by Cole Reid
“You get my point. It’s difficult to get things done when you’re in the business of straight answers. So the idea behind Project Artichoke was to know what the mind knows, not just the person in front of you. That idea itself expanded into what was called Project MK-ULTRA. MK-ULTRA was primarily useful in getting a lot of people in a lot of trouble. The CIA conducted mind control experiments on American citizens. When it got out, people didn’t like that so much, so the government had to do something. They shut it down. A lot of what really went on with MK-ULTRA, a lot of what was documented was destroyed. There were accounts by people who participated but that goes back to the original question about interrogation. How do you trust what someone is telling you? Especially if they are admitting involvement in illegal activity.”
“One useful thing did come out of MK-ULTRA. It had several names but when the dust cleared we called it ASF, After Sensory Function. It’s actually quite difficult coming up with useful names for things. What ASF is, is stripping away the layers of the mind and treating the subconscious. The treatments can be anything: skills; languages; a response to a particular question. When it comes up, the mind answers the question. If someone speaks to you in French you have a motor response to answer in French. It’s the mind as a muscle. We’ve taught your mind how to move a lot of weight. We gave you French, Spanish, German and Italian. We cleaned up your English as good as mine. Because we like you, we gave you some technical skills and weapons identification. Small to heavy arms, it’s all in there.” Mason opened the folder on the floor.
“Your name we anglicized, because so many of us cannot pronounce it correctly. Rain is not a name so we went with Reagan after Ronald Reagan. He was tough enough. And we just kept your last name the same with the English spelling, L-E-E. MK-ULTRA was shut down but it took us in directions. I think that the direction we’re on now is probably the most promising. That’s why I signed on to this project. We call it Caprice. So if you hear anyone say the word, that’s what they’re talking about. What Caprice is, is in addition to the information we’ve put in your head we also put one other thing.” Mason pulled out a transparent tube from his pants pocket. In the tube was what may have been a small piece of candy. The candy rattled against the plastic tube as Mason turned it in his left hand. Xiaoyu squinted as Mason held out the tube in front of him. It didn’t look like any candy he had ever seen—too small to be satisfying.
“This tiny thing costs seven million dollars to produce. Project costs are what they are but they have to be worth it. That’s why you’re here because I think you’ll be worth it. You’ve been tagged with one of these. It’s a radio frequency identification chip and it’s tiny, tiny enough to put it where it needs to be. One of these is embedded in your brain. It doesn’t need any external power source. It has a motion capture system that is sensitive enough to absorb energy from your brainwaves and turn them into power for the chip, like those watches that run without a battery.”
“It takes about three hours after the chip is inserted for it to power up. Once turned on the chip can stay on for a hundred years. It was designed to out last you. If you die, your brain shuts down. The chip has a power reserve of a little over an hour. The chip will tell us where to recover your body if recovery is in the cards. The chip also allows us to track you by satellite within eight inches anywhere in the world, even underground. My advice is that you try not to manipulate the chip; it’s tamper-proof. Once activated the chip maps it’s ambient. Biological changes can be accounted for but if you try to move or manipulate it, it will detonate inside your head. Imagine a firecracker going off in your brain. It would kill you instantly. If you take a bullet to the head that doesn’t kill you, the change in the environment of your brain could still cause the chip to detonate because it thinks you’re trying to manipulate it. The best advice is try not to get shot in the head.”
“We also have the ability to detonate your chip by satellite link. The connection is a two-way street. We get a signal from the chip and we can send a signal to the chip. If you decide to do anything unsanctioned, that is the first thing you should think about. It’s called a red card. I’m your project manager so I make that decision. As long as you do what you’re told, we shouldn’t have a problem. There’s one other function the chip has. It’s what’s called the yellow card. We can send signal to your chip to cause it to vibrate a pulse. The chip is designed not to interfere with your normal brain function. If it starts to pulse it will interfere with neural activity. It will incapacitate you and ultimately cause you to have a seizure. This serves as a warning to remind you that you’re in the service of another. Sometimes in deep cover, agents forget right from left. The yellow card is there as your compass. Once again, follow the parameters as I set them out and you’re good. You’ll never need the reminder. If you get the red card—well—you won’t even know it.” Mason paused to study Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu’s pose on the floor was an unnatural stillness. The expression on his face was subtleness of comprehension. His mind had always been easy with computation. He did the comparison between being imprisoned and being implanted. The result was zero. The two possibilities stared each other down then fainted, both fainted. Neither could hold up to the other; they were both the same.
