs here, but even if they’re rivals, they still huddle with an, “Us against the rest of the campus” feel.
“You’re Californian,” he drawls, sounding bored already. “Your twin brother used to go here too.” There’s a glint in his eyes, a small, satisfied spark.
I’m swept with a surge of fury so intense that I can barely breathe. Was his family part of this? Did he kill my brother? Was someone in his fucking syndicate the man who slid down that hill and shot my brother?
Taking a moment, I shift my stance, spreading my feet a bit, too. “Yes. He did.” I smile pleasantly.
