Puzzle by Nora Phoenix
33
When Branson lived in Paris, his French school had made one major field trip every year. They’d visit a few museums or something throughout the year, but they’d do one bigger event. When he was a junior in high school, Rome had been the destination. By then, Branson had traveled extensively with his parents, and though he’d never been to Rome and it seemed like a cool city to visit, that hadn’t been why he’d been so thrilled he couldn’t sleep.
It had been the knowledge that for a week, he’d be away from his parents, hanging out with his friends, which had included Lucien and thus the promise of lots of dirty sex. He’d been so excited he’d barely slept the week before, unable to think of anything else.
The hours before Ryder showed up to move in had felt the exact same. Heart palpitations, bursts of nerves followed by a crazy exuberance, sexy daydreams of endless rounds of sex… The entire day had been a veritable roller coaster, and the clock had never moved slower. Finally, just after five, the intercom rang. He buzzed him in downstairs, then opened his front door and blocked it with a wedge so it would stay open.
A minute or two later, the elevator doors slid open, and Ryder came out, carrying a large box.
“Why the fuck did I let myself get roped into this?” someone else muttered, and then he stepped out as well, bringing another box. That had to be Dorian. “I knew you own a gazillion fucking books. I’m such a moron.”
Branson snorted. He was quite familiar with that problem. He’d long run out of acquaintances willing to help him move once they’d discovered how many boxes of books they’d have to carry.
Ryder laughed, then came up short as he spotted Branson. “Hi,” he said breathlessly.
“Hi.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Ryder cleared his throat. “Think you could let me pass? This box is rather heavy.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry.” Branson stepped aside.
“Hi, I’m Dorian. I’d be happy to properly greet you if you’ll allow me to put this box down somewhere first because someone needs a different hobby than collecting the heaviest things on the planet.”
Branson laughed. “Walk right in. You can put them in the living room. I already assembled the two new bookcases.”
When Ryder had told him he was moving in and had suggested purchasing two more Billy bookcases, Branson had offered to get them so Ryder could focus on packing. While impatiently counting down until Ryder's arrival, he'd figured he might as well make himself useful and had put them together.
“You did?” Ryder called out from inside. “Oh, you did!”
Branson walked into the living room. “I figured it would make things easier if you could unpack right away.”
Ryder was staring at the two bookcases with stars in his eyes. “I haven’t seen my books in months. Thank you.”
“No unpacking yet,” Dorian said sternly. “We have a million more boxes to drag upstairs, plus your clothes, bed, mattress, and everything else.”
Branson liked him already, and that was before Dorian turned to him, flashed him a blinding smile, and said, “Hi again. Like I said, I’m Dorian. You look strong enough to lift some boxes as well.”
“Do, he’s already doing enough by offering me hospitality,” Ryder protested, but Branson laughed.
“Happy to help. Just put me to work.”
It took a few trips, but finally, they had lugged everything Ryder and Dorian had managed to cram into one van upstairs. Ryder’s bed turned out to be one that was simple to put together, and aside from his clothes, the rest seemed mostly books and his collection of puzzles. Branson had caught the longing looks Ryder had thrown in the direction of said boxes. He’d missed seeing them, and how adorable was that?
Dorian turned out to be an absolute riot, and Branson would never have guessed he was a single parent. “That was the last box,” Dorian declared as he closed the front door behind him. “Jesus fuck, Ry, if you move again in the next two years, you’re on your own. I’m dead.”
Ryder raised an eyebrow. “Could that perhaps be because the only exercise you’re getting is from chasing your daughter?”
Branson slapped a hand in front of his mouth. Those two were hilarious.
“That’s rude, bro. Plain rude. Like you’re engaging in any aerobics.”
Ryder hesitated a moment, then nicked his head in Branson’s direction. “Sex with him totally qualifies as aerobic exercise.”
That had all of them exploding in laughter, although Ryder seemed surprised he’d dared to make that joke.
“I gotta go,” Dorian said as they’d finished laughing. “I want to put Amelia in bed myself.”
He hugged Ryder. “Thank you,” Ryder said, his voice muffled against Dorian’s shoulder.
“Despite my bitching, anytime.”
Much to his surprise, Branson got a firm hug from Dorian as well. “Hurt him, and I’ll be a lot less nice,” he whispered in Branson’s ear.
Hurthim? That suggested far more than he and Ryder being roommates. Dorian let go of him and winked, leaving Branson befuddled. What was he referring to? Not something he’d ask in front of Ryder.
A minute later, Dorian had left, leaving Ryder and Branson. “He’s a riot,” Branson said.
Ryder grinned. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“I’ve got something for you.” Branson pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them to Ryder. “This is the key to the front door, this one is to the downstairs door, and I also have a small storage box downstairs, so I gave you a key to that as well. You could store your boxes there when you’ve emptied them.”
“Thank you. For everything. I hope you won’t regret letting me move in.”
Never, Branson wanted to say, but that seemed too much. “I’m sure I won’t. Want to unpack your books? I’ve seen you eye them with longing.”
Ryder nodded. “I’d love to.”
“Can I help?”
Ryder hesitated. “I do have a certain system and order for my books.”
“Duh. I expected nothing else, and by the way, so do I. Just tell me where they go.”
Soon they had a good rhythm going. Ryder had been smart and had packed books he wanted to display together in the same box as much as possible, so Branson just opened the boxes and handed Ryder books.
“I’m strangely nervous about tomorrow,” Ryder said a few minutes later. “Massive anticipation.”
“Same. I know it’ll be a while before we get to the good stuff, but still. It’s a crucial first step.”
