The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  “So we invented this monster to guard democracy, and now it’s being used against us? Kind of a Frankenstein, isn’t it?”

  “It's not supposed to be,” Mitch said. “Someone must have gotten their hands on it.”

  “Is there any defense against this thing?”

  “Sure, step back two hundred years. Don't use technology. Use couriers and hand written letters, but they have their own risks, and are slow. You can also encrypt your electronic communications, but the UKUSA countries are the world’s master code breakers and they go all out to limit the development of cryptographic technology by everyone else. Echelon has all the aces.”

  Christa studied Mitch’s face. “Sounds like you admire it.”

  “When I was in the Secret Service, Echelon intercepts often made the difference between success and failure. How can you beat knowing what your enemy is going to do, before he does it?”

  “Ironic, isn't it? The most freedom loving countries on Earth have made Big Brother a reality.” Christa looked confused. “So why did you let me call Gus?”

  “Because he had to be told about Fraser. It’s information they know we have already, so we gave them nothing new.”

  “But you wouldn’t let me mention Echelon to him. Why?”

  “Because they don’t know, we know, that they control Echelon. If you mentioned Echelon to Knightly, they’d know they had a leak, and we’d have compromised EB.”

  “So you think they heard my call to Gus?”

  “Absolutely. We can’t say anything over the phones they don’t already know, that we know.”

  “But EB told you about Echelon. Wouldn’t they have heard that?”

  Mitch looked thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking about that. EB knows about Echelon, so he must have a way to beat it. He wouldn’t give himself away, I’m sure of that. I was thinking maybe he did something with the electric current, ran his signal through the power lines, rather than via conventional communications.”

  Christa looked surprised. “Through power lines? Is that possible?”

  “It is, but it’s very tricky. The only other option would be controlling the entire telephone system itself, routing the call around exchanges Echelon had tapped. Either option would be incredibly difficult. I doubt one man could pull it off alone.”

  “You make it all sound like a game.”

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “So, I guess we won’t be using the telephones for a while,” she said with a touch of resignation.

  “What we really need is a good carrier pigeon.” Mitch looked around the table, then under the table. “There’s never a good carrier pigeon around when you need one.”

  * * * *

  The safe house was a small country estate on the Patuxent River, south east of Washington. As they drove in and parked, Mitch noted security cameras discreetly watching the drive and surrounding gardens. They were greeted at the front door by two armed men, both of whom were equipped with radio ear pieces, body armor and automatic weapons. The guards were expecting them and, with few words, ushered them to a second floor room fitted with a large one way window. A well lit operating theater lay beyond the window, where several white coated attendants ran last minute checks on a range of electronic monitoring equipment.

  Waiting in the observation room was Knightly and several other men Mitch hadn’t seen before, with one exception, the Vice President of the United States. Standing against the back wall were four more armed security men, all of whom remained quietly aloof.

  Knightly made no attempt to introduce them to the others, he merely whispered to Christa, “Psycho-empathically register those men, my dear. Take your time, I want you to be sure.”

  Christa nodded, then began concentrating on each one in turn, starting with the Vice President.

  Knightly turned and whispered to Mitch, “The interrogation will begin shortly. I thought it might assist you to be present.”

  “Interrogation? I thought you were studying Prescott, so you could help him.”

  “We are studying him, and if we can help him, we will. But right now, it’s more important to find out what he knows.”

  Mitch nodded toward the Vice President. “Why’s he here?”

  “The Government has been penetrated. My problem is I don’t know how high the problem goes. I couldn’t get the President here in time, so the Vice President was the next best option. I told him it was a national security matter. What I really want is for Christa to examine him. If he’s unconditioned, then we know at least the number two man in the country can be trusted.”

  “You think the President could be under their control?” Mitch asked astonished.

  “It’s prudent to consider all possibilities.”

  Mitch glanced at the Vice President, who was engaged in a quiet conversation with his advisers. “Does he know what’s going on?”

  “Not yet. If Christa gives him the all clear, I’ll give him a full briefing.”

  “And the President?”

  “We tell him nothing until we can be sure he’s not one of theirs.”

  “And if he is?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  Mitch suppressed his irritation. “If you were half as smart as you think you are, Professor, you’d start trusting me. I know I’m all you’ve got and with Echelon breathing down my neck, I could use a break.”

  Knightly’s eyebrows raised, obviously surprised. “Echelon? Are you sure?”

  Mitch nodded.

  “That explains a great deal. How did you find out?”

  “There’s a mole on the inside. He tipped me off.”

  Knightly's expression showed sudden interest. “Is it Dr Steinus?”

  “I don’t know. He’s smart, maybe a scientist type. He’s close to the heart of this thing. He might even be the key to busting Siren wide open, but it’s going to take time.” Mitch stepped closer to Knightly, and whispered, “So what happens if the President is on the wrong side of the fence?”

