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Fournier was now up sitting on the edge of the couch. His eyes were locked on the TV as Neville stepped from behind the podium and left the room. He could hear his phone ringing from across the office but he made no effort to see who was calling. His mind was racing to find a way to limit the damage done by the stupid bitch. If she’d only just taken her banishment with grace he could have spared her the public embarrassment he’d now have to put her through. He quickly decided he could weather this minor storm. It would come down to he said she said, and he could provide fake evidence from now until the end of time. Neville had made a drastic miscalculation.
A woman with a flustered expression poked her head in the outer door and said, “Sir, the minister of defense is on line one and the director is on line two. They both want to speak with you immediately. They seem very upset.”
Fournier looked at Mermet, who merely shrugged. Fournier turned to his secretary and said, “I’ll speak to the minister first. Tell the director I’ll call him back as soon as I can.” Fournier rose from the couch and felt his headache begin stabbing at his temples. He picked up the handset on his desk, punched line one, and started to lie.
CHAPTER 42
THE interrogation room was used most often for debriefing assets, but occasionally it had been used for rougher stuff. The walls were painted off white and the floors were plain concrete. A six-by-four-foot metal table was anchored in the center of the room. Hurley sat on one side and Victor on the other. As much as Stansfield was inclined to authorize the screws being put to Victor, he thought there was a better way to proceed, so he calmly looked through the one-way glass and watched Stan Hurley walk Victor through the events of the last fourteen hours.
Kennedy approached the glass and said, “Sir, I think you need to hear what Thomas has to say.”
Stansfield looked at Kennedy and nodded. Dr. Lewis joined them at the glass and asked, “Have you been reading all of my reports?”
“Most of them.”
With a thorough man like Stansfield, that meant that either his reports had ceased to be important or that he was swamped with other work. Lewis took this in stride. “Have you read my most recent reports on Victor?”
“No.” Stansfield watched Victor’s face and listened to his voice as it was played over the ceiling speakers.
“Bramble, or Victor as most of the men call him, has become increasingly difficult to deal with.”
“Most of the people in this outfit are difficult to deal with,” Stansfield said without a hint of humor. “But continue.”
“He is not well liked.”
“I assume you mean by Mitch.”
“Yes, and pretty much by everyone else.”
“That’s not true,” Stansfield interjected. “Stan and Victor get along fine.”
“That’s because Victor is his trained dog,” Kennedy said.
“And Stan would say the same thing about you and Mitch.”
“Victor and Mitch are very different people.” Looking at Lewis she said, “Explain.”
Lewis nodded and turned his focus on Stansfield. “In my last report I outlined several serious concerns about Victor. I have noticed an extensive contempt and abuse of the rights of others. He is deceitful and lies to his colleagues with ease, especially if it will lead to his own personal gain. He is extremely irritable and aggressive and is prone to fighting even at the least hint of a slight. He has a reckless disregard for the safety of others, often manifesting itself in practical jokes that only he finds humorous. He shows almost no remorse when he hurts one of the recruits . . . in fact I think he takes a perverse joy in inflicting pain on others.”
Stansfield drummed his fingers on the ledge in front of the glass for a second. “You just described a good portion of the men I’ve worked with over the years,” he lamented.
Lewis cleared his throat. “On the surface it may sound like that, and you undoubtedly have worked with many tough men who share one or two of these qualities, Stan being chief among them, but I can assure you, there are seven traits that outline antisocial personality disorder and Victor has all seven.”
Stansfield looked away from the interrogation and regarded the doctor. “How many does Stan have?”
“Three . . . maybe four.”
“And me?” Stansfield asked with a straight face.
“Only one,” Lewis said, and then with a slight smile he said, “but then again I would need more time to properly observe you . . . but I wouldn’t worry. As a general rule you need to have at least four of the traits to be classified with the disease.”
“And Mitch, how many does he have?”
“Just one or two.”
“This assessment of yours . . . how serious is it?”
“Very.”
