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Violent Tendencies

OLIVER STOPPED WRITING.

He raised his head and looked around. He felt dizzy. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was.

But of course he knew exactly where he was. The smell of coffee and the ticking clock told him: he was at his own kitchen counter in the middle of his new loft. Behind him, the empty living room reflected the bright afternoon sunshine from the skylights high in the wall. There was no sound but the ticking of the antique clock over the refrigerator and the murmur of Manhattan traffic outside.

Oliver looked down at the letter he'd been writing. He massaged his hand, which was aching and throbbing. It was easy to see why: the ballpoint writing, which looked so mild and neat at the top of the letter, got darker and more violent as it went down the page. The last paragraph was written in thick block letters, gouged deeply into the lined paper. Oliver saw that he'd actually torn the paper as he wrote.

He put the pen down on the counter and took a sip of coffee. It soothed him. He took a deep breath, looking over the letter, and then, in one fast move, he ripped the page from the pad and savagely crumpled it up. He had to crumple the next page, too, since the savage writing had gone through the paper.

A loud buzzer went off. Oliver jumped, spilling the coffee onto the stone counter.

What the hell?

It was the door buzzer, Oliver realized. Somebody was here to see him. He had never heard the sound before. In the short time he'd lived at this new Broome Street loft, nobody had ever come to visit. He had no idea who it could be.

Gaia?

That would be nice,
Oliver thought as he crossed the wide floor toward the big industrial front door. It would be nice if Gaia dropped by.
Speak of the devil,
he would say, smiling and hugging her.
I was just writing to you.

Then he would offer her coffee, and they would sit on his new Bauhaus sofas and talk, and for a little while he could put the past behind him.

His footsteps clattered loudly in the vast, empty loft. He remembered the landlady who had shown him the place, pointing out the skylights and the stone kitchen counter and the metal door and all the other beautiful details. The middle-aged realtor had smiled at Oliver flirtatiously as she showed him around, explaining how he could cook for twenty in the huge kitchen when he gave a dinner party. He didn't tell her that he never gave dinner parties because he didn't have any friends.
I may look like a forty-year-old man about town,
he could have told her,
but you don't know the truth.

“Who is it?” Oliver called out.

“Mr. Moore?”

It was a male voice. Muffled by the thick metal door but clearly a young man's. Oliver didn't recognize the voice at all.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Moore, this is Agent Rowan with Central Intelligence. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that's all right.”

Oliver cringed.

Agent Rowan?

He didn't know any Agent Rowan. In all the hours the CIA had spent interrogating him, pumping him for every piece of information about his activities in the Organization, tape recording every word he'd said, he hadn't met an Agent Rowan.

But I can't say that,
Oliver thought. Standing there with his thumb on the intercom button, with his coffee getting cold on the counter behind him, Oliver realized that he had to let the man in. Because the last thing he could afford to do was look suspicious or like he had anything to hide. With his history, his background, the things he'd done, it was a miracle he wasn't in a Guantanamo Bay prison. He was lucky to be alive, let alone relaxing in an expensive New York loft.

Rowan was a new agent; that was all. They hadn't met. Fine. Everything was going to
be fine.

Relax. Act natural. Cooperate. Be good, Ollie.

Oliver pulled the door open.

Rowan wasn't alone. There was another man with him. They both wore drab suits and ties like CIA, but Oliver still didn't recognize them.

“Mr. Moore? I'm Jim Rowan,” the taller, younger agent said. He gestured at the other man. “This is Agent Morrow.”

Ask to see their badges. Ask for a warrant.

But he couldn't do any of that. He had to appear as cooperative as possible. He had to get on with this.

“Come in.” Oliver smiled, stepping back and holding the door for them. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Rowan said briskly. Morrow followed him into the room.

“What can I do for you?” Oliver said warmly. He led them into the loft, toward where he'd been sitting.

“Well, we're still trying to wrap up some loose ends, Mr. Moore,” Rowan explained, pulling a small voice recorder from his shirt pocket. “We just have a few more questions for you, all right?”

Oliver could feel his pulse speeding up, but he kept himself in check. “All right.” He sat down, aiming to look as neutral as possible. The sooner they got through this, the sooner they would leave.

“Good.” Rowan spoke deliberately into the machine. “Mr. Moore, what can you tell us about a Doctor Glenn?”

Oliver's mouth went dry. He stood up and walked to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. “Dr.
Glenn? Well . . . didn't we cover Dr. Glenn in the Agency interrogation already?”

Oliver could see a hint of annoyance in Rowan's eyes. “Of course,” Rowan said. “Yes, we did . . . but . . . we'd like to go over it once more, all right? Dr. Glenn. We've recovered the majority of his files, but there's still a great deal missing. Blood work on Gaia Moore, DNA coding tests on Ms. Moore, some documentation on Glenn's serum. What can you tell us about that serum and those missing files? Where would we locate those missing test results?”

Oliver had trouble paying attention to anything Rowan had said after the word
serum.
It was a word he would have been more than happy never to hear again. That fearless serum had been among the most heinous of Loki's twisted endeavors, and the last thing Oliver wanted to do was focus on it or the lives it had ruined.

Talking about the serum was only going to bring out the worst in him.

And he was trying very hard to present his best.

“Look, I'm . . . I'm so sorry,” Oliver said, working harder to maintain the smile. “But I really have told the Agency everything I know about that serum and Dr. Glenn and everything else that . . . Loki did . . . and so I really think you'd be best off just going back and checking the Agency transcripts for—”

“Mr. Moore, we've been
through
the transcripts,” Rowan complained. “We would just like you to answer some of the questions again. For our records. Why
don't you just answer the questions and we'll be done here much sooner, all right?”

