The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book #4 in Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  Amanda nodded. “Very well then.”

  Randall turned to the Senator. “I rely on your assurances, sir, that this conversation shall remain entirely private.”

  Lovecroft nodded. “You have my word.”

  Randall turned and almost stumbled before pushing open the door and striding through. Exhaling, he sat opposite a pale and lethargic-looking Cameron Thorne. He had always liked Cam, and he hated seeing him doped up, but this was not the time for sentiment. He covered his mouth with his hand so that nobody could read his lips. Later—perhaps only hours so—someone would come in and try to piece together this conversation. But for now it needed to remain private. “Cameron, do you know who I am? Do not use my name—merely nod if you recognize me.”

  Cam squinted at him and, lolling in his seat, nodded slowly.

  “Very good. I am here with Amanda. We are here to help you. You need to trust me. Is that clear?”

  Cam seemed to sit up a bit at the mention of Amanda’s name. He nodded again.

  “They have drugged you. Do you know the name of the chemical they have used?”

  Cam opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head, blinked and then finally stuttered a response. “Scop … scopolamine.”

  The Zombie Drug. As he suspected. And hoped. “Excellent.” This next part was crucial, and Randall needed to be sure. “Cameron, I need you to give me the password to your ATM account.”

  Cam mumbled his response.

  “Good.” Randall didn’t care about the ATM, but he wanted to make sure Cam really would follow instructions. He gave him another test. “And please now put your hand on the table. I am going to take my pen and stab you in the palm. You must not move.”

  Cam nodded and stuck out his hand. Randall pulled a retractable pen from his briefcase, clicked it open, made a point of showing the tip to Cam and, clenching the pen in his fist, held it a few feet above the table. “Remember, do not move,” he said.

  Randall stabbed the pen downward like a deranged being in some old horror film, smashing the pen into the table a few inches from Cam’s hand. Cam flinched but did not withdraw his hand, even as the plastic pen splintered and pieces flew about the room.

  Satisfied, Randall took a deep breath and again shielded his mouth with his hand. “Excellent, Cameron. Now I need you to listen carefully, and to do exactly as I say. In a few minutes a very tall man—his name is Senator Lovecroft—is going to come into this room.” He spoke quickly, fearing the pen stunt might cause Wang to cut their meeting short. “He is an evil man. He is trying to hurt Amanda, and Astarte, and you, Cameron. He is trying to destroy America.” Randall bent closer to Cam. “I am going to shake your hand as I leave. When I do so, I am going to give you a shoelace. But this is not a normal shoelace. Inside the fabric is a sharp metal wire. The shoelace is a kind of garrote. Hide the shoelace until Senator Lovecroft comes into the room. When he comes over to examine your feet, I want you to wrap the garrote around his neck, twist the wire, and strangle him.” He looked into Cameron’s placid eyes. “You must not fail, Cameron. You must kill him. Do not stop squeezing until he is dead.”

  Amanda met Randall as he passed through the door from the interrogation room into the vestibule area. She desperately wanted to push ahead to go see Cameron, but Randall had explained that people under the influence of Scopolamine could suffer permanent emotional scarring if emotionally traumatized. There would be time enough to see him once the effects of the drug wore off.

  “How is he?” she breathed.

  Ignoring her, Randall edged past and confronted Senator Lovecroft, the top of his head barely reaching the Senator’s chest. Upset as she was, Amanda appreciated the skill with which Randall played his part—his anger and outrage were evident in his clenched jaw and pulsating forehead. “Sir, I must appeal to your sense of decency. An American citizen—an innocent American citizen—has been abducted, detained, drugged and tortured—”

  The female doctor interjected. “Tortured? That is not so.”

  Randall spun angrily. “Yes, tortured. The soles of his feet have been bludgeoned, like in some fascist police state. What next, electric cables on his nipples?”

  “What?” Amanda gasped. She staggered and had the vague sense of Georgia guiding her to a chair even as the anger rose in her throat.

  Wang stepped back, hands spread. “I assure you, Senator, there has been no torture—”

  Randall cut him off. “Go see for yourself, Senator. Ask to see the bottom of Mr. Thorne’s feet. He tells me he has been beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat.”