“I have a gift for you,” said the blue-eyed man, “You wanna come with me?” Xiaoyu looked off to the side. He looked at the plain and empty wall. His choices were similar, plain and empty. He unfolded his legs and stood up. Mason stood up from his chair and gave Xiaoyu a firm nod. Mason began to walk toward the door. He held out a card from his pocket, hearing the door unlock itself. Mason pushed through the door with Xiaoyu quietly behind him. Xiaoyu took a look back at the plain room with the steel chair as a visitor. The look of a newborn adult leaving the womb came across his face. He tried his best to catch the moment knowing he would be dead before he saw the room again.
The light in the hallway saluted the light in the room—fluorescent, just enough. Xiaoyu followed Mason down the hallway—not the man—the sound of his footsteps. Xiaoyu walked with his head angled downward 45-degrees. Knowing there was a satellite watching above made looking down more comfortable. The sound of Mason’s footsteps stopped as he came to a wood door. An aluminum sign hung on the door looking like it wanted to be somewhere else. Shipping/Receiving was all it said. Mason opened the door to see a man sitting behind a counter in a room with boxes.
“Hey Petey,” said Mason. Petey was fat.
“Hey Mace,” said Petey going to his left toward a stack of boxes. Petey grabbed a box as big as his belly, bringing it to the counter. Mason signed a perforated pink label on the box and Petey ripped the label off. A camera in the corner caught the transaction.
“Here,” said Mason to Xiaoyu, “It’s for you.” Xiaoyu looked at Mason before going to the counter to grab the box. The box was lighter than it looked.
“Alright Petey,” said Mason leading Xiaoyu back to the hallway. Xiaoyu carried the box like it was fragile, even though he didn’t know what was in it. Inside was a gift and he hadn’t received many. Xiaoyu followed Mason to a small room that was once a dark room or a closet. A single fluorescent light panel removed any darkness. A notebook computer familiar to Mason lay on a circular glass stand. There was one chair in the room. Mason sat down. Xiaoyu stood.
“You can put the box down,” said Mason, “This room is supposed to be sound-proof like every other but we’re going to whisper because I don’t trust any of these bastards. Here.” Mason handed Xiaoyu a pair of scissors and tipped his head toward the box. Xiaoyu opened the box to see it had been neatly filled with aerosol cans, four rows down and across. Half the cans had white caps. The others were silver-topped.
“Grab one of the white ones,” said Mason, “Spray it on your arm.” The spray was as cold as it was wet but warmed and dried fast. Seconds passed and Xiaoyu saw a clouded out piece of flesh where the tail of a dragon had been. Xiaoyu wasn’t used to amusement, but even he was amused.
“It’s thermo
philic,” said Mason, “The spray. It’s attracted to the heat of your skin. It doesn’t stick to the hair on your body it clings directly to the skin then matches color. To the naked eye it’s as good as real skin. They even make one to change your skin color. You can’t wear it for too much longer than a day; it starts to become toxic. You’ll have to find time to take it off everyday. It’s waterproof so you’ll have to use the silver topped cans. That’s an anti-caking agent made specifically to remove this from your skin. If for any reason you can’t get to a silver can in time, try some sort of acid like vinegar or even strong coffee or tea would do something. It won’t work well but it’ll work. Do you have anything you want to ask me?” The room was tight and filled with a growing respect—unwanted, like mold on cheese.
“How long have I been here?” was all Xiaoyu could think to ask.
