by Peter Darley
“What’s happening to us?”
With minimal energy, he turned over to face her. “We both have issues, and we both messed up. Big time. We can’t take it all back. All we can do is move on and deal with it the best we can.”
She could see he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open and decided to accept his answer as best she could for now. “All right, let’s get some sleep.”
Within the space of a heartbeat, he slipped his head back onto the pillow.
Belinda held him and closed her eyes, her thoughts dominated by the desperate hope that he would return to his former greatness. But in her heart, she doubted it would happen any time soon. Memories of the many months she’d dreamed of being reunited with him, and the hope that they could recapture what they once had, tormented her. The dynamic, romantic hero of two years ago was gone. All that now remained was a shell of a man.
***
Emily sat at a bureau in a bedroom with no windows. She presumed she was still in the high rise apartment on Wilshire Boulevard. Her senses were hopelessly disoriented by the drug Fabian and the woman had injected into her. She felt they might have administered further shots to her, but she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t even know how long she’d been in captivity. Was it a day? Two days? A week? She’d lost all sense of time.
She would’ve considered the room comfortable, even luxurious, if it wasn’t for the circumstances. The bed was delicious, and the master bathroom was plush and spotless.
She looked into her tear-stained eyes in the mirror above the bureau, constantly filled with regret about leaving the convent. She’d been unhappy there, but she’d always known where she stood. At least it had been safe. Now, she was lost in every conceivable way. She was lost to the world, to her sisters, to everything she had ever known—and to her god.
She thought of Father Henry, the closest she’d ever had to a male friend. He’d always been so warm and kind. She’d often fantasized that he may have been her long-lost older brother, whom God had led into the priesthood to secretly watch over her.
Her mind frequently roamed into the realms of myriad possibilities. She was an orphan. Did she really have siblings? Or was she an only child? Did she have a sister? Or a brother? If so, how many? Where were they now? Did they ever wonder about her, and who she might be? It was all just a fantasy, but she needed her imaginary family so desperately in that moment. The dream—the merest possibility—brought her the slightest of comforts.
Placing her elbows on the bureau, she clasped her hands together. “Heavenly Father, Blessed Mother, I beseech thee. Forgive me my sins. Deliver me from the evil that has taken me. Whomever you may appoint, send them, in your mercy, to liberate me from the wretchedness of my damnation. Oh, Lord, I know that I am unworthy and undeserving of your favor. But I beg of you that you may grant that this chalice be taken from me.”
The door clicked open. She snapped her head to it with a start, her heart racing, and her hands trembled.
The oriental woman entered first. Her eyes were as cold as ever, with a predatory glare.
Fabian followed behind her with a tall, rugged-looking man who appeared to be perhaps Greek or Italian. His hair was jet black, and his skin tone was a light shade of bronze. The hardness in his face was threatening.
“We will be moving you to another location tomorrow, Emily,” the woman said. “Before that, there are a number of basic skills for you to learn.” She snapped her fingers.
Fabian stepped forward and took a syringe out of his pocket.
Emily looked with horror as he removed the sheath from the needle. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“Just take it easy. This is to help you,” he said.
“Help me to what?”
“To not find it so terrible. It’s for your own good.”
He grasped her arm. Too terrified to resist, her heart sank into the pits of dread. “Why are you doing this to me, Fabian?”
He inserted the needle into the vein. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just business.”
The woman turned to the other man with a commanding demeanor. “Just remember, you don’t take it any farther than we discussed. You don’t touch her where it counts. Are we clear?”
He nodded.
“If you do anything to affect her value, I’ll see to it that something similar happens to you.”
Emily closed her eyes and began to mutter in prayer. She knew she was going to be violated, but she had no idea to what extent.
Fabian rejoined the woman and they exited the room, closing the door behind them.
As the drugs began to take effect, Emily felt like she was dreaming. The fear was leaving her, and the man no longer seemed so threatening. He came closer to her, but somehow, she didn’t care.
Twenty-Eight
The Memory Man
Andrew Wilmot settled up with the cab driver. He stepped out onto the drive of a nineteenth-century colonial house in one of the more secluded areas of Keene, New Hampshire. Never having visited New England before, it took a moment for his city-acclimatized eyes to adjust to the rural, affluent, historical ambiance of the state.
The cab drove away as he stared, filled with the anticipation, at the door of the sizable, million dollar property.
After pressing the doorbell, he surveyed the well-maintained garden and surrounding grounds while he waited.
The door opened, and he turned to see a man in his mid-sixties. He was shorter than Wilmot’s six feet, the top of his head stopping at the bottom of Wilmot’s chin. His thinning gray hair and circular-rimmed spectacles seemed to give him a harmless appearance. A cream cashmere sweater, and the house slippers on his feet, conveyed the message he was a man of leisure. It was clear he’d earned his wealth and had settled into life enjoying the fruits of his labor.
Wilmot smiled cordially. “Doctor DeSouza? Frederick DeSouza?”
“Yes, Agent Wilmot,” DeSouza said in a polished British accent. He offered his hand.
“You know me?”
