“Do you need our phones?” said Tommy.
Nathaniel produced his phone, holding the screen up to Tommy. There was a red X where the coverage bars should have been. “We don’t have to worry about any interruptions, Pastor Bosco. None whatsoever.” Nathaniel walked up to a set of hospital-style doors, placing his thumb on some form of scanner next to the door frame. The doors popped open, and Cindy and Claire followed Nathaniel into the brightly lit corridor. Tommy stood at the threshold. Nathaniel turned and asked, “Is there a problem, Pastor Bosco?”
“Just wanted to lock my truck,” said Tommy. “It’s got a pretty nice tape deck.” Tommy lifted an aftermarket key fob from his pocket, surrounded by the rest of his keys. He pressed the lock switch twice, resulting in Freddie’s lights flashing and the signature warble of a cheap car alarm.
“That must be some tape deck,” said Nathaniel.
“Pioneer Supertuner,” said Bosco. “Never ate a tape.”
“If you could all please follow me,” said Nathaniel.
Chapter Fifty
The group continued down the bright white corridor. Like the parking garage access, it wasn’t without its twists and turns. As they rounded one of the corners, a new set of security doors appeared. They were much more involved than the first set of doors, constructed of some type of shiny alloy and without handles. Nathaniel stepped up to a retinal scanner to open them. The doors popped open like the last set, though there was a noticeable burst of air from within, as though this area had its own air-exchange system. Claire brushed her hair out of her eyes as they entered.
The new room was the opposite of hospital antiseptic. The walls wore dark oak panelling from top to bottom. Crystal ceiling fixtures and wall sconces cast considerable light. The furnishings were ornate. Tommy wasn’t sure if they were authentic antiques or reproductions, though they did fit the room well, regardless of their provenance. What didn’t fit was the polished Emerson respirator at the rear of the room. A nurse wearing a cape and an old-style nurse’s hat was attending to the occupant of the shiny metal tube. Jazz played, with plenty of piano infused. The nurse acknowledged the arrival of the party and then left through a door that looked like it was part of the oak panelling.
“Good morning, Mr. Chancellor,” said Nathaniel. “I would like to introduce Ms. Cindy Smyth, Ms. Claire Hebert, and Pastor Thomas Bosco.”
Chancellor did not speak at first. A small panel opened in the ceiling above his head. A box lowered from the ceiling towards him. To the left of the group, a panel started to open on the oak wall, revealing a large plasma television. The image popped to life almost instantly. Cindy grabbed Tommy’s hand as the close-up image of the ancient man’s face appeared. A video camera appeared from another sliding panel. Tommy looked over at the shiny metal tube. The man inside was looking at a video image of them from his vantage point. Tommy figured that it wasn’t anywhere near as creepy as the one they were now observing.
“Good morning to you all,” said Chancellor. “My name is Morley Chancellor. I am the chief executive officer of the King George Branch of the Department of Weights and Measures.”
“And what the fuck is the Department of Weights and Measures?” said Claire.
Chancellor was visibly annoyed by the F-sharp. “It is Miss Hebert, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s right. So apart from the Oscar Peterson over the speakers, what the fuck is this place?”
Chancellor was intrigued. “You know jazz?”
“A little,” said Hebert. “I had a regular who wouldn’t shut up about this shit — I had to crank it up while I did him.”
Chancellor felt the need to enlighten her. “This is Wheatland, from 1964. That year was my eleventh anniversary in this shiny cocoon that you see here. Do you know about the Manitoba polio outbreak of 1953, Miss Hebert?”
“Yeah, I think I heard about it in school, before I dropped out.”
“Do you know what polio does, Miss Hebert?”
“It looks like it fucks you up something royal.”
Chancellor chuckled at the comment. “You are correct in that, my dear. Poliomyelitis is a cruel disease, more like a thief that comes in the night. I was working for the department in Brandon in 1953 when I contracted it.”
