A Murder of Crows by Terrence McCauley

sleeve. “It has been years since I knew these men. Some may have moved elsewhere. Some may already be dead.”
    “That’s my concern, not yours. I still need to know who and where they are.”
    Bajjah closed his eyes. “I have conditions.”
    Hicks didn’t react. He waited until Bajjah was ready to speak.
    “If I tell you what you want to know, I want the torture to stop immediately. I want my food properly prepared according to my beliefs. I want to be taken outside this place one final time so I may pray my morning prayers properly. I want my prayer rug and allowed to pray at sunrise. And then I want to be killed painlessly and quickly.”
    Hicks had heard many strange requests in dozens of interrogations all over the world. He’d never had a prisoner make their death part of the bargain.
    The Moroccan went on. “I ask you to promise me you will live up to each of these conditions now because, as you have said, you have never lied to me.”
    None of the Moroccan’s terms were impossible, but Hicks wouldn’t give in so easy. Killing him would complicate his agreement with Tali and the Mossad, but only if Bajjah’s information was true.
    “I’ll consider your requests if the information you give us proves to be accurate. But I’m willing to promise the torture will stop the moment you begin cooperating with us.” He looked at his watch. “Your next session with Roger is in fifteen minutes. What’s it going to be?”
    Bajjah flipped his towel to a drier side and held it up to his face. A dying man’s vanity. “Promise me all I have asked for, including my painless death, or there is no deal.”
    Hicks took a risk. “I promise.”
    “Good. Tell your effeminate deviant to stay where he is. I wish to begin my session now.”

S IX HOURS later, in the old kitchen Hicks used as his office, Roger poured three fingers of Bushmills into two reasonably clean glasses. “You were masterful in there today, James. I’ve never seen you better.”
    Hicks didn’t touch the whiskey. He was too busy typing the ten names Bajjah had given him into the OMNI system. Five men in the continental United States, four spread out through the Middle East and one in London. They could have been ten random names he had pulled out of the air. They could also be working closely together as part of Bajjah’s organization. Either way, Hicks had to know. The information was too promising to wait.
    Roger sat down in an old kitchen chair next to Hicks. “Take a break for God’s sake. Have a drink. You’ve just put in six hours with that fucking animal in there. You deserve it.”
    But Hicks kept typing. “No time for breaks. And we have a phone call with the Dean in an hour. We, as in you and me, Roger. I’ll need you sober until further notice.”
    “Shit.” Roger took a drink. “Yet another one of Dad’s semantic kabuki dances where he never comes right out and tells us what he wants us to do. He never cuts the bullshit and makes himself clear. He always talks around things and expects us to divine his true meaning. He’s as inscrutable as a mad Pope and just as infallible.”
    “Knock it off.” Hicks didn’t like Roger calling the Dean ‘Dad’ and he didn’t like hearing him criticize the Dean, either, although Roger did have a point. The Dean was a deliberate man, but not an explicit one. He refrained from using contractions and hyperbole and comparisons during briefing calls. He believed a higher form of speech led to a higher level of problem solving. Given the results the University had generated since Hicks had signed on over twenty years before, it was tough for him to argue with his methods.
    But after spending six hours inside Bajjah’s damaged mind, Hicks could stand a little brevity.
    Roger continued. “We cracked one hell of a tough nut today, James. I’d say the prick owes us a bit of thanks.”
    “He won’t give a shit about anything unless we can authenticate the names Bajjah gave us and prove