  Knightly glanced at the Vice President thoughtfully. “Once we know the Vice President is in control of his faculties, we replace all his Secret Service guards with our own people, to ensure he stays that way. Then we try to get to the President and do the same.”

  “And if they’re both conditioned?”

  Knightly cast a meaningful look toward the four security men lingering against the far wall of the observation room.

  An assassination squad? Mitch guessed, then whispered. “You can’t be serious!”

  “If either the Vice President or the President are conditioned, they’re not the men the American people elected to lead them. They’re unwitting traitors, operating with no regard for the Constitution or the best interests of this country. And we know of no way to reverse the process.”

  Mitch was confronted by his own training. As a former Secret Service agent, he'd once been charged with taking a bullet for the President. Now he was being asked to turn a blind eye to the very thing he'd dedicated himself to prevent. “That’s nuts!”

  Knightly turned to Christa. “What’s the verdict?”

  Christa continued to concentrate, not looking directly at the Vice President and his companions. Slowly she said, “The Vice President is . . . okay.”

  Mitch relaxed.

  “And the others?” Knightly pressed.

  “Who is the shorter man, balding, spectacles, on the Vice President’s left?”

  Knightly turned and studied the man she'd identified. “That’s Harry Deitel, Under Secretary of State.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Christa’s face was ashen. “He’s conditioned.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m certain.”

  Without another word, Knightly crossed to the group of men surrounding the Vice President. “Excuse me, Mr Vice President, but there’s a call for Mr Deitel.”

  The balding man looked surprised, but not alarmed. “Where can I take it?”

  Knightly motioned
to one of the security men. “Show Mr Deitel to the phone please.”

  The officer nodded. “This way, sir.”

  He led the unsuspecting Deitel from the room as Knightly returned to where Christa and Mitch were standing.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” Mitch asked with rising trepidation.

  “He'll be detained, and interrogated.”

  “And after the interrogation?” Christa asked.

  “We'll see. It’s not essential to arrange for an accidental death for him. There’s no need for a formal transfer of power, merely that he be removed from proximity to the President.” Knightly glanced back at the Vice President’s group. “You’re positive none of the others are unconditioned?”

  “Yes. I’ve been very careful, Gus.”

  “Right then.” He gave a barely perceptible nod to the three remaining members of the assassination squad waiting at the back of the room. They relaxed slightly, then unobtrusively slipped from the room, the Vice President and his entourage barely noticing their departure. “At least we’ve still got someone in the Executive who can run the country. Thank God for that.”

  Over the intercom, a man’s voice announced, “We’re ready, Mr Knightly.”

  Everyone’s attention was drawn to the one way window as several orderlies wheeled a stretcher into the interrogation room. Prescott, bound in a straight jacket and secured to the stretcher by leather straps, looked as if he was waking from a deep sleep. The two doctors who would conduct the interrogation, took up position either side of the stretcher.

  “What have you done to him?” Mitch demanded.

  “He’s mildly sedated, nothing more,” Knightly replied, then excused himself to begin briefing the Vice President.

  One doctor readied several syringes while the other attached sensors to Prescott’s head and neck. An orderly activated a video camera to record the interrogation while all the time, Prescott looked around with a mix of fear and anger on his face.

  Mitch couldn’t hear what Knightly was saying to the Vice President, but a few times the Vice President made incredulous exclamations. Each time Knightly would point to Prescott through the one way glass, demonstrating the proof of his claims. Once the Vice President glanced at where the security men had stood, but Knightly put a firm hand on his shoulder as if to restrain him, and then motioned to Christa. The Vice President was clearly agitated but he continued to listen in stunned silence.

  “Did you know he was going to have the Vice President assassinated, if he was conditioned?” Mitch whispered.

  “I suspected. Gus has been trying to get me close to the President and the Vice President for weeks now.”

  “That’s a heavy responsibility. Deciding whether the second most powerful man on Earth should live or die.”

  “It is, but there’s too much at stake to protect any one man, even the Vice President.”

  Knightly finished his briefing of the Vice President, then activated the small intercom beside the one way window. “You may begin.”

  One of the doctors injected a syringe into Prescott’s arm, then waited several minutes before injecting a second. During the minutes required for the drugs to take effect, the orderlies monitored his vital signs, reporting in monotones that he was stable. Eventually, the lead doctor shone a small light into his eyes, checking his retinal response, then nodded toward the mirror. “He’s ready.”

  A white coated man standing off to the side, now replaced the doctor beside his bed. “Mr Prescott, can you hear me?” the interrogator asked.

  Prescott’s eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. When he answered, his words were only slightly slurred. “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember meeting John Mitchell a few days ago, at his hotel?”

  “I remember . . . nothing.” Prescott turned his face away from the light, almost shaking his head. “Nothing, nothing . . . “

  The doctor turned the light down, then held Prescott’s face. “Do you remember your name?”

  “My name . . . is . . . nothing. Mr Nothing . . . I’m Mr Nothing.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m . . . nothing years old.” He gave a semi-stupefied giggle. “I must . . . be dead!”