  Lovecroft strode forward. “Open the door,” he said to one of the guards. Without looking back, he marched into the interrogation room. The door closed behind him.

  Randall knew every second was crucial. A garrote could kill a man almost instantly, but if Randall blocked the door and gave Cameron another ten or twenty seconds, that would ensure the job was done. He watched as Wang and Georgia moved to the monitors on the far side of the room; even the guards edged closer, their eyes on the video screens. Randall pulled a chair away from a wall, surreptitiously positioned it partially to block the interrogation room door, sighed and dropped into it.

  “I hope all your houses are in your spouses’ names,” Randall said to the room, “because this is going to be one hell of a lawsuit.”

  The monitors showed the Senator entering the interrogation room and sitting opposite Cam. After a brief conversation, Lovecroft pointed to Cam’s feet. Still seated, Cam nodded, bent over mechanically and removed his sneakers. Senator Lovecroft stood, rounded the table and dropped to one knee in front of Cam. Bending low, he ducked his head almost to the ground and peered up at the bottom of Cam’s right foot. As he did so, Cam reached into his pocket and removed a black shoelace.

  One the guards reacted. “Hey, what’s that?”

  Even as his eyes were glued to the monitor, Randall braced himself to block the door. Cam, no longer moving sluggishly now that he was following specific instructions, looped the lace around the Senator’s neck and twisted.

  Time froze. It seemed to take forever for anyone to understand what was happening on the monitor—finally Georgia screamed and the guard who had first reacted to the shoelace jumped toward the door.

  “Move!” he yelled to Randall.

  Randall clenched the arms of the side chair and braced his legs against the wall, wedging the chair into place. The guard grabbed the chair and tried to shove it aside, but Randall fought him, treasuring the delay, counting every precious second as a victory for Cuba, a validation of his lifetime of service, a testament to his love for Consuela.

  Finally, something that gave meaning to his life. For you, Consuela!

  Once the guard realized Randall was fighting him, he hurled him aside and barged through the door. Randall lay crumpled against a wall, his wrist turned at an awkward angle and his head throbbing. But he smiled. At least ten seconds had passed. There was no way anyone could survive a garrote around their neck for that long. He focused on the monitor, on the lifeless body of the obscenely tall, war-mongering Senator sprawled on the floor at Cam’s feet.

  Randall closed his eyes and smiled. Mission accomplished.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cam relaxed his grip, pulled his hands away from the Senator’s neck. He had never strangled anyone before—it was easier than he thought. He shook his hands, trying to get the feeling back into his fingers. The garrote, gripped so tightly, must have restricted his own blood supply as well as that of the Senator.

  He exhaled. It had been a long day. A very long day. Maybe they’d finally let him go now. He shook his hands again, pulled his foot out from underneath the Senator’s body…

  “Well done,” Dr J said, bounding into the room from a back door.

  “Thank you,” Cam responded.

  “Easy for you to say.” The Senator sat up and rubbed his neck; a few drops of blood reddened his hand. “You were the strangler, not the stranglee.”

 
“Did it work?” Cam asked.

  Dr. Jag responded. “Perfectly. Mr. Sid is out in the vestibule, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Senator, perhaps you should wave to the camera? I’m sure at some point the smug old bastard is going to look back at the monitor.”

  “Gladly.” Lovecroft smiled. “I know this may sound un-Christian, but I sure would like to see the look on his face when he sees me standing here.”

  Cam held Amanda close as she sobbed against his shoulder. The guards had marched Randall away and everyone had left Cam and Amanda alone in the interrogation room for some privacy.

  “You didn’t know?” Cam asked, his lips against her hair.

  “No. I thought you really had been turned into a zombie, really were strangling the Senator.” She exhaled. “Thank God it was all a ruse.”

  “It all came together pretty quick. Maybe they didn’t have time to tell you.”

  She nodded. “I’ve been with Randall every moment.” After a few seconds she added: “More likely they didn’t trust me to keep the secret.”