“Over sixteen months,” said Mason, “To be honest most guys take longer than you did. You were just more adaptable. Your mind found space for whatever we needed to treat it with. You were quick.” Xiaoyu looked down at the floor with thoughts that ebbed and flowed. The sixteen months bothered him. He was bothered because the time was long and bothered that he didn’t remember it. His thoughts quickly changed when he remembered what the cage taught him about time. A fight always seemed long but only one fight had lasted more than ten minutes—the last one. Time was big, a body of water. Months and minutes were droplets separated only by his mind. His bother washed out to sea.
“Wha-what now?” asked Xiaoyu over the sound of Mason’s computer starting up. Mason held out one finger for Xiaoyu to wait. He typed in a series of passwords with uncanny efficiency, no backspaces, no mistakes. He turned the screen of his computer in Xiaoyu’s direction. A headshot of a man in his late 50’s created the illusion of a third person in the two-person room. The man’s head was bald, crowned with age spots. His skin was an unhealthy red, seasoned by years of sun. His smile unveiled his coffee-stained teeth but his blue eyes were friendly. His nose wasn’t.
“Most days our enemy is unknown information or someone who has it. In this case, our enemy is some burger stand somewhere. This guy was a Senior Director of non-government group operations named Chris Mitchum. He put agents in play. Basically he handled people who were undercover inside mercenary or terrorist groups—anarchist organizations, gunrunners, whole underground networks. Problem is he had a massive heart attack a month before we brought you here. He didn’t pull through. He had a buried agent in a group of munitions brokers in Bosnia Herzegovina. These guys are flagless. They trade with anyone; they don’t care what side of what conflict you’re on. They’re either manufacturing or buying explosives as well as weapons, which are being sold to groups that we know about, some we don’t. Mitchum had a spy in their group, who knew where they supply themselves and who they deal with. Mitchum was like me, a cynic. Actually, I’m a cynic. He was a royal asshole. He kept all his files and emails encrypted. We’re still trying to decode them all. And he was about as mistrusting as I am. He never told anyone who his man on the inside was. We can’t even be sure it was a man. We can’t find any files on his computer with details about the identity of his agent and we’re not holding out hope for the remaining files. His secretary is in the dark as much as we are, but he was able to confirm Mitchum’s agent’s label was Valgani. We found two files with word Valgani and they were ‘scared reports’. Short reports with trivial information because the sender is spooked about getting caught on the other side of the transmission. Or else they were in a kind of code that Mitchum was using with Valgani. One specific group was mentioned in the report, a company called Sejad Mehmedovic AEC, AG. AEC is for architecture, engineering and construction. It’s a construction company involved in the postwar reconstruction of Sarajevo. They have construction projects mainly in the Novo Sarajevo section of the city. It’s an Austrian corporation though. The set up of this company is spooky enough. The supervisory board is Austrian but the management board is Bosnian. The shareholders of the corporation are limited liability corporations. They do no business in Austria they just have an office there. All work is done in Bosnia Herzegovina.” Mason took a break from speaking to see if Xiaoyu was listening.
“It’s honestly a decent setup if they’re running guns. The corporate structure is so profligate it’s hard to find all players. Even if you question someone about involvement they can always say they were in a limited capacity and didn’t know what was going on at the other end. That might actually be the case. There’s a cross-section between legit and otherwise. Most black businesses have a legitimate public face. A lot of times suppliers, warehouses even bankers don’t ask so many questions. They need business and if you pay, they don’t really want to know what the background is. With a construction company you’re dealing with a lot of equipment, supplies, electronics. You could be making bombs or installing energy-efficient air conditioning. Most engineers would say you have enough materials to do either. The world’s chaotic. They say the world’s going to hell; we say it’s always been going to hell. We need it to be going to hell. Doing what we do, do we care about the world going to hell? We only care about the world ending because then we’d be out of a job.”
