by Hunt, Angela
Nancy sucks at the inside of her cheeks for a moment, then snorts. “Maybe you have a point.”
“And maybe your daughter wanted to put a negative spin on a noticeable improvement,” I point out. “I would say you appear more rested than usual, but I want to know how you’ve been feeling. Have you noticed any improvement in your depression?”
Nancy runs a hand over her hair, which she has pulled into a tight ponytail. “Now that you mention it, maybe the injections have helped. Last week at this time I could barely summon the energy to get out of bed, but I’m here, aren’t I?”
“And you’re looking pretty good.”
“Rested, you said.”
“Rested…and a bit more relaxed than usual.”
The corner of Nancy’s mouth dips in a wry smile. “I still don’t see how BOTOX is supposed to help me feel better. My husband thinks this treatment is a lot of hooey. He doesn’t even want me coming to therapy anymore.”
“When did he say that?”
“Last night. Right after he told me he’d rather eat roadkill than my pot roast.”
I smooth my slacks and take a moment to evaluate my patient’s statement. Nancy’s Neanderthal of a husband is probably to blame for her continued depression, but she’s not willing to admit that. Not yet, anyway.
“Perhaps,” I edge into the topic, “your husband expressed that opinion because he noticed a change and assumed you are completely better. He’d be wrong, because depression doesn’t go away overnight, but you could accept his comment as evidence that your outlook has brightened.”
“But why?” Her forehead remains smooth, courtesy of the BOTOX, but a frown cuts deep parentheses into the sides of her mouth. “I don’t get it.”
I fold my hands. “Remember the old song about the benefits of putting on a happy face? As illogical as it may seem, the lyricist had it right. A demonstrable physiological link exists between our facial expressions and our emotions.”
“We feel better because we look better?”
“Looking better is a side effect. When you wear a happy face, your emotional outlook improves because smiling promotes the release of endorphins in the brain. On the other hand, frowning causes your spirits to plummet. And when you narrow your eyes in anger, your blood pressure rises.”
Nancy frowns again, and in that down-turned mouth I can read years of repressed frustration and yearning. “So what does all that have to do with cosmetic injections?”
“BOTOX isn’t used only for cosmetic reasons. Because it temporarily paralyzes certain facial muscles, doctors are finding all sorts of medical applications for it. Neurologists use it to treat migraine headaches, and we psychologists use it to paralyze the corrugator supercilii muscles in patients’ foreheads—”
“To treat frowny faces?”
“To treat clinical depression.” I give her a careful smile. “Have you ever heard of the partial facial paralysis known as Mobius syndrome? These patients, most of whom are born with the condition, are often unable to smile or frown. As a result, they don’t experience emotions with the same intensity as normal people.”
“I have days,” Nancy says, “when that sort of numbness would be a blessing.”
“I don’t think so.” I shift my gaze to the sunlit window beyond my desk. “Numbness is a blessing when we’re in pain, but pain tells us when something is wrong. Discomfort motivates us to seek the help we need.”
“You could always have your partner prescribe more happy pills.”
“We’ve already tried the standard antidepressants,” I remind her, “and it appears that your depression is not caused by a chemical imbalance.”
I’d lay the blame for Nancy’s depression at the feet of her churlish husband and her ungrateful teenage children, but the woman is blindly devoted to all three. I doubt she’d be sitting in my office if they were equally devoted to her.
“We need to try a different approach,” I say, jotting a note on my legal pad. “Who knows? You might get so used to wearing a peaceful look that a smile becomes your natural expression.”
If her forehead hadn’t been freshly injected with BOTOX, I suspect, Nancy would lift both brows in an expression of genuine skepticism.
“So,” she says, rubbing her arms, “should I keep journaling? And make another appointment?”
“Absolutely. And remember not to censor yourself. Write whatever comes to mind, and let your thoughts spill out. About your kids, your husband—everything.”
“What if someone reads it?”
“Would that be a problem?”
“My husband would freak out if he knew what I was really thinking.” She brings her hand to her throat, a common I need reassurance gesture.
“You need to be honest with yourself.” I lean toward her and smile to alleviate her anxiety. “Get one of those old-fashioned diaries with a lock and key. Or journal on a computer and protect the file with a password. You don’t have to share your most private thoughts with anyone, but you do have to write them down. Only when you force yourself to put feelings into words are you able to recognize them for what they are.”
She sighs and reaches for her handbag on the floor. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try—do. And we’ll talk about it during our next session.”
Nancy nods through her tears, then thanks me and stands. “By the way,” she says, settling her purse strap on her shoulder, “a few months ago you mentioned taking a long vacation. Is that coming up any time soon?”
I stand, as well. “It’s not actually a vacation, but I need to check on a family matter. Before I can leave, however, I have to get a security clearance.”
“Oh. Sounds mysterious.”
“Trust me, my family has nothing to do with national security. But the process is taking longer than I thought it would.”
She crinkles her nose. “How long does it take to check your fingerprints?”
“They check a lot more than fingerprints,” I tell her, moving toward the door, “and it’s already been four months since I submitted my paperwork. I’ve been told the process can take up to a year.”
