Page 32 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

At the end of the day, determining whether a subject passed or failed their exam was largely subjective.

Any prosecutor worth their salt understood that a competent defense attorney would make hay out of this ambiguity.

Failing a polygraph couldn’t lead to criminal charges, but for someone who made their living in the national security sector, a failure could result in something almost as dire.

Loss of a subject’s security clearance.

So while the polygrapher liked to pretend that this exam was nothing more than a routine question-and-answer session, Zeke understood it to be much, much more.

No one enjoyed polygraphs.

No one.

“Are you an agent of a foreign government?”

“No.”

A pause, perhaps longer this time. More clacking on the computer. Then, “Have you ever provided classified information to a foreign government?”

“No.”

Zeke tried not to read into the examiner’s tone, count the number of times he’d been asked the same question, or estimate the interval between the man’s questions.

This was an impossible task.

“Your answer to the last question is giving the machine some trouble. Is there anything we need to discuss?”

Zeke was still facing the wall, which was a good thing.

Only the cracked paint chip witnessed the beginnings of a smile that he quickly extinguished.

Subjects were not supposed to think that any portion of an exam was amusing, especially if the examiner was expressing concern about an answer, but he was relieved nonetheless.

Like a familiar argument between long-married spouses, Zeke was back on firm ground.

At some point in every examination, the polygrapher expressed concern about an answer.

Sometimes this was because the examiner believed the subject was engaging in deception.

Sometimes.

Other times, this was just an interrogation tactic, a last-ditch effort to exact a confession from a subject who was otherwise passing the exam with flying colors.

Though he couldn’t see the squiggly lines on the examiner’s monitor, and wouldn’t have been able to interpret the voodoo even if he could, Zeke was nearly one hundred percent certain this was the case.

As with any examination, there were aspects of the questions that gave him trouble.

Phrasings or word groupings that brought to mind things he would rather forget.

Not with this question.

He had never, under any circumstances, passed classified information to a foreign government.

“Don’t know what to tell you,” Zeke said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “I answered truthfully.”

“You have nothing to add?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Just a minute.”

An electronic device hummed to life. Zeke turned to see the examiner grab a sheet of paper from the portable inkjet printer.

The man lifted his glasses onto his forehead as he read through the results again, as if somehow the analog version of the test might prove different than what was displayed on his screen.

With an oversize frown the examiner looked from the flimsy paper to Zeke.

“I’m going to need to step out for a second. ”

“Sure.”

Zeke didn’t ask the examiner how long he’d be gone.

This was part of the game.

Was there an anomaly on the paper the examiner was clutching? Perhaps, but that was not important. The polygrapher hurrying from the room with the test results was pure theater. This same routine had occurred in every single polygraph Zeke had ever taken.

Even so, he refused to embrace the sense of relief, choosing instead to channel the nervousness he’d felt at one of the earlier questions.

Like a politician who accidentally says the quiet part out loud when he doesn’t realize that his mic is still live, Zeke was still connected to the machine, which meant that the whirring hard drive was still gathering information.

A normal person would still be experiencing unease if not dread at the test’s sudden interruption.

This was the most important lie he needed to sell.

That he was a normal person.

“Okay, looks like we’re all good here.”

The examiner’s voice startled him. Zeke had been so absorbed in his thoughts he hadn’t realized the man had returned.

Or perhaps the door’s hinges were regularly oiled for just that reason.

For the first time, he allowed a smile to break through as he imagined the examiner spraying down the hinges with WD-40 on an hourly basis.

“Something funny?”

“You know what they say,” Zeke said. “If you can’t laugh, you’d cry.”

An hour later, Zeke nosed his BMW 5 Series into his favorite pub’s cramped parking lot.

While he’d more than earned an afternoon cocktail, this was not why he’d chosen this particular watering hole on this particular day.

Turning off the car’s engine, he glanced at the freshly painted row house across the street.

Technically, an examiner was not allowed to tell the subject whether they’d passed or failed, as the results would have to be verified, but this rule was often stretched.

A simple wink or even a warm handshake was enough to communicate the unspoken sentiment.

Nothing to worry about—you passed.

The bespectacled man had not winked, nodded, or even offered a particularly warm handshake.

Instead their final conversation centered on the perfunctory admonishment that Zeke was not to talk about the exam or discuss the questions he’d been asked.

This was not a cause for concern in itself.

The examiner struck him as a bit of a stick-in-the-mud.

His deviation from the unofficial practice was probably the sign of a fanatical adherence to policy, nothing more.

After all, the role of polygraph examiner attracted a certain type of candidate.

As did Zeke’s job.

His other job.

The newly painted row house was one of the many that had been refurnished as part of the gentrification craze sweeping the District. Its exterior was a sparkling shade of white that contrasted nicely with the black door frames and shutters.

Zeke’s gaze drifted up to the pair of second-floor windows.

Unlike its companion, the blinds on the right window were drawn.

Zeke looked at the window for a moment longer just to be sure. Then he withdrew a cell phone from his jacket pocket and began to dial.