  “I have to tell you, I was really scared.” He shook his head and smiled. “One minute I’m about to be drugged up and interrogated, the next minute our delivery guy walks in and tells me he’s the deputy director of the CIA.”

  “Wait, the guy who delivered our Chinese food?”

  Cam nodded. “Yup, Pugh Wei.” He smiled. “I half-expected him to hand me an egg roll.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know all the details yet either.” He had dozens of questions, which the deputy director promised to answer after a good night’s sleep. “But I guess at one point, I think when Pugh and I were in the hospital waiting room, I asked him if Randall Sid gave him the bracelet to give to me. I had just met Randall and I figured the two things might be related.”

  “Which, it now seems, they were.”

  “So, Randall was already on their radar. When you arrived with your so-called lawyer, Pugh or Wang or whatever his name is figured Randall was up to something. They thought he might be the Cuban sleeper agent. Lovecroft had made some aggressive comments about Cuba, so it sort of all added up. They decided to try to set a trap. I was the cheese.” He smiled. “The hardest thing was not flinching when Randall stabbed the table with the pen. I wasn’t sure, at his age, how good his aim was.”

  She sighed. “It was a good plan. Randall ordered you to kill Lovecroft, figuring he’d never get close enough to do the job himself.”

  “And this way, he would never have to take the fall: The zombified Cam kills Lovecroft while Randall waits in the other room.”

  She touched his cheek. “So they didn’t drug you? You’re not an automaton, programmed to simply obey?”

  “No.”

  She sighed, frowned and backed away. “How disappointing.” And then a bright smile, as much with her eyes as with her mouth. “It seems I drove all this way for nothing.”

  Cam and Amanda spent the night in a suburban Virginia hotel, much of it discussing their crazy week. Exhaustion, and the knowledge they had an early morning meeting, finally brought on sleep.

  When they awoke the storm front had passed, replaced by a warm southwesterly breeze. Cam did a quick twenty minutes on the hotel elliptical to get his blood flowing while Amanda texted with Astarte; they left the hotel at 7:30 and easily found their way downtown. By eight o’clock the temperature was already pushing fifty and a bright sun reflected off the quickly melting snow in Meridian Hill Park, due north of the White House on 16th Street. A few joggers and dog-watchers were about, but otherwise the city slept.

  They parked and ascended a set of wide, steep stairs running alongside what in the warmer months was a cascading water fountain. “You know,” he said, “I really liked Randall. Or Morgan. Or whatever his name is.”

  “And you trusted him,” Amanda replied. “He must have been quite an adept liar. You usually have a keen sense for these things.”

  “I don’t think he was lying to me. At least not until the very end. From what Wang told me last night, they think he had only been activated for a day or two—he spent time Friday with a Cuban tourist. Before that he had been dormant for decades.” He frowned. “But I guess that could be said for all sleeper agents.”

  She slipped her arm into his. “Even so, I know you liked him. It hurts to be betrayed.”

  Senator Lovecroft, along with Georgia, Deputy Director Wang and Dr. Jag, waited for them on a concrete bench, the three men in dark overcoats and Georgia in a black leather motorcycle jacket with a fur collar and a pair of tattered blue jeans, as if she had awoken and decided to distance herself from the Agency in any way possible this morning. The Senator unfolded himself and stood as they approached. “Good morning. I brought coffee and some muffins,” he said, gesturing, his neck discolored from where the garrote had chafed against it. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time for something more elaborate.”

  Amanda, after her initial relief that Cam had not been brainwashed, had spent much of their time in the hotel room complaining about fascists in the U.S. government. “We didn’t come for food. We came for answers.”

  The Senator nodded. “And you shall have them, along with an apology.”

  Georgia greeted them with a hug, Wang and Dr. Jag with a nod.

  Amanda didn’t waste any time. “We now know it is official policy for the American government to kidnap and torture its own citizens. Does that also include attempted murder of innocent children?”

  Wang looked her in the eye. “We had nothing to do with the attack on you in Newton.”

  She flared. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “At least give us credit for being more … proficient than that. Quite honestly, if we wanted you dead, you would be dead. From what I have learned, Mr. Maxwell is a deluded, paranoid collector who felt threatened by you. Again, we had nothing to do with it. I trust the court system will handle it appropriately.”