  The doctor checked Prescott’s retinal response again, then glanced at the displays on the machines monitoring his vital signs. After a moment, he turned to the one way window. “He's fully under the control of the drug, however, there's a block on his mind preventing his memory from working when an external source seeks information.”

  Knightly walked to the intercom. “Increase the dosage.”

  The doctor hesitated, then turned to his assistant. “Another ten milligrams.”

  The assistant gave Prescott a booster shot, then the interrogator let the drug take effect before continuing the questioning. “Mr Prescott, do you remember meeting John Mitchell at his hotel?”

  “No . . . no . . .” He murmured as he descended deeper into a drug induced dream state.

  The interrogator slapped his cheek. “Do you remember meeting John Mitchell at his hotel?”

  Prescott shook his head slowly. “No . . . thing . . .”

  The interrogator turned back to the one way mirror and shook his head again. “Whatever they’ve done to him, it’s stronger than our drugs.”

  Knightly pressed the intercom button again. “Give him another shot.”

  The doctor's eyes widened. “We’re already fifty percent above the safe level. Another shot might cause irreparable brain damage.”

  “You have your orders, Doctor.”

  “No!” Mitch shouted. “That’s enough.” He stepped forward toward the window and looked with anguish at his friend on the operating table. “You’ll kill him.”

  Knightly closed the intercom connection to speak without the medical team overhearing. “We have to find a way of breaking their mind blocks, otherwise we’re never going to beat this thing. You gave me Prescott, you told me to study him, and I told you it would not be easy.”

  “So you’re just going to sacrifice him?”

  Knightly looked thoughtfully at Prescott’s barely conscious form. “Would he hesitate to take a bullet for the President?”

  The question took Mitch by surprise. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “This may not look like it, Mitchell, but this is as much taking a bullet as leaping in front of an assassin’s gun, only this is a more insidious threat.” Knightly watched the expression of resignation appear on Mitch’s face, then he pressed the intercom button again. “Double the dosage.”

  The doctor hesitated, then nodded to his assistant to prepare the injection. When the assistant approached Prescott’s body, the doctor relieved him of the syringe and administered it himself. He watched the readouts for Prescott’s vital signs apprehensively until the third injection had taken hold, then the interrogator tried again.

  “Mr Prescott, do you remember going to meet John Mitchell at his hotel room?”

  “Yeah . . . gave him . . . stuff . . .” His response was slow and slurred, but the microphone in front of his mouth picked up every word.

  “After you left John Mitchell, you went to join your team protecting the Angolan Foreign Minister. Do you remember that?’

  “Yeah,”

  “Then you got a call to meet Senator Fraser. Can you tell me what happened when you went to see him?”

  “Went to . . . his office . . . he had . . . a meeting . . . talk . . . on . . . the way.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Traffic . . . weather . . . he was . . . stalling.” Prescott’s head rocked slightly to the side as he started to lose consciousness.

  The interrogator slapped him hard on the cheek. “Then what happened?”

  “We went . . . to . . . car park . . . someone . . . jumped me . . . didn’t see . . .” Prescott’s face winced. “Argh . . . head . . . hit me . . . head.”

  “Do you remember what happened next?”

  “Car . . . dragged to . . . car
. . . something smell . . . mouth . . . couldn’t breathe . . . sleep . . .”

  The interrogator waited while Prescott’s mind searched for more clues, then gently pressed him again. “Do you remember waking up? Later, after the drug wore off?”

  Prescott opened his mouth as if to speak but seemed confused.

  “What is the next thing you remember?”

  “Lights,” he mumbled uncertainly.

  “What kind of lights?”

  “Bright . . . so bright . . . and sound . . . static . . . behind me.”

  “Could you see what was making the sound, Mr Prescott?”

  “No . . .”

  “That’s got to be a particle accelerator,” Mitch said, “Like the one we recorded.”

  Prescott’s head lolled sideways, as he drifted into unconsciousness. The interrogator slapped his cheek again, forcing him awake while the doctor watched his vital signs anxiously.

  “What else do you remember, Mr Prescott?” the interrogator asked. “Tell me about the noise and the lights?”

  “Men with . . . white masks . . .”

  “Did they say anything to you?”

  “Nothing . . .”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Tied . . . down . . .” he murmured, then he yelled in anger. “Tied . . . down!”

  One of the orderlies monitoring his vital signs called out, “Heart rate up twenty percent.”

  “What did the doctors do to you?”

  Prescott calmed. “Metal . . . on my head . . . cold.”

  “They put some metal devices on your head? Is that correct?”

  “. . . clamps . . .”

  “They clamped your head, so you couldn’t move?”

  “Hurt . . . silver balls.” Prescott stopped talking as he became increasingly distressed.

  “What are silver balls?”

  “. . . near . . . my . . . head . . .”

  “They clamped your skull, so you couldn’t move, and put silver balls close to your head? Is that right?”