Chapter 8: The Interrogation of Beatrice
The interrogation room was little more than a converted storage closet with concrete walls and a single overhead bulb dangling from a frayed cord. Beatrice sat across the metal table, her wrists now free of the plastic cuffs, though her cream satin robe was stained with grease from the warehouse floor. She looked remarkably composed, her short blonde hair neatly combed, her pearl earrings catching the harsh glare of the overhead bulb.
Elinor pushed the heavy steel door open and stepped inside, pulling up a chair opposite her former handler. She didn't sit immediately; she stood towering over the table, her hands resting flat against the cold metal surface.
"You always had terrible taste in safehouses, Beatrice," Elinor said quietly. "Too much concrete, not enough ventilation."
Beatrice smiled, a thin, patronizing curve of her lips. "And you always had a theatrical streak, Evelyn. Do you really think playing the vengeful analyst changes the outcome? The committee has already filed the paperwork. By noon, your name will be synonymous with the worst security breach in the history of the intelligence community."
"The Deep River archive is locked behind a smart contract," Elinor said, leaning in. "You didn't download the real files, Beatrice. You downloaded the decoy honeycomb. If the Director tries to sell it, the whole network collapses on his head."
Beatrice’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Just a micro-expression—the slight tightening of the jaw muscles, the sudden stillness of her breath. It was enough. Elinor knew she had hit the target.
"You're lying," Beatrice said, though her voice lacked its earlier rhythmic certainty.
"Am I?" Elinor reached into her pocket and pulled out the black vintage mobile phone, laying it gently on the center of the metal table. The green monochrome screen was dark, but the battery indicator flickered once. "This phone isn't a burner, Beatrice. It’s a physical repeater linked directly to the primary server rack in Langley. Every minute we sit in this room, it’s broadcasting a heartbeat signal. If that signal stops, the honeycomb decrypts into a zero-day virus that wipes every digital record the committee owns—including your pension, your offshore accounts, and your identity dossiers."
Beatrice stared at the heavy plastic brick of the phone as if it were a live grenade. The calm, untouchable exterior finally began to fracture. Her hands, resting on her lap, began to tremble against the folds of her satin robe.
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"You wouldn't," Beatrice whispered. "That destroys you too."
"I was already dead the moment you walked into my bedroom with a pair of clippers," Elinor said softly. "The only question left is who goes down in the crater with me."