  “What about the witch of a social worker at Astarte’s school asking inappropriate questions?”

  Wang turned to Dr. Jag.

  “That’s us,” Dr. Jag said. “It’s a possible pressure point against Mr. Thorne.”

  Wang exhaled and held his eyes closed for a couple of seconds. “End it, please. Immediately.”

  “Unbelievable,” Amanda hissed.

  As Amanda worked her jaw, Cam cleared his throat. He preferred to take the conversation a little slower. He wanted many things explained, and an angry exchange of accusations and denials would make it difficult to get answers. “I’m assuming we’re here in a park rather than in one of your offices so that you can later deny this meeting ever happened.”

  Wang pursed his lips. “It is not a question of denial so much as privacy.” He smiled. “Later today the park will be filled with drummers and dancers. It is a Sunday tradition. But at this hour we can talk freely. There are not many places in Washington anymore where that is true.”

  “Speaking of true,” Cam said as they stood in a small group, “were you really part of the MK-Ultra experiments in New York City?” Or was that another lie?

  The Chinese man smiled sadly. “I was. And I am sure you are wondering why then I would work for my torturers—”

  “It does seem odd.”

  “The honest answer is, compared to what the Nazis did and what the Communists in China and the Soviet Union were doing, the CIA programs seemed almost … benign. I suppose you could say I chose the lesser of two evils.” He spread his arms. “The United States is far from perfect. But compared to most others….”

  Nobody said anything for a few seconds, until Lovecroft spoke. “I suggest we walk.” The Senator walked with his hands behind his back, bent slightly at the waist. Cam and Amanda strolled with him, while Georgia, Wang and Dr. Jag followed close behind. “Did you know,” the Senator asked, “that President Jefferson wanted the Prime Meridian relocated to Washington? This park was originally built to mark it. The Washington Monument was supposed t
o mark it as well, but the ground was too unstable to support such a massive structure so it was moved a few hundred feet to the east. Nonetheless, the meridian line runs from the Jefferson Memorial, due north through the center of the White House, through the Andrew Jackson statue in Lafayette Park, up 16th Street to the Scottish Rite Masonic Temple, and then to this park. Hence the name Meridian Hill Park.”

  “Why the Masonic Temple?” Cam asked. He knew Lovecroft was trying to ease into things after the volatility of last night.

  “Indeed, why the Freemasons again?” The Senator smiled. “If Mr. Sid were here, he could no doubt respond. But he is otherwise detained this morning.” He eyed Cam. “In any event, I think we both know the answer to your question, Mr. Thorne.”

  Cam nodded. The entire layout of Washington, D.C. tied into Masonic ritual, imagery and belief.

  “So why is the Prime Meridian still marked at Greenwich?” Amanda asked, trying to be civil but a bit of edge still in her tone.

  Lovecroft smiled again. “Well, you know how touchy you Brits can be about things like that. I’m guessing we decided not to force the issue.”

  She rolled her eyes. “How bloody generous of you.”

  Cam found himself liking the Senator. He wasn’t nearly as stiff and humorless as the press portrayed him. But Cam still wanted answers. “So, what the hell is going on?”

  Lovecroft’s eyes flashed. Cam knew the Senator objected to cursing, but Cam was beyond caring. “Yes, well, that is why we are here,” Lovecroft said. He turned to Wang. “Deputy Director, I think you should be the one to explain things.”

  Wang slid forward to walk with Cam and Amanda as the Senator lagged behind with Georgia and Dr. Jag. “Much of this you have already pieced together, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Yes. Lucky me. My prize was a night in a man-cave with the fun-loving Dr. Jag.”

  Wang ignored the barb. “The marriage of MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian was originally one of convenience, brokered if you will by the father of one entity and the custodian of the other, Leonard Carmichael. As often happens, the union proved beneficial to both parties. The Smithsonian benefited from a close relationship with the CIA—never a bad thing in Washington—while the CIA used the Smithsonian and its archives as a testing ground. Dr. Jagurkowitzky, I believe you use the term Petri dish?”