The Brandon reference piqued Tommy’s interest. “Where was that in Brandon?”
Chancellor smiled again. “You are an inquisitive sort, Pastor Bosco. As your friend the late Mr. Galecki had told you, our efforts were concentrated at the Brandon Hospital for Mental Diseases. I was working as a research chemist for Dr. Cameron’s team. You may be aware of Dr. Cameron’s work with those suffering from the effects of schizophrenia during the 1930s at the hospital. The work continued through the 1930s and the 1940s, all under the watchful eye of the good doctor, regardless of his travels or country of residence. I joined the department in 1951 and immediately became immersed in Operation Artichoke: a CIA-funded program that concentrated on the latest in chemical advancements for mind control, a precursor to the MKULTRA program. You must understand that time was truly of the essence. There had been reports of American and Canadian soldiers subjected to brainwashing techniques by Red Chinese agents during the police action in Korea. The idea was . . . fantastic. To think that any mind could be captured, filtered of all its information, then wiped clean of the experience and reprogrammed at will. It was as if the hand of God had been presented to us.”
“Who did they experiment on?” said Tommy.
“There was a wide selection of candidates available,” said Chancellor. “Many of them were brought in from the Canadian Forces Base in Shilo — volunteers for the cause against the Red Menace, if you will. We could only go so far with experimentation on the soldiers, which limited much of our testing to sensory deprivation. Then there was the shiny new toy: lysergic acid diethylamide. You probably know it better as LSD.
“The hospital had a steady supply of test subjects: the chronic schizophrenics. Dr. Cameron believed that schizophrenia was curable. Brainwashing sounds so evil in its cold-war context, but it had the potential to be truly noble. This was truly the intent of the good doctor. But what of the un-corrupted mind? Could the grey matter of the sane be just as malleable? This is where the soldiers came in. Truly, the bravest of soldiers. Unfortunately, history has chosen to demonize the work of Dr. Cameron and his confederates. It is for these reasons that the work continues in secret.”
“So, it’s still going on in Brandon?” said Tommy.
“The glory days of the Brandon facility are now just a matter of classified historical record,” said Chancellor. “The hospital is now the site of the Assiniboine Community College. It seems almost prophetic; a place where clean minds are infused with knowledge, in a place where minds were wiped clean of theirs. As for the study of the human mind, much of it is going on right here at the King George.”
The opposite side of the room began to open, the oak panelling sliding to reveal an observation window. Tommy, Cindy, and Claire inched closer to investigate. The window gave view to a space approximately one storey below, which was populated by at least twenty hospital beds. Tommy recognized the beds from the photos that Galecki had shown him of the old asylum; the beds were equipped with cages. They did look a little less draconian than the ones from the 1930s, though their intentions were still enough to incite horror. The ward was a busy place, even at four in the morning. A group of lab coats were busy checking a plethora of monitors, intravenous drips, biomedical sensors, and respirator pumps. The patients appeared to be calm. There was the odd movement under the bars of the cages, though none of it seemed to be of a painful nature or motivated by a need to escape its clutches. Tommy did notice one thing that all the patients had in common; they were all elderly.
“The Riverview Health Centre has been a most generous, if completely unwitting, partner in our research here at King George,” said Chancellor. “As far as anyone at
Vital Statistics is concerned, all of the patients here have passed away in the last three years. They left no family to mourn their passing, no friends to send them flowers, no one to pay for cable TV in their hospital rooms. Their fate was to simply die alone. Thanks to the department, they have been given a second chance.”
“A second chance?” said Tommy, trying to contain his outrage. “A second chance at what, exactly?”
“To contribute to the greater good, Pastor Bosco,” said Chancellor. “I could have chosen to close my eyes to science when polio took away my body, and yet, I knew the department would need my talents for as long as I could draw breath, even if that breath came courtesy of a silver mechanical torpedo. Life is full of checks and balances, Pastor Bosco, yin and yang, good and evil. It is full of weights and measures.”