Oliver locked his eyes with Rowan's. He didn't care for his tone at all, but he was trying to stay in control. And control seemed to be something that was increasingly difficult for Oliver lately, particularly when Loki's actions were being discussed.

Stay calm. Stay calm at all costs. Do whatever you have to do.

“Look, Agent Rowan.” Oliver smiled through clenched teeth. “Maybe we could just . . . reschedule this interview for a little later. I do have some appointments I should really—”

“Mr. Moore, this isn't a
social
visit. We don't reschedule at your convenience.” Rowan challenged Oliver with his eyes. And Oliver didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. He felt his hand forming a fist and quickly focused all his energy on stretching the fingers apart. He turned to Agent Morrow and smiled.

“Agent Morrow, please,” Oliver said sweetly. “You can understand how difficult for me this is, can't you? Don't you think you might be able to speak with your partner here about relaxing his attitude—?”

“Moore,”
Rowan snapped. He shot up out of his chair and stepped much closer to Oliver's face. “Are we having a communication problem here, Moore? I think we're having a communication problem. Because I just need you to answer the
questions.
That's it. That is all.
The equation could not be simpler. You tell us where the missing files on Gaia are, and we
leave.
Do you understand?
Simple.
Cut-and-dried. Where are those files?” Rowan thrust his hand forward and stuck his digital recorder back into Oliver's face.

Suddenly Oliver found himself reexamining Rowan's deeply frustrated eyes. And his slightly wrinkled suit. And his slightly loosened tie.

Because Oliver Moore had been with the CIA for many years in another life. And “Agent” Rowan had just broken Agency protocol with almost every word he'd said. “Agent” Rowan had suddenly seemed much less like an agent and much more like a man who was hungry for information. Information that the CIA should have given him already—if he
was
in fact with the Agency. . . .

“I'm sorry—who are you again?” Oliver uttered suspiciously. He faced down “Agent” Rowan as he pushed the recorder out of his face.

There was the slightest delay in Rowan's reply. “
Excuse
me?” he asked indignantly.

“I said,
who are you?
” Oliver repeated, his eyes beginning to narrow. “If you have a badge, I'd like to see it. Because I'll tell you one thing: You're not CIA.” Now he wasn't working quite so hard to keep his fist from clenching. In fact, he wasn't working at all.

Rowan glanced back to Morrow momentarily, who seemed unsure how to react. “Mr. Moore . . . I'm not sure
what exactly you are trying to pull here, but I suggest you stop it right now. We really don't want to have to—”

“To
what?
” Oliver spat. “To take me down to headquarters? Where
are
headquarters, ‘Agent' Rowan? Do you know? Can you tell me?”

“Mr. Moore, I think you're acting a bit unstable here.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why don't you take me in?” Oliver presented his wrists to Rowan. “I suggest you take me in right now,
Agent
Rowan, before I turn any more unstable.”

Rowan began to back away slowly from Oliver. “Mr. Moore, I am warning you. Stay calm. I believe you're becoming paranoid right now, and it is important that you remain calm. Peter . . . ” Rowan was signaling for Morrow to get involved, but Morrow didn't seem any more confident about what to do, either.

“Who are you working for?” Oliver demanded. “Who the
hell
are you working for? Who
are
you?” Suddenly Oliver had grabbed hold of Rowan's shirt and tugged him much closer. Hs fist was clenched so tightly now, he could feel his own fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. “What do you want from
Gaia?
I swear, if you go anywhere
near
her, if you touch a hair on her
head,
I will—”

“All right,
enough!
” Rowan shouted. “That's
enough.”

Oliver felt something jab at his stomach, and he realized that Rowan had pulled his gun.

“All right, step
back,
” Rowan ordered. “Get your hand off of me, Moore, and take two steps back.
Now.
”

“Why don't you just take me in?” Oliver dared the obvious phony. “What are you waiting for?”

“You need psychiatric assistance, Mr. Moore. We'll be filing a report on this incident,
believe
me. Paranoid, unstable, violent tendencies—it's all going into my report.” Rowan and Morrow backed quickly toward the door.

“I'll find out who you are,” Loki shouted. “Who you
really
are, I mean. You can count on it. You have no idea who you're dealing with here!
No
idea!”

Rowan slammed the door behind him, and Oliver could hear the two phonies scuffling for the stairs. He ran and hoisted the door open again, shouting down the stairwell at them. “Stay away from Gaia Moore!” he hollered. “I am warning you!”

Oliver slammed the door behind him. Leaning against the door, he realized he was sweating like mad. His heart was pounding, and there was a slight trembling in his hands.

Who were they? What just happened?

Looking over at the kitchen counter, Oliver saw the crumpled note he'd written to Gaia.

Anger helps me see the
truth, he'd said.

Oliver nodded. He was angry. And there was something else, too.

He was frightened. Frightened for Gaia.

FIELD REPORT: INTERVIEW WITH SUBJECT A-2-A

Rowan, J., and Morrow, P., reporting

Interview was conducted at 11:50
A.M
. EST at subject's address. The subject, Oliver Moore, aka Loki (see attached file 45071-a), gave ambiguous answers to several questions (concerning the serum we have code-named BLUEBELL) before terminating the interview and physically assaulting the interviewers. Attempts to convince the subject to resume the discussion failed.

Throughout, the subject showed signs of instability, anger, and nervousness, which are clearly associated with the “Loki” personality. This instability was expressed as paranoid delusion: Mr. Moore referred both to his CIA training and to the more lethal techniques he had developed in his role in the Organization.

The information provided by the subject was inconclusive, and given Moore's refusal to cooperate further, the investigation must proceed using different methods.

Arrangements are being made for the next interview to be conducted within days, allowing for travel time (to upstate New York) and other factors. A subsequent field report will be submitted thereafter through the usual channels.