Justin nodded.
The van in front of them moved forward, and McClain stepped on the gas pedal. The Notre Dame Cathedral Basilica came up to the right.
“What are your thoughts?” asked McClain.
“I’m trying to come up with a convincing explanation for the FSB why our Service should mediate between them and the CIA. I’m sure they’ll ask us why this is any of our business. The threat of a major terrorist attack in the US is by extension a threat against our interests as well, since it will shake all North America, with a damaging effect on the economy of both our countries.”
“You’re right and you’re one step ahead, in presuming this operation is already taking place.” McClain gave Justin a sideways look. His arched eyebrows and cold tone of voice conveyed his soft objection to Justin’s plans.
Justin looked straight ahead, avoiding McClain’s gaze. “Just making mental preparations, sir, so when the order comes, if the order comes, I’ll be good to go.”
McClain nodded. “Uh-huh. Talking about mental preps, have you scheduled your psychological assessment?”
“Yes, I have, sir,” Justin said with a sigh.
“Make sure you get it done today. No delays. Legal is pressing me for a copy of the shrink’s report, which was due a month ago.”
Justin shrugged. “I had to reschedule because of the Bosnia operation.”
“That’s true. Get it done today and make sure you ace it. Can’t have an unstable agent in the field, can I?” A glint of mischief sparked in McClain’s eyes.
That’s a rhetorical question, sir.
The office of Faith Thompson, one of the CIS clinical psychologists, was on the second floor. It was a large, spacious suite, with two white, overstuffed armchairs and a matching L-shaped sofa, a small mahogany desk, and a bookshelf. A large window drew in plenty of light when the sun shone brightly in the skies. Today, the haze hovered all over Ottawa, and Faith had pulled the blinds halfway down and had turned on white lighting fixtures mounted on the ceiling.
“Welcome, Justin,” Faith said.
She led him to one of the armchair, and sat in the one closest to the window, with a notepad in her hands. Her hair was parted to the left, styled in a bob and dyed black, with a couple of dark blonde streaks. It framed her oval face quite nicely. Her knee-length black skirt and teal turtleneck gave her a professional look.
“How’re you doing today, Ms. Thompson?” Justin said as he sat down in the other armchair across from her.
Faith smiled. “Ms. Thompson is my mother. You know you can call me Faith.”
Justin nodded. “I know, I guess I just forget. I’m used to addressing people in authority by their last names.”
“The only influence — not authority—I have over you, Justin, is what you allow me. And you know that as well.”
“I do. It’s just… today’s not a good day to talk.” It never is, he wanted to add, but decided he had said enough.
“Would you like a cup of coffee before or after you tell me what happened?” Faith put down her notepad next to a carafe and two cups on the glass table between their armchairs.
Justin smiled as he leaned back in his very comfortable armchair. He looked at the wall to his left, across from the window and to the side. Faith’s numerous degrees and accreditations hung there casually, among photographs of her family, relatives, and friends, away from being the main focus of attention, but still there for the curious, attentive eyes of Faith’s clients, the CIS personnel. She had obtained her first PhD degree from Stanford University in Cognitive Psychology, then had continued her studies at McGill University for her second PhD in Clinical Psychology. She had begun to work for the CIS six years ago and had been seeing Justin for over three years. He used to meet with her every six months, unless there was an emergency. Later their sessions were scheduled every year.
Faith reached for the carafe and one of the cups. She filled it and repeated the same procedure for the second cup. “You still take your coffee black, right?” she asked, pointing to the cup and nodding toward Justin.
“Yes, black. Do you remember it, or is it in your notes?” He did not move, but his eyes fell on the notebook.
Faith squinted and fixed him with a dubious look. “What do you think, Justin? I see fifty other agents and CIS personnel on a regular basis, besides emergencies and crises, in interviews and training. I should remember every detail, shouldn’t I?”
Justin raised his hands. “Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll have some coffee. And you remember it correctly.” He took his cup with his right hand. The warmth felt good against his skin.
Faith smiled. “You may not believe it, but I do remember most details. My notes are so I can reflect accurately our discussions and decisions in each session. That’s why we also record our meetings.” She took a voice recorder from a side table next to her armchair and placed it by her notepad.
“No need to justify it, Doctor. As I said, it’s not a good day to talk.”
Faith took a few sips from her coffee and looked out of the window. Justin brought the cup to his lips and took a deep swig. It was not very hot, but it was strong and bitter. The way he liked it.
Faith placed her cup on the side table, picked up her notepad, and pressed a button on the voice recorder. “What happened in Bosnia?” she asked. “I’ve read the report; tell me what’s not there.”
Justin frowned. Don’t you think there’s a reason why some things are not in the report? Faith was not interested in classified details or matters of national security. She wanted to know his feelings and his psychological reactions to the authorized killing in Bosnia.
“We went; we killed; we came back,” Justin replied with a grin.
Faith returned the smirk. “Oh, and how did that make you feel?”
“I feel fine. Really, just fine,” Justin replied with a shrug.
“Really? No guilt, second thoughts, doubts?”
“I can’t afford to have second thoughts, Doctor. I receive orders and I carry out those orders. Most times, I have a few seconds to make a decision, and once the decision is made, there is no time or opportunity to have doubts or guesses.”
Faith said, “No need to justify it, Justin. So these second thoughts, what are they?”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t have second thoughts, and I don’t have guilty feelings.”
Faith leaned forward. “But?”
“No buts.”
“All right. Let’s try something else. The report mentions there were a number of casualties in Bosnia.”
She waited for a reply, but Justin held her eyes and sipped his coffee. After a long pause, he said, “Yes, evil people who paid for their crimes.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Targets that needed to be eliminated according to my orders.”
Faith smiled. “There are no right and wrong answers to my questions, Justin. You are an emotional being, as any good agents must be. We don’t need robots out there, eliminating targets without any moral sense and responsibility.”
Justin blinked, then suppressed a grin. He could never determine what psychological school of thought Faith subscribed to at the moment of his sessions. One time it was the Freudian viewpoint, with the unconscious mind playing the major role in one’s actions and behavior. The next time it was the cognitive analysis, with internal mental processes guiding the outside display of emotions. Who knows what it is today? He shrugged and scratched his head.
“Tell me about the woman,” Faith asked.