The door that the Chancellor’s nurse had exited opened, revealing a man in a dark-blue suit with an aluminum briefcase. He seemed frantic. He made a beeline for Nathaniel.
“What’s going on?” said the man. “I thought they would be —”
Nathaniel shook his head at the man, who quickly ended his query. He looked at the newcomers, then at Chancellor’s respirator.
“Pastor Bosco,” said Chancellor. “I would like to introduce Mr. Tobias Finch from the Department of Weights and Measures. Good morning, Mr. Finch.”
“Good morning,” said Finch.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Finch?” said Chancellor.
“No, no problem at all Mr. Chancellor. It’s just that . . .”
“Just what, Mr. Finch?”
“It’s just that I don’t know why I’m supposed to be here.”
“I’ll be glad to explain that to you now. Nathaniel?”
Nathaniel grabbed Finch from behind, sinking a small hypodermic needle into his neck. Finch fell to the floor, partially in pain and partially from the concoction that was now coursing its way through his bloodstream. He loosened his necktie to try to alleviate the breathing strain. “What . . . the fuck . . . was that?”
“Patience, Mr. Finch,” said Chancellor. “I felt it best that a demonstration of our latest protocol be in order for Pastor Bosco and his party, especially after learning of your extracurricular activities with our monthly stipend from our generous benefactors. Nathaniel, could you please assist Mr. Finch with the appropriate equipment?”
Nathaniel removed his Glock from his holster and handed it to Finch. Finch reached for the gun instinctively, seeming somewhat groggy from the recent injection. He confirmed that a round was ready in the chamber.
“Mr. Finch,” said Chancellor. “It has come to my attention that you have recently purchased a vacation cottage in the Nopiming Provincial Park. Is this correct?”
Finch was trying to fight the answer, then relented. “Yes, yes Mr. Chancellor. That — that is . . . that is correct.”
“And where did you acquire the funds for such a transaction, Mr. Finch?”
“I, uh, uhm, I . . . took . . . the . . . I took the money.”
“From which account, Mr. Finch?”
“Dis . . . discretional. Discretional Funds.”
“Mr. Finch, what was the amount of the unauthorized withdrawal?”
“Th-th-thr-three . . .”
“Three what, Mr. Finch?”
“Three . . . hundred . . . ninety . . . thousand.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Finch. Now, there is one task left for you to complete. The department has identified a threat.”
Tommy, Claire, and Cindy watched as Mr. Finch stopped his stuttering. He looked at the trio in front of him, the Glock grip now firm and purposeful. “I understand,” said Finch. “Please name the threat.”
Chancellor smiled on the oversized plasma screen. “You are, Mr. Finch. Please remove the threat.”
Finch placed the Glock against his right temple and fired, dropping to the floor dead. Cindy and Claire were holding on tight to Tommy’s arms. Nathaniel collected the Glock from Finch’s right hand and returned it to his holster.
“Still too much hesitation,” said Chancellor. “Nathaniel, make a note of it.”
“What the fuck was that for?” said Cindy.
“A demonstration,” said Chancellor. “A simple demonstration of just how far we have been able to progress from the days of sensory deprivation and morphine-induced comas. Mind control used to take months for a subject to comply. With the right dosage, a request to the subject can occur with great speed and with no concern to the subject’s well-being. This particular activation of an asset provided us with both a truthful admission and a call to, for the most part, immediate action. An assassin can be anyone, anywhere, at any time. Today, the suggestion must be spoken directly to the subject, but we must remember that communication has become much more than the spoken word. Unfortunately, the one thing that the worlds of Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook cannot guarantee is action. Mass, unquestioning, unwavering action. The only thing that can do that to a populace is a virus.”
“A virus,” said Tommy. “That’s what the water trucks were doing at the virology lab!”
“Correct, Mr. Bosco. The federal virology lab has something of a freelance section, a few like-minded individuals who understand the need for the department to exist for the greater good. The water department trucks, while identical to the City of Winnipeg units, are staffed by our members.”