• • •
Air France didn’t fly to Guam but Air France flew to Kuala Lumpur. A mid day Paris-direct route was available six days a week. An Airbus A340-300 could seat 290 passengers. Two men boarded flight AF341 bound for Paris with the appearance of heading to a funeral. One was well-organized that earned him the label Chessmaster. The other was from nowhere with a checkered past. The noise on the plane had to be heard. It couldn’t be felt over the turbulence. Mason had booked seats near the rear, two rows in front of the kitchen—statistically the best place to survive a crash. Xiaoyu noticed Mason. He was in the aisle seat across from Xiaoyu. Mason looked unnaturally uncomfortable. The lavatory was five steps away and Mason didn’t make a move. He sat in his seat with at least one hand gripping an armrest. Each patch of strong turbulence saw him take a bite out of the Cape Cod sitting on his tray table. Mason was jumpy but dry; his Cape Cod sat still and did the perspiring for him. His fingertips got wet every time he gripped the plastic cup, drying them on his pants leg. Xiaoyu noticed and thought it odd for a man as well-groomed and meticulous as Mason. Mason’s entire character had faded away. The man he met in the interrogation room in Hong Kong—the one holding all the cards—was missing. Perhaps he was still in the interrogation room. Xiaoyu studied Mason out of the corner of his eye and didn’t understand what he saw. Mason looked and dressed like the ready man who held a gun to his head, whose eyes explained his intentions. Xiaoyu studied him and studied him, but observing him from across the aisle out of the corner of his eye meant, he could think straight more than he could see straight. Understanding came to him in full force. Mason wasn’t afraid of flying at least not entirely. Xiaoyu had never flown before but adapted. Mason would have adapted long before. It wasn’t the elevation; it was the lack of control. Mason couldn’t stand not being in control. For the duration of the flight all decisions were made by someone else.
His ears perked up during the flight’s periodic updates. When the plane touched the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle Airport a few minutes ahead of schedule, Chessmaster came back. He required no more updates. Mason left the plane not in true form but original form. Chessmaster had no true form. Who he was, depended on whom he played against. The way he walked suggested he was playing against the clock. Neither man had any checked baggage but a pre-booked rental car was available. No pick up. No chauffeur. No curbside service. Their rental car was blue—economy class. They picked up the keys from the parking attendant. Both wore sunglasses, distorting their appearance. Mason spoke in one or two word answers, not enough to place an accent. They were friends, colleagues, lovers, the lot but not government. Everything was done to blend in not stand out, all in average amounts. The steps they took. The way they looked. The money they spent.
• • •
The en
gine started with the humble hum of four cylinders. When the car livened up the clock showed 3:17pm. It was a Thursday in early September 2002. Paris traffic had a way with Thursdays. It took forty-two minutes to get from the airport to Boulevard Ornano. Galerie L’Esi was an art gallery on Ornano wedged between a package service and a femme boutique. It was classic and modern, stoic and trendy, a modern classic. It showcased works of early modernism before everything was art. The pieces were thoughtful but not thought-provoking. Most of the artists were foreign and not local to Paris, giving the gallery a premium price range. Many artists had several pieces on display in the one-room showroom and the gallery had power to negotiate prices for all works on its floor. Marti Laine—a Paris native—was the curator. She was chic with frameless glasses; her hair was too-good-to-be-true auburn. She wore a black pantsuit with no blouse and open-toe high-heel shoes. The shoes brought her a little above eye level with Mason Keig. She shook his hand once and extended her hand to Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu copied her demeanor and shook her hand with one motion.
“Marti,” she said to Xiaoyu.
“Reagan,” said Xiaoyu. He used his new name without hesitation but wondered why he didn’t hesitate. Then he remembered the answer, ASF.
“So nice to see you again Mr. Mason,” said Marti.
“And you Marti,” said Mason.
“The piece you inquired about I had set aside for you,” said Marti, “It is in our store room. Shall I escort you?”
“Please,” said Mason.
Marti proceeded toward the back staircase with Mason and Xiaoyu behind. The second floor of the gallery was locked, forcing Marti to use a key from a cord that hung around her neck under her suit jacket. There was nothing suspicious about a locked door in an art gallery nor was there anything suspicious about the second floor with typical art supplies. The locked door leading to the third floor was suspicious. Another locked door made the