Nancy gives me the first real smile I’ve seen on her face in months. “So I’m okay to make an appointment for next week?”
“You’re good to make appointments from now until Christmas. But don’t you worry—you’re going to be doing better long before the holidays.”
After Nancy leaves, I close the door and lean against it. With my patients and friends, I’ve pretended to be calm and accepting of the process known as “getting clearance,” but on most days I’m ready to scream with frustration.
Since finding that CIA connection in my mother’s files, I’ve made inquiries and been told that I cannot have any contact with Dr. Glenda Mewton unless I have the proper security clearance. To obtain clearance, I must be in the military, hold a government job, be employed by a contractor working for the government, or apply for a position that requires a government clearance. No exceptions.
For two days I thought about giving up—allowing Sarah Jane Sims, if she exists, to live her life in the same state of idyllic ignorance I once enjoyed. But then I thought about my mother, who once spied my bleeding hangnail and drove thirty miles back to a dress shop to tell the clerk that her little girl might have bled on the zipper of a dress she had tried on. If so, she would pay for the dry cleaning.
My mother was completely committed to doing right. That’s why I have to know if Sarah Sims survived…and why my mother told me she didn’t.
Frustrated by my inability to move forward with the CIA, I followed a hunch and went around the U.S. government, sending a letter to the leading hospital in Valencia, the Hospital Clinico Universitario. In my barely adequate Spanish, I asked for a copy of Sarah Jane Sims’s birth certificate, if such a thing exists.
I’ve also taken a far more significant step. In April—quietly, not wanting to alarm the other doctors in my practice—I applied for a position as a staff psychologist with the C
entral Intelligence Agency. I never thought I’d consider working for the CIA. But Kevin was apparently willing to sacrifice the pleasures of ordinary life to serve his country. In any case, I’ve come to believe that ordinary life is overrated.
In order to achieve the vaunted status of One Who Can Be Trusted with Government Secrets, I have filled out Standard Form 86, I have been fingerprinted, and I have given the government page after page of personal information, numerous references, and permission to check everything from my credit report to my college transcripts. I have been told that my medical and police records will be reviewed…and I am praying that my five speeding tickets won’t be interpreted as a reckless disregard for American highway law.
I would hate to have my quest for truth crushed by my own lead foot.
Chapter Seven
Sarah
“That you, kiddo?”
As I leave the exercise room, I’m surprised to find Judson waiting in the hallway. “Who else would it be?”
“Sometimes the guards like to slip up here and work out.”
“Not when Mama Mewton is prowling around.”
“You’ve got a point there.” He rolls toward me, his powerful arms propelling his chair over the tiled floor. When my fingertips brush his shoulder, he slows his pace and lowers his voice. “Did you hear the chopper last night?”
I shorten my step to match the wheelchair’s progress. “I took my speech processor off so I could concentrate on a project. Is the new arrival a patient or a guest?”
“Neither. Traut came in alone. He’s waiting for us in the conference room.”
A shiver of anticipation ripples through my limbs as we approach the elevator. Judson doesn’t seem at all nervous about this meeting with the director, but he hasn’t spent the last several weeks writing a program intended to prevent national disaster.
I hope the man approves of my work.
I press the call button and cross my arms. “What time did Mr. Traut arrive?”
Judson shrugs. “I wasn’t listening for the clock. It was late, though.”
The elevator opens. We nod to the guard and enter, Judson wheeling to the left and spinning to face the door. A moment later we arrive on the second floor, home to our apartments, Dr. Mewton’s office, operations, security, and the conference room. My hopes for a quick shower and a change of clothes are dashed when I see Dr. Mewton waiting in the hallway.
“I was about to call you on the intercom,” she says, stepping forward to pluck a stray hair from my shoulder. “Holmes, you give your report first. Sarah, Mr. Traut has a copy of your program and wishes to speak to you. He’ll probably want a demonstration, so grab your laptop.”
I point toward my apartment, only a few feet down the hall. “Do I have time to change?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“There’s coffee, fruit, and doughnuts on the table. Shelba will bring up anything else you want.”
Of course Dr. M’s thought of everything. She never misses a detail.
I wait for Judson to roll forward, then I follow, my stomach tightening with every step.
Jack Traut is devouring one of Shelba’s delicious fritters when Judson and I enter the conference room. He nods at us and takes a sip of coffee as we approach the table. “Interesting program,” he says, pointing to the laptop in front of him. “Mind telling me how it works?”
I glance at Judson, who rolls to his usual place at the table without comment. If he minds being overlooked by our boss’s boss, he gives no sign of it.
“The concept isn’t complicated,” I say, sinking into my own chair. “The program works in conjunction with others that provide a layered security approach.”
“Layered?”
“Like an onion.” Dr. Mewton slides into her seat and gives Mr. Traut a smile. She is, I notice as I open my laptop, wearing lipstick today. “Encryption, plus hidden directories, added to covert channels that hide data in Internet traffic.”
Our boss wipes his hands on a napkin. “But if the perimeter is secure—”
“The perimeter dissolved a long time ago,” Judson says. “Virtual private networks, Web mail, e-mail on smartphones, telecommuters…they all make the concept of a secure perimeter archaic. We have to be data-focused, not perimeter-focused. We have to protect the data, wherever it is, wherever it goes.”
“That’s why we need layers,” I add. “They’re the armor we wrap around our data.”
Without so much as a peek in my direction, Mr. Traut looks at Dr. Mewton, then glances at Judson. “Are you two on board with this?”
Dr. Mewton doesn’t answer, but Judson grins. “Just let the girl talk.”
I wait—annoyed at being ignored, I’ll admit—until Mr. Traut looks at me. Then I continue. “What I did was conceal mirroring code in the existing antivirus program. If—when— a hacker breaks through the firewall, the mirror will mash up with any malicious code that’s introduced and encrypt the results. If the hacker tries to take a file, any file, the concealed code will erupt like Mt. Vesuvius once it’s installed on the invading system. In other words, the hacker gets hacked…and his system gets tied up in knots.”
The hint of a smile strains at Mr. Traut’s mouth as he takes out his pipe and lights it. “You’ve tested this?”
“On several systems. I ran the first trial against a network at the Technical University of Budapest. I hacked into the TU system on a less-than-secure network and left my calling card on a proxy server I’d set up. When they came calling, our program crashed their servers in less than ten minutes.”
“They’re still trying to figure out what hit ’em,” Judson says, grinning in Mr. Traut’s direction. “I monitored some chatter on the hacker boards—they were all buzzing.”
“But they can’t steal your code?”
“No, sir,” I answer. “That’s the beauty of it—after the mashup occurs, you’d need a supercomputer and the patience of Mother Teresa to sort it all out.”
Mr. Traut finally looks at me. Then he removes his pipe and smiles at Dr. Mewton. “God may not have given that girl a face, but he certainly gave her a brain. Congratulations, Glenda, on a brilliant acquisition.”
The pleasure I felt a moment ago evaporates as his words resonate on the air. The director is not looking at me, but at this moment I don’t think I could bear the touch of his gaze. When I find my voice, it sounds strangled in my ear: “Thank you, sir.”
Across the table, Dr. Mewton clears her throat. “I’m sure we’ll be making adjustments to Sarah’s program in the weeks ahead, but you can begin implementing it at Langley.”
I feel like hanging my head to hide my hurt, but I doubt Mr. Traut will look at me again.
He lifts his pipe to his lips. “The assignment that brings me out today,” he says, exhaling, “has the potential to eliminate all intensive interrogation techniques. I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve come under fire for harsh interrogations in the past, but we believe this team can help us access a prisoner’s knowledge without eliciting pain of any kind.”
Something in his choice of words—access knowledge?— sounds familiar. “Are you talking about voice stress analysis?” I ask. “Or some kind of improved polygraph?”
“You’re on the right track.” Mr. Traut pulls a briefcase onto the table, punches in a code, and unlocks the clasps. He withdraws two copies of a spiral-bound document and slides them across the table, one to me and one to Dr. Mewton. He places a CD in Judson’s hand.
“What we’ve acquired,” he says, “is a device that records and measures human brain waves. It’s far more accurate than a polygraph or vocal scan, and far less stressful than torture.”
I scan the cover of the document, which has been labeled with the project name and classification: Sensitive Compartmented Information—Special Intelligence.
I lift my chin and stare at the director’s profile. “You’re calling it Gutenberg?”
“After the man who invented the printing p
ress. We’re hoping to invent a printing method, as well…a way to publish a legible, comprehensible record of what a brain knows.”
“If you’ve already acquired this scanner, why do you need our help?”
“Because the operating program is not infallible, nor has its potential been fully realized.” Mr. Traut leans forward and speaks directly to me, and for once he doesn’t deflect his gaze in reflexive discomfort. “We think you can come up with a way to render our brain scans mistake-proof. If you can fine-tune this program, our officers will never have to resort to painful interrogation.”
Awareness thickens between us as I ponder the meaning of his words. If we can plumb the depths of an evil mind, perhaps we can stop terror. Dr. Mewton says evil loves darkness, and Gutenberg may be a way to shine a light into dark places. The dread of that light may be enough to stem the tide of viciousness that men exhibit to one another.
I look at Mr. Traut. “I’ll do my best for you, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Glenda, but it’s all I can do to look at that girl.” The words spill easily from Mr. Traut’s lips as he stands in the elevator, not knowing that I am watching—and listening—via the security camera mounted in the corner of the car.
I swallow hard and wrap my arms around myself, shivering beneath the sweater I have pulled over my shoulders. I’m not surprised to hear this; really, I have always known he felt this way. Still…disappointment strikes like a punch to the stomach.
“Jack.” Dr. Mewton’s voice is low with reproof. “She has feelings, you know, and she desperately wants to please you.”
Mr. Traut slips his hand into his pocket. “She’s an employee. I would hope that all my employees want to do a good job.”
“It’s different with Sarah. She’s different. Since you assumed your position, I think she’s come to think of you as a father figure. Did you know she keeps that equivalency diploma you sent in her room? It’s been hanging on her wall for over five years.”
Traut shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to encourage her. Not like that.”