“And the Heaven’s Rejects? How do they fit into all this?”
“Simple well-paid hall monitors,” said Chancellor. “The criminal element ensured that the collection of water samples would go unnoticed, since all of the monitored locations were chosen for their — how should I say this — ‘colourful’ residents. A filthy man in a filthy establishment draws little to no attention. If a drug transaction occurs in a Manitoba Housing domicile, it’s only fair to assume that the dealer might need to use the facilities. A few specimen jars, some training with a portable parts-per-million sensor of our own design, and a few dozen ledgers from an office supply store were all that was needed to monitor the delivery of the virus.”
“You keep talking about a virus,” said Cindy. “So, which places have it?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Chancellor. “Let me clarify: the virus is already active in the entire water supply.”
“Whaddya mean, the entire water supply?” said Claire. “You mean the entire city?”
“Precisely,” said Chancellor. “The good people of the City of Winnipeg have been ingesting this virus for decades. You probably know it by names such as cadmium, zirconium, or manganese. These substances, as well as others, are allowed to flow at what appear to be the most minimal levels through the water supply, bringing no harm to those who ingest it. The injection that Mr. Goodwin supplied to the late Mr. Finch is an example of what can be done with the right mix of nanoparticles.”
“Nano-what-icles?” said Claire.
“Nanoparticles,” said Chancellor. “Imagine the smallest particle that you can perceive. Now imagine that particle a thousand times smaller. Imagine that this particle can hitch a ride on other particles. Imagine that the concentrations of the nanoparticle are so small that they could never be traced, since no one would even be looking for their existence in a forensic test. Imagine . . . an invisible bullet, waiting to be fired by a random trigger.”
“Okay, asshole,” said Tommy. “What the fuck is attached to The Guiding Light that looks like a water meter?”
“Oh, it is a water meter,” said Chancellor. “It monitors usage, rate of flow, all those things that result in a monthly bill, but your water meter is special, just like sixty-seven others within the Winnipeg city limits. Your meter is also an activator for the nanoparticles.”
“What kind of nanoparticles?”
“Whatever kind we desire, Pastor Bosco. The recipe could be for general complacency, a state of calm throughout the pop
ulace, or perhaps a call to arms, a revolution in a volatile land. Or, it could be used to keep the fracas normally associated with an unofficial halfway house from occurring at all, wouldn’t you agree Pastor Bosco?”
Tommy thought about what Chancellor was saying. Things had been very quiet at The Guiding Light for the last few years, especially after some much-needed work on the water-supply pipes. He had often wondered if the calm was the by-product of his search for the greater good. He had no idea that it was chemically induced.
Chancellor continued. “Some of the activation mixes have been formulated to open certain pathways in the wiring of the brain, such as the control of free will. Take the recent example of Mr. Finch. The injection he received from Mr. Goodwin was merely a highly concentrated portable activator. We can easily create the perfect assassin, an operative who completes their mission without question, then removes themselves as a potential threat.”
“You mean suicide,” said Tommy.
“Potato, po-ta-toe,” said Chancellor. “While an expendable assassin is an important asset to possess, it pales in comparison to an idea, a belief that must be defended at all costs. An idea that is universal to a large group. An idea that can be activated as we see fit.”
“Who the fuck is the We in this bullshit?” said Claire.
“The list is a long and distinguished one,” said Chancellor. “There’s the law-and-order categories, the greater-goodniks, as I like to call them. Then there’s the revolutionaries. History may speak of their magnetism as the catalyst for the change that occurred. The truth is that many of them had a little help from the department.” Chancellor smiled, almost chuckling as he formed his summation. “Pastor Bosco, think of the world as a ship, an ever-evolving, ever-expanding vessel of tremendous size and complexity. Now imagine this vessel as rudderless. That is what the department is, Pastor Bosco. It is a wheelhouse for the world.”
Clean Sweep Page 24
