The President pulls a pair of glasses from within a small compartment between the seats. The glasses have two small reading lights on the sides, illuminating the printed text.

“Twenty detainees were never transferred to Guantanamo Bay,” I say. “Twenty detainees are still locked away somewhere. And those are only the detainees on record.”

“What do you mean on record?” the President asks, looking up from the article.

“On August 5th, 2006, two high-ranking Al-Qaeda operatives were killed when a bomb they were building detonated in a basement. The same exact scenario played out on April 9th, 2012. All four of these men’s bodies were eviscerated beyond identification.”

“And what, you think someone faked these explosions and the men are being held somewhere illegally?”

“Not someone, the CIA. And not being held, being tortured.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the Director says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what conspiracy theory website you went to or what kind of crazy dreams you had last night, or what you think your mother was, but these black sites do not exist. Obama made an executive order to close every one of these facilities, and that’s what we did. Do I think it was the right decision? Fuck no, it wasn’t. We are at war with these terrorists. They don’t play by the rules, but we have to. It’s like playing soccer without a goalie. It’s only a matter of time before one of their shots goes in the net. But it isn’t a goal; it’s two thousand dead Americans.

“But when an executive order comes down, it is followed. Fifty-two black sites were closed within six days, the detainees moved to Guantanamo Bay or to other similar facilities. The article you read about the twenty terrorists that are missing is bullshit. They are all accounted for, every last one. Did you ever think that some of them cooperated with us? That they work for us in some capacity? That they were given new identities and released? That some escaped and we don’t want to alarm the public? That some killed themselves?

“Everybody wants to know everything these days, right up until they don’t. We live in a time of transparency, a time when secrets aren’t allowed. But guess what? When information falls into the wrong hands, people die.”

I swallow his last words: when information falls into the wrong hands, people die.

Like my mother.

But it wasn’t that the Director just as much admitted my mother was killed for this very reason. He wanted me to know that if I continued pressing, I was going to wind up at the bottom of the Potomac as well.

Unfortunately for the Director, I’m on a strict schedule and I don’t have time for threats.