“I’m afraid you’ll have to search that by hand,” she said as she walked through the frame. “I have a lot of metal tools. Please be careful, some of my things are breakable, and some are pressurized.”
The two soldiers looked at each other, obviously uncertain. They looked at her damaged face, then at her toolbox. The taller one knelt down to open the top compartment while the shorter one stared at her face again.
“Please be careful,” she repeated. “Those syringes are delicate.”
The short soldier watched now as the tall soldier lifted the top tray of syringes, only to find an identical tray below it. He carefully replaced it, not checking the two trays beneath. He opened the second compartment, then looked up quickly at his companion. Then at Carston.
“Sir, we aren’t supposed to let weapons past this point.”
“Of course I’ll need my scalpels,” Alex said, letting some irritation bleed into her tone. “I’m not here to play Scrabble.”
The soldiers looked at her again, understanding beginning to dawn in their eyes.
Yes, she wanted to say, I’m that kind of guest.
They might have read the words in her expression. The tall one straightened up.
“We’re going to have to get authorization for this.” He turned on his heel and strode through the metal double doors behind them.
Carston huffed out a big, exasperated breath and folded his arms across his chest. Alex schooled her expression into one of impatience. Daniel stood very still by Carston’s right shoulder, his face blank. He was doing well. No one had paid him any attention at all. To the soldiers, he was just one of those anonymous briefcase holders, which was exactly what she’d hoped for. Val was right thus far—they would have paid much more attention to her.
It was only a few minutes before the doors opened again. The tall soldier was back with two other men.
It was easy to tell which was Deavers. He was smaller and more gaunt than the voice had suggested, but he moved with an obvious authority. He didn’t watch to see where the other men walked; he expected them to move around him. He wore a well-cut black suit, several pay grades in price and style above what Daniel and the door guard were wearing. His hair was steel gray, but still thick.
From his lack of formality, Alex guessed the man behind Deavers was the interrogator. He was dressed in a rumpled T-shirt and black pants that looked like scrubs. His lank brown hair was greasy and disheveled; there were substantial bags under his bloodshot eyes. Though he’d obviously had a long day, there was fire in those eyes as he focused on her lab coat, then her toolbox, the scalpel tray still exposed.
“What is this, Carston?” he blustered.
Neither Carston nor Deavers looked at him. Their eyes were focused on each other.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Deavers asked in an even voice.
“I’m not going to let that hack kill the subject when I have a better option.”
Deavers looked at her for the first time. She tried to project calm, but she felt her heart racing as he examined her, his eyes lingering on the damage to her face.
He turned back to Carston. “And where did you suddenly get this better option?”
At least he hadn’t recognized her immediately. And he hadn’t so much as looked at Daniel. The two men were focused on each other again, antagonism running between them like an electric current.
“I’ve been developing alternatives to save the program. This alternative has already proven herself more than capable.”
“Proven how?”
Carston’s chin moved up an inch. “Uludere.”
The current seemed to break on that word. Deavers took an unconscious step back and blew out an annoyed breath. He looked at Alex’s bandaged face again, then at his adversary.
“I should have known there was more going on in Turkey. Carston, this is beyond your authority.”
“I’m currently being underutilized. Just trying to make myself more valuable.”
Deavers pursed his lips and glanced back at her again. “She’s good?”
“You’ll see,” Carston promised.
“But I’m at a critical point,” the interrogator protested. “You can’t pull me off the case now.”
Carston gave him a withering glance. “Shut up, Lindauer. You’re out of your league.”
“All right,” Deavers said sourly. “Let’s see if your better option can get us what we need.”
? ? ?
THE ROOM WAS as Carston had described. Plain concrete walls, plain concrete floor. One door, a large one-way mirror between this and the observation room, a round overhead light flush with the ceiling.
At one time, there would have been a desk in this room, two chairs, and a very bright desk lamp. Subjects would have been questioned, harangued, threatened, and pressured, but that would have been the extent of it.