The Interrogation

Yet another flash fiction piece I wrote for creative writing class. The main character, Ms. Whitman, has the ability to read minds.

I walk into the dimly lit interrogation room that never seems to be above freezing. The clanking of my high heels accompanies my journey to the single table in the bare room. The only other occupant of the table stares heavily upon me as I finally take my seat.

 

This will be easy, I think to myself while looking at this small man who shall become my next victim. Former Iranian diplomat Ali Daryaei, suspected terrorist conspirator, five foot seven inches, no more than two hundreds pounds in weight. Supposedly very intelligent and deceitful. Just looking at his pitiful so called 'clever' smirk tells me that he's full of himself. Putting that aside, I place my folded hands on the table and begin the questioning.

 

“Mr. Daryaei-”

 

“Please, call me Ali,” he interrupts with a smirk.

 

“Okay, Ali,” I reply with an annoyed look on my face, “you are suspected to be a conspirator for the British Embassy bombing, correct?”

 

Before he replies I notice him shift ever so slightly in his seat. “Otherwise I would not be here, Ms. Whitman.”

 

He's part of it, I confirm to myself. His expression and words tell me what he thought almost immediately. “That's true,” I say as I look more intently into his eyes, “so you did take part in it?”

 

“I never said anything of the sort, now did I?”

 

“I ask the questions here, Mr. Daryaei,” I state with strict authority in my voice.

 

“I said call me Ali-”

 

“That,” I say bluntly, “doesn't matter. What matters is the fact you are about to be sentenced for life for terrorist conpiring and murder of two hundred government officials and civilians unless you can prove otherwise.” By the look on his face I can tell my words hit home.

 

“Well, Ms. Whitman, I can assure you that I did not do this,” he replies a little more seriously. His smirk began to disappear some.

 

“Then please assure me why I am wasting my time with you,” I say with a trace of obvious boredom.

 

“That I cannot-”

 

“Why not?” I quickly ask.

 

“Because I did not participate in this bombing, Ms. Whitman,” he replied in a reassuring tone.

 

“Then tell me, Mr. Daryaei, what do you think was the meaning of this bombing?”

 

Without a moment of hesitation he stated, “What can I say? I am not nor do I have the mind of a terrorist!”

 

That's it, I tell myself. I've found my opening.

 

“Would you agree, Mr. Daryaei, that perhaps it was to directly interfere with the United States' foreign diplomatic relations with Great Britain?”

 

“Well-”

 

“Or maybe was it simply one step towards a mentally isolated and vulnerable United States government which would give you and your government an opportunity to directly influence our government in matters of national and foreign counter-terrorism?” In the following silence I look at his now shocked expression after delivering a fatal blow. I just told him exactly why he planned the bombing.

 

“Ms. Whitman,” he mumbled, “this is a direct insult to myself and my government. I demand to be released immediately on behalf of foreign diplomatic regulations.”

 

“I am sorry, Mr. Daryaei, but I am afraid that is impossible. You are currently a prisoner of the United States government, and under regulations we do not have to follow your orders.”

 

His face nearly grows twisted with anger, but under great self-control he manages to only let upon a blank stare. Feeling satisfied with my performance, I continue with my relentless questioning.

 

“Now please tell me why you believed this would work?” I ask as I lean forward in my uncomfortable plastic chair. His discomfort in this entire situation became clearly visible in his composture as the minutes tick by.

 

“I will not, repeat not, tell you anything on behalf of my government.”

 

“Then you did plan this attack?”

 

“What do you-”

 

“You planned this bombing, right?”

 

“I thought that was already established!” he exclaims wildly.

 

“Not at all. But you did, however, just admit it.”

 

After several moments of contemplation, he hesitantly asks, “Who are you?”

 

“Your interrogator. And I thought I told you that I ask the questions here, Mr. Daryaei.”

 

“This is unbelievable! I do not deserve this kind of harassment!”

 

“Then what kind of harassment do you deserve, Mr. Daryaei? You are going to federal prison for being a conspirator of the British Embassy bombing. I believe that compared to where you will be going, I am being awfully nice to you. Now, I ask again why you believed this would work.”

 

“I will say nothing.” I notice his tone was low and unwavering, but I don't let up.

 

“Oh, but it's too late for that now. We now know that you conspired with your government a terrorist bombing of the British Embassy, which killed more than one hundred government officials and civilians and wounded twice as many. The mission of this attack was to open a doorway to the United States' foreign counter-terrorism relations with Great Britain and from there take advantage of the opportunity. To do this you would offer direct support of the prevention of these sort of attacks, and therefore clear a path for more terrorist attacks in other important locations of the world. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Daryaei?” I finally allow myself a little smirk of my own, which felt better over the fact that he blankly stared into my eyes in utter shock. He would eventually tell his government that we had somehow infiltrated their operational intelligence. But the truth is much easier. I had simply read his mind.

Reviews

[Jim Parson]

I didn't care for this one as much as "Moonlit Tears", but I'm not really certain why. It's an interesting concept, fairly well delivered and the writing is good. I think it's because you didn't make your protagonist that likeable, but perhaps that was intentional. Also, the entire story felt like it was being told to me instead of shown to me. Do you know what I mean? It was almost like your Mr. Daryaei didn't even have to be there. Yes, he had lines, but nothing of any significance to make him count in the story. It was like, she walked in, told me what happened and walked out. I'm not certain I'm getting my point across here and I'm not certain how to fix it. Having said all of this though, you are a good writer that shows promise, so keep writing!

[Aleyah]

Pretty good flow! Seems you know what you're talking about in your descriptions, which is impressive. Intriguing, and relatively easy to read even amonst the interrogator's wordy responses. Great job (: