The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  “This is going to hurt.” He said, then slammed the butt of the gun into Prescott’s head, sending him crumpling unconscious to the ground. “Now you’re really going to have a headache, big guy.” He pocketed his gun, and tore open Prescott’s shirt. A small microphone was taped to his chest. Mitch leaned down to the microphone and spoke clearly. “Now listen up. All you ex-NSA pussies out there can kiss my ex-Secret Service butt!” Then he tore the microphone off Prescott’s chest and threw it away.

  Christa looked at him perplexed. “Was that necessary?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  Mitch hoisted Prescott onto his shoulder and headed off down the alley towards their hotel, with Christa close on heels. The alley ended in a side street, which they crossed with barely a moment’s hesitation. In the opposite alley, they hid in the deep night shadows of a building, giving Mitch a chance to catch his breath and ensure they weren't being followed.

  A car turned slowly into the side street, and cruised toward the alley. It stopped, letting two men in dark suits out, one holding a radio. Mitch recognized him as the man Prescott had identified as Bradick, the former navy SEAL. He inched deeper into the shadows as the two men started up the alley on foot, towards the restaurant. The car turned around, its headlights momentarily flashing down the alley, but not revealing their hiding spot. It drove towards the intersection, then took a right back toward the restaurant.

  Once Bradick was out of sight, Mitch hefted Prescott onto his shoulder again and started towards their hotel. He knew they were taking a risk holing up just a few blocks from the restaurant, but there was no reason why their pursuers would know their hotel’s location, unless EB had betrayed them.

  The back entrance to the hotel was a small glass door, well lit but unattended. They hurried inside to the hall that led to reception and the elevators.

  He nodded for her to go ahead. “Make sure there’s no one near the elevators. We couldn’t explain all this blood.” He nodded at the red stain that covered one side of Prescott’s head, and smeared his jacket.

  Christa stepped forward. Finding it clear, she waved for Mitch to follow. In a few seconds, the elevator was on its way up to their floor. When it opened, he carried Prescott into his room, then began stripping him of his clothes.

  “I’ll start the bath,” Christa said, guessing his intention.

  Once water was streaming into the bathtub, she came back and pulled Prescott’s shoes off, while Mitch finished removing his clothes. When Prescott lay completely naked on the floor, Christa scooped up the pile of clothes, carried them into the bathroom, and pushed them under the water.

  “He’s probably got more bugs on him than fleas on a dog,” Mitch said as he followed her in with Prescott’s watch and shoes. He smashed the watch with the heel of one of the shoes, then pushed the shoes and the remains of the watch under water as well.

  “If this doesn’t work, they’re going to be all over us in a few minutes,” Christa said.

  “Bugs and trackers small enough to be sewn into clothes are rarely water proof,” Mitch said with more confidence than he felt.

  Christa opened the cabinet drawer, took out the hair dryer and plugged it into the wall. She turned it on full power then dropped it into the water. There was a flash as electricity blasted through the water, then a spark as the hair dryer shorted out.

  She sighed. “Oh well, now I can’t dry my hair in the morning.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Mitch said approvingly, secretly wondering why he hadn’t thought of using the hair dryer to blow any hidden circuits.

  Christa switched off the ruined hair dryer at the mains, and retrieved it from the bath. She made sure all of the clothes had sunk to the bottom of the bath, then they went back out to Prescott. Mitch forced opened his mouth and studied his teeth. Most had fillings, but none looked recently done. Even so, he pressed and pulled everyone of Prescott’s teeth, looking for a loose or unusual tooth.

  “I doubt there was time for dental work,” Christa said. “Especially when you consider it would have taken them a while to condition him.”

  “I’m not taking any chances.”

  When he was satisfied Prescott’s teeth were his own, he wrapped him in a blanket, then tied the power cord from the coffee pot around the blanket, creating a makeshift full body straight jacket. “Sorry to do this to you buddy,” he said, patting Prescott’s unconscious shoulder.

  “Not half as sorry as you’ll be if he gets out of that blanket.”

  Mitch went back into the bathroom and collected several white towels. He used one to clean Prescott’s head wound, satisfying himself it was only a graze, then wrapped the other towel into a pressure bandage over the wound.

  “This'll have to do. We can’t risk taking him to a hospital.” Mitch stood. “We’re going to have to take turns watching him. I’ll take first shift. You take the bed.”

  “I’d feel safer if we could handcuff him,” she said, then went next door to her room and collected her newly bought clothes.

  Mitch settled into a chair and stared thoughtfully at his friend. The awful reality of Siren finally struck him for the first time. It was Prescott’s naked, unconscious body, lying wrapped in a blanket on the floor that drove home that reality.

  He’s programmed to kill me!

  * * * *

  Mitch watched with a heavy heart as Prescott struggled in vain against his bindings.

  “I tell you, Mitch, I’m okay. Let me out of here!”

  Mitch sat on a chair a few feet from where Prescott lay. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll have to gag you.”

  “But I tell you, I’m all right.”

  “Have you still got your headache?”

  Prescott hesitated. “Yeah, someone shot me in the head, and then you pistol whipped me. Why wouldn’t I have a headache?”

  Mitch looked at Christa questioningly. “Do you think those bumps to the head would fix him?”

  She shook her head slowly. “He’ll shoot us both, the first chance he gets.”

  “What are you talking about?” Prescott demanded. “I’m not going to shoot anybody.”

  “What do you remember about that wound on your head?” Mitch asked. “How did you get it?”

  “Someone shot me . . . I . . .” He stammered, confused. “It happened so fast, I don’t remember much.”

  “Whose gun was it?”

  Prescott hesitated, trying to remember. “I . . . I don't know.”

  “It was your gun. You were going to shoot me, then you tried to shoot yourself. I stopped you.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “He genuinely doesn’t remember trying to kill you,” Christa said. “The programming is deep, and completely invisible to him.”

  “What programming?” Prescott demanded. “And where the hell are my clothes?”

  “Do you remember what you did since you came to meet me at the hotel in Washington yesterday morning?” Mitch asked.

  “Sure. I was up at congress all day. We’re covering a state visit by some African leader.”

  “Were you on duty all day?”

  He thought for a moment. “No, I . . . I had a meeting, and was doing some background checking for you.”

  “Who did you meet?”

  Prescott shook his head. “It’s not important.”

  Christa was focused on Prescott. “He doesn’t want to remember. Something is blocking his memory.”

  “It’s important, Mat. Who did you meet?”

  “I don’t know. A senator I think. It was a security matter.”

  “Which senator?” Mitch persisted.

  “I don’t know,” he replied genuinely puzzled.

  “Do you remember a face?” Christa asked. “A voice? A building?”

  Confusion appeared on his face as he realized there was a blank spot in his memory. “I remember passing a guard . . . going up some stairs. I had a piece of paper in my hand, it was a note, it had a room number, but . . . I don’t remember what
was on the paper.”

  “Do you remember going into an office?” Mitch pressed.

  “No. I don’t remember anything after walking along a hall, looking for the senator’s office.”

  “Okay Mat, what’s the next thing you recall?”

  Prescott put his head on the carpet and closed his eyes, thinking back. “I remember talking to you on the telephone. I was in my apartment.”

  “Do you remember how you got to your apartment?”

  Again Prescott struggled to remember, surprised at his own memory loss. “No. The last thing I remember is sitting by the phone. When it rang, we waited until you spoke to my answering machine, then he handed me the phone and I told you I had to meet you.”

  “We? Who is we?’

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “You said ‘we waited’. You said ‘he’ handed you the telephone. Who are you talking about?”

  “No I didn’t, I was alone in my room . . . I know I was alone, but someone . . . someone? But I was alone,” Prescott tried to convince himself of something he knew to be false.

  “Mat,” Mitch said. “Do you want to kill me?”

  “No,” he said, sincerely. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  “If I gave you a gun, would you shoot me?”

  “Of course,” Prescott said automatically.

  “Why? Why would you shoot me?”

  “Because I had a gun.”

  “Okay Mat, you don’t want to kill me, but if you had a gun, you would shoot me?”

  “That’s right,” Prescott said, relieved something finally made sense.

  “It’s a conditioned response,” Christa explained. “The Mathew Prescott who is your friend wouldn’t kill you, but put a gun in his hand and he’ll shoot you as a reflex action.”

  “What about Christa? Would you shoot her?”

  “Of course.”

  Mitch was perplexed. “So why did you try to shoot yourself last night?”

  “I didn't do that.” Prescott wrinkled his face. “I’ve got a terrible headache.”

  “Did you have the headache before you went to visit the senator?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What about when you answered the telephone, when I rang you?”

  “Oh yeah, it was the worst hangover I’ve ever had.”

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “No, I’d been working. But . . . I remember, it was a hangover.”

  “Why did it have to be a hangover?” Mitch persisted.

  Prescott couldn't answer. His face showed the depth of his confusion.

  “We’re not equipped to deal with this,” Mitch said. “We’ve got to call Knightly.”

  Mitch set up the scrambler attachment again, dialed the London computer, then pressed several more numbers on the phone’s key pad that would inform the London relay that it had to on-dial a new call. He passed the phone to Christa.

  “Call him.”

  Christa dialed the contact number, which the London computer dutifully repeated via a new line, then passed the phone back to Mitch when Knightly answered.

  “We need your help,” Mitch said.

  “What exactly do you need?”

  “One of my contacts in Washington has been . . . ?” Mitch searched for a word to explain the effect.

  “Conditioned?” Knightly offered with a tone that indicated he was not surprised.

  “Yes. He tried to kill me last night. Christa said he’s a partial. Can you help him?”

  “No,” Knightly said emphatically. “You’ll have to liquidate him. Christa should have told you that.”

  “She did. It’s not an option. He’s a friend of mine and we’re responsible for what’s happened to him. This is an opportunity to find a solution, or maybe a defense against it.”

  “We have no program to reverse the conditioning process.”

  “You’re an egghead, invent one. This guy is Secret Service. He’s one of the good guys, and he’s fighting it, even though he doesn’t know he is. He may have valuable information, if we can just unlock it.”