DeSouza smiled. “Not really. Please, come inside.”
Wilmot followed the older man into the house.
“Let’s go into my study, shall we?” DeSouza said. “Might I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”
“Do you have any bourbon?”
“Certainly. Come in and take a seat.” DeSouza entered his small, homely study, and approached the drinks cabinet. “We met once, rather fleetingly, in Senator Treadwell’s office on Capitol Hill, five years ago. I was just leaving as you were coming in.”
“I don’t recall, sir.” Wilmot sat in the guest chair at the doctor’s desk, and took a crystal cut glass with a double shot of bourbon from his host. “Thank you.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“What can you tell me about Brandon Drake?”
The doctor’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. If you don’t know what my connection to Brandon Drake is, what brought you here?”
“Two days ago, I was appointed director of SDT. Since then, I’ve had access to Senator Treadwell’s files, and I came across your name.”
“Well, this may sound strange, but I never actually met Brandon Drake.”
“But I found your name on—”
“Oh, indeed you did, and I was responsible for his reconditioning. But I was never in his presence when he was conscious.”
“How’s that?”
“Drake had received a head injury in Afghanistan. Before Garrison brought me to him, it had been established that he was stricken with amnesia as a result of the trauma. I had no doubt his condition was temporary, but it made what I had to do so much easier.”
Wilmot edged closer to the man eagerly. “What did you mean when you said ‘reconditioning’?”
“My hypotheses and papers were utilized by the CIA during the cold war. Memory is my field of expertise. It has long been established that the human mind is malleable. Fictional experiences and incidents can be assimilated by the
brain, and recalled as true memories.”
Wilmot sipped his bourbon thoughtfully. “And this is what you did to Brandon Drake? You’re saying he’s not who he thinks he is?”
“That’s correct. I had a long-standing friendship with Garrison Treadwell. He employed my expertise on a project he referred to as Project: Scorpion. The CIA wanted me to revise Brandon Drake’s persona because he was unmanageable. My task was to neutralize his violent temperament in order to dispatch him on covert operations. It was nothing new. I’d been involved in a similar project in the seventies.”
Wilmot’s eyebrows rose as all of the mysteries were beginning to fall into place. Treadwell had arranged for Drake to have a new personality, which he thought he could manage in order to use him for his own purposes. DeSouza believed he’d been working for a legitimate CIA operation because of his long-standing friendship with Treadwell, whom he evidently trusted. And then there was his obvious penchant for money.
He turned back to the doctor. “Well, this time, it didn’t quite work out. Drake is a maniac on the loose right now.”
DeSouza looked away with disappointment in his eyes. “So I gather from the recent turn of events on the news. You see, the techniques I used are not perfect. Using electro-chemical stimulus and oral, subliminal induction can only affect the memories of the conscious mind. The inherent persona remains within the subconscious. Pre-existing skills, intellect, and habits will still be apparent after the memory revision has been performed.”
Wilmot’s mind was awash with possibilities he hadn’t previously contemplated. DeSouza had just provided him with an option where he could use Drake for his own ends. He marveled at the irony. Within minutes, he’d made the transition from wanting Drake dead, to wanting him very much alive. Drake had always been Treadwell’s secret, which he’d kept from him. Now, he wanted Drake, and to succeed where Treadwell had failed.
He also knew that having Drake under his control would ease his sense of humiliation after suffering the most severe beating of his life at Drake’s hands. With such considerations, DeSouza was sure to make an invaluable ally. “Can the procedure be performed a second time on the same subject?”
“Once a person has manufactured memories, and subsequent experiences following them, they remain with him for life. Brandon Drake’s true persona still resides within his subconscious. Moving a conflicting persona into that subconscious, alongside the original, could have serious consequences.”
“Like what?”
“Complete cerebral shutdown. There is a strong possibility he could become irretrievably catatonic.”
Wilmot sought his words carefully. “Drake is unstable. He’s out there right now somewhere, and we are doing everything we can to bring him in.”
“I see.”
“When that happens, sir, I need your help. We will cover all of the costs to make him viable again.”
The doctor’s eyes widened. “I can only try. But as I said, there are no guarantees.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take full responsibility. This will be an official intelligence operation, and your cover will be protected.”
DeSouza looked at him suspiciously. “Not protected enough, judging from the fact that you are here, sitting in my office. I was also investigated after Treadwell died. No action was taken, but it was enough to tell me Project: Scorpion wasn’t as official as I was led to believe.”
Wilmot finished his bourbon and stood. “I’ll take care of everything. We’re on the same team, doctor, and America needs your help.”
DeSouza stood. “I’ll be waiting for your call, Ag—Director Wilmot.”
“First we have to catch him.” Wilmot turned and headed out toward the front door.
“I’ll await your call,” DeSouza said.
“Indeed. Goodbye, sir.”
The door closed. Wilmot processed what DeSouza had told him, and the implications that came with it. Wolfe had obviously known about the mind control operation, but kept a tight lid on it for fear of it getting out. If the information had found its way to the press, there would have been a national panic.