“Is Coulson arresting them himself?”
Branson shook his head. “No. First of all, they’re not under arrest yet. They’re indicted, and subpoenas will be delivered, so the FBI will seize their computers and files. But Coulson said he doesn’t want to do the arrests himself. He wants to be part of the interrogation team and start fresh with them, especially with Basil King, not establish a bad first impression by arresting him. He needs to build rapport.”
“What does that entail, building rapport? I’ve heard of it, but I’m not sure what it means,” Ryder asked.
Branson used a utility knife to open the next box, careful to lift the carton away so he wouldn’t damage any books while cutting. “It’s a crucially important aspect of interrogations, especially in big cases like this. The interrogator wants to find common ground with the suspect so he can build trust with him, make him feel like they are the same in some ways.”
Ryder frowned. “How does that work? I mean, the suspect knows the interrogator is out to nail him, doesn’t he?”
“Rationally, yes, but a good interrogator can make the suspect temporarily suspend that belief and instead convince him he wants the best for him. Research has shown that developing rapport leads to more useful intelligence than coercion or even torture. One study showed that detainees were fourteen times more likely to disclose information earlier in an interview when the interviewer used rapport-building strategies, like providing basic comforts, including food and drinks, treating the suspect with kindness and respect, and showing genuine interest.”
“Really?”
Branson handed him a stack of books from the new box, and Ryder filled the second Billy bookcase. “Remember late senator John McCain? During the Vietnam war, he was taken prisoner. The Vietcong tortured him for a long time, but he never gave them anything useful. He later said that he knew from personal experience that the abuse of prisoners will produce more bad than good intelligence, that victims of torture will offer intentionally misleading information if they think their captors will believe it and will say whatever they think their torturers want to stop their suffering. They asked for the names of men in his platoon, for example, and he ended up giving his captors the name of some Green Bay Packers because he wanted to tell them something.”
“But…” Ryder hesitated. “Didn’t the CIA use torture as well?”
Branson’s face grew tight. The question was a logical one, but that wasn’t a part of history anyone liked to talk about. “We did, and it’s not something we should be proud of. After 9/11, we made some horrible errors in judgment that caused us to violate everything we stand for. In my opinion, at least.”
“You don’t think torture is justified when it would help save American lives?”
Branson handed him the next pile of books. “It’s not quite that black and white. If we were certain that the information retrieved through torture was true, then maybe. But we don’t. And it’s a slippery slope, you know? How can we condemn dictatorial regimes for torturing prisoners or political enemies when we do the same? You lose the moral high ground.”
The CIA had a complex history, one that didn’t always give reason for pride, and yet Branson was proud to work there to help keep his country safe.
“How do you know all that? I mean, you didn’t work for the CIA yet after 9/11.”
Branson gestured at his own books. “Like you, I read. A lot.”
“I haven’t had a chance to study the contents of your bookcase. What are some of your favorite things to read?”
“History, biographies, sociology, and psychology, especially anything to do with how our brains work. Like, how we make decisions, how our subconscious and our conscious work together, but also how trauma affects our brain and our body. And if I’m in the mood to relax, I read the occasional steamy gay romance.”
Ryder’s head spun. “You read romances?”
“Yes. Don’t diss it until you’ve tried them. They’re an amazing escape when life gets rough.”
Ryder chuckled. “Okay. Sounds intriguing. And sociology, can you give me an example?”
“I’m fascinated by the social dynamics in groups, like power differentials, the process of conformity or nonconformity and peer pressure, and racism.” He held up the books he’d just pulled out of a box. “I see you’re into literature, aside from reading Umberto Eco?”
Ryder grinned. “I love his books. I like stories that make me reflect and think. Many people feel literature is depressing, and I suppose it is to a certain degree, but I appreciate the depth of the stories and the beauty of the language used. I also read a lot in mathematics, physics, and philosophy. In short, pretty much everything you’re not reading.”
“We’d make a great team, though, covering almost all subjects together,” Branson joked as he continued unpacking the last few boxes.
“True. And it’s not that common anymore to find people who love to read. It’s kind of a dying hobby.”
“My parents are both big on reading, and my earliest memories are from my mom reading to my twin, Brenda, and me. No matter where we lived, our house was always filled with books. My dad reads a lot of the same stuff I do, whereas my mom is more into fiction and travel books, like Paul Theroux.”
“Same, though my parents focus mostly on science topics, like I do. But they stressed the importance of reading to me at a young age. I could read when I was four and read well by the age of six. Both my parents are introverts, and we’d spend whole weekends reading, the three of us in the same room, devouring books. I know it sounds boring, but those are some wonderful memories.”
Branson shook his head. “Not boring at all. There are days when all I want to do is curl up on the couch with a book and read for hours. I do feel it’s becoming harder for me to find the mental rest to read for longer stretches. It’s like my brain is too used to processing chunks of information now, like emails, texts, social media. Even my work entails a lot of tidbits of info.”
“That’s an interesting theory that sounds plausible. I wouldn’t consider my work being the same. Most of it consists of endless numbers, so not really condensed. It’s more like finding the needle in the haystack of data.”
“I’m in awe of how you can find those proverbial needles,” Branson said. “I know it’s a specialized form of pattern recognition, or rather, spotting the breaks in normal patterns, but it’s fascinating to me.”
Ryder smiled at him. “Just like how I’m impressed by how much information you can distill from a simple transcript or a picture or video.”
Branson emptied the last box, then cut the tape and folded it flat, like he’d done with the others. “You know, you remarked once that we had little in common except being gay and working for the CIA…but maybe we have more similarities than you think.”