  “How much do you know about the conditioning process?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Let me enlighten you. It’s not a mental state and you can’t take a pill for it. It’s a physical alteration of the brain’s electrical pathways. We don’t have the technology to deal with something like that.”

  “What about hypnosis?”

  “We’ve tried it. It has no lasting effect.”

  “Have you tried it on a partial?”

  “No, we haven’t. But there's no evidence to suggest there'd be a different outcome.”

  “You could at least try. If it doesn’t work, there must be some drugs you can test. Or surgery? Or an evil witch doctor can chant something over his body. Shit, I don’t know, but there’s got to be a way.”

  “People used to think the world was flat, Mitchell. It wasn’t. Wishing something to be so, doesn't make it that way.”

  “Well sitting on your ass all day hiding in a hole in the ground won’t beat this thing either. Isn’t it about time you started finding a way to help the victims? Or am I just a stupid flat Earther?”

  Knightly was silent for a moment, then said with a hint of resignation. “Very well. We’ll take a look at him. Where are you?”

  Mitch gave him the address and room number of their hotel. “I want your word now, he’ll be safe in your hands. No spook tricks, no what ifs, you’ll protect him.”

  “We won’t eliminate him. He will, however, be a human guinea pig. Any radical treatment we come up with, will be tried on him. More than likely, the treatment will kill him. Working on the brain is an extremely risky proposition.”

  “I understand. No frontal lobotomies, only the real stuff. Stuff you think has a chance.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What are you doing, Mitch?” Prescott demanded. “I don’t want a frontal lobotomy!”

  Mitch switched off his cell phone. “Some people are coming to help you, Mat.”

  “What people? Let me out of here. I don’t need any help!”

  Mitch raised his hand, commanding silence. “One more word, and I’ll gag you. You don’t want that.”

  Prescott shut up.

  * * * *

  An ambulance pulled up outside the hotel and two paramedics wheeled a stretcher inside, followed by a scholarly looking figure in a dark overcoat. The concierge, surprised at their unannounced arrival, followed them to the elevator. They told him it was an emergency and to keep the lobby clear, then the elevator doors shut and they were on their way up.

  Mitch let them in. The two paramedics pushed past him with the stretcher, which had a black metal box fitted with a carry handle strapped to it. Knightly followed the paramedics, his hands plunged deep into his coat pockets, nodding to Mitch and Christa as he entered.

  When Prescott saw the two paramedics and the stretcher, he became agitated. “What do you think you’re doing? I work for the U.S. Government. You can’t do this to me. Let me out of here!”

  Knightly approached Christa and gave her a hug. “How’s my number one student?”

  She smiled. “Wishing she was back at Metapsych, playing your silly mind games.”

  “Metapsych?” Mitch asked.

  “Later,” Christa said, cutting him off.

  One of the paramedics gave Prescott an injection, while the other paramedic held him down.

  “What’s that? What are you doing to me?”

  “It’s just a sedative.” the paramedic explained. “It’ll help you sleep,”

  “I don’t want to sleep. Let me up.”

  Mitch tried to reassure his friend, “They’re going to help you, Mat. Just go with it.”

  Prescott struggled for a few moments, then fell fast asleep. Once fully unconscious, Mitch helped the two paramedics untie Prescott, then slip his arms into a straight jacket. One paramedic unstrapped the black box and put it on the floor, while Mitch g
rabbed a pair of shorts and dragged them onto Prescott’s naked form.

  Knightly approached the stretcher, once Prescott was securely tied to it. He lifted Prescott’s eyelids, judging the degree of dilation in his eyes, then opened the black box, revealing a display screen and several neatly coiled wires attached to electrodes. Knightly fitted the electrodes to Prescott’s temples, then studied the waves patterns that appeared on the screen.

  “What do you think Professor,” one of the paramedics asked.

  Knightly rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “He’s about seventy percent, judging by the abnormal theta rhythms. Definitely unstable. Fortunately, he’s only of average intelligence and his beta waves max out at twenty hertz, so he’s somewhat naturally resistant.”

  “You can tell how smart he is, from that machine?” Mitch asked, genuinely impressed.

  Knightly waved the question off dismissively. “Not precisely, but the general indications are there.” He stood up and turned to Mitch. “You understand, there are no guarantees? From this point on, this man is no more than a lab rat to me.”

  “Yeah, but a lab rat you’ll take care of? Right?”

  “Gus,” Christa said. “Take care of him. Please.”

  Knightly looked thoughtfully at Christa, then nodded, her request clearly having more weight than Mitch’s. “Very well. He’ll be a well cared for lab rat. You have my word.”

  The paramedics pulled a white sheet up to Prescott’s neck to hide the straight jacket, removed the electrodes, then wheeled him to the door.

  “Where will you take him?” Mitch asked.

  “I’ve set up a safe house outside Baltimore.” Knightly held up a small card in front of Mitch. “This is the address. Remember it.”

  Mitch memorized card, then nodded.

  “I’m bringing in some of the best neurological people in the country. Not that it'll do any good,” Knightly said as he picked up the black metal box. He said his goodbyes, then followed the paramedics down to the waiting ambulance.

  Mitch locked the door behind him. “We check out in five minutes.”

  “Then what?”