He took out his cell phone and called for a cab. Immediately afterwards, he punched in the number of his favorite contact. “Garrett? Any word on Crane?” Listening intently to the response, a broad smile spread across his face.
***
Jed Crane sat on the bed in a hotel room off a remote, rural highway, just outside the small border village of Stanton, Utah. He felt it was obscure enough for him to conceal himself for the night. Two days’ stubble had produced a shadow on his face. The suit he’d been wearing when he fled from Crispin Rock remained his only clothing.
The room was basic and simple. It was clean, and offered the essentials with a shower, toilet, toothpaste and brush, and a television set. There was no window to the outside, only a plasterboard and wooden wall, which created a claustrophobic, but strangely secure atmosphere.
Now into his second night on the run, he was no closer toward formulating his next move. He struggled to come to terms with how quickly his life had fallen apart. The constant fear that Wilmot had already managed to track him was debilitating.
It was approaching one o’clock in the morning, and weariness overcame him. After stripping down to his shorts, he climbed into bed and switched off the light.
With difficulty, he finally fell asleep, although subconsciously retaining a degree of awareness.
In the midst of his half-sleep, at just past 3:00 a.m., he was awoken by the sound of his door clicking shut, followed by a snapping sound.
And then, he became aware of the faint-but-unmistakable odor of pitch. His eyes snapped open, his heart racing. Throwing the sheets off him, he bolted for the door in one swift move. It was locked.
He ran across to the bedside cabinet, picked up the room key, and noticed a faint red glow coming from underneath the bed. Peering under it, he saw a digital C4 explosive time bomb counting down in minutes and seconds reading: 1:32.
Bolting upright again, he hurried over to the door and inserted the key, but it wouldn’t penetrate the lock. He then realized the snapping sound he’d heard was of a duplicate, or skeleton key, being broken off after being inserted on the other side.
His immediate thought was to take his pistol out of his jacket and blow the lock. But there were occupied rooms on either side of him. Whoever was in them would die in the explosion. He couldn’t simply run and leave them, but there wasn’t enough time to warn them. The bomb was timed to facilitate the escape of the assassin, who obviously didn’t want to attract witnesses with the sound of a gunshot to his head.
Rage took over his reason. He couldn’t accept the concept that human beings, whom he’d actually been associated with, were merciless, wanton killers. They had no regard for the lives of innocents. It didn’t matter to them whether they were men, women, or children.
Pounding his fist despairingly into the door, he roared, “Garrett!”
Coming back to his senses, he rapidly spun around again, and stared at the bomb as the countdown continued.
0:46—0:45—0:44—0:43—
Twenty-Nine
The One That Got Away
Jed pulled the bedside drawer open and took out his car keys. Hooked on the ring was a circular disc with four small rectangular protrusions of varying dimensions—perfect miniature screwdrivers. He knelt down again, and frantically placed the smallest of them into the screws on top of the explosive device, twisting them out with life and death speed.
As he came to the last screw, he noticed the timer reading: 0:23.
His heart pounded so fiercely it was affecting his vision, and his hyperventilation almost caused him to black out.
As the cover of the bomb came away, he looked down to see a series of wires connected to the timer. Removal of the wires in the wrong sequence would cause an immediate detonation.
0:20.
Oh, sweet Jesus. Stay calm, Jed. Keep a clear head. It’s just a standard C
4. Perspiration poured from his brow, and his fingers trembled as they gripped a blue wire and disconnected it. Nothing happened.
0:17.
Next, he took the yellow wire out safely, but the countdown continued. Green one and green two next. But which is one and which is two?
He suffered a violent start at the sound of a knock on the door.
“What’s goin’ on in there? We heard a shout,” a male voice said.
“J-just a second.” Jed chanced removing the green wire on the right first, having a gut feeling Garrett would’ve arranged green one and two the wrong way around just to trick him. Oh, please God.
Removing the second green wire and then the first didn’t result in detonation, proving his suspicion correct.
0:05.
Grasping the red wire last, he closed his eyes. With his teeth chattering, he removed it to the heavenly sound of a faint beep.
He glanced down to catch the terrifying sight of ‘0:01’ for a microsecond before the digits disappeared completely.
Slumping back against the bedside cabinet, he let out a deep breath, consumed with relief.
“Sir?” the voice at the door pressed.
Jed remembered the other problem Garrett had left him with. It seemed the solution was standing on the other side of the door. Still shaking, he hurried across the room. “Hey, there, buddy. I really could use your help.”
“What’s that?”
“Some asshole broke a key in my door, so I can’t get out. Do you think you could tell the janitor?”
“Sure will. But we heard what sounded like screaming, and a banging noise. Are you OK?”
“Oh, that. Don’t worry about it. I was having a nightmare and fell out of bed.”
“Right. Gotcha. Just hang in there. I’ll get some help with the door.”
“Thank you, bud. You’re a life saver.”
Jed waited until he heard the man walking away. Finally, he returned to the bed.
Sitting on the edge, he rubbed his damp face with his palm, and lightly chuckled. “Nice try, Garrett. Guess your zero-percent failure rate just went right down the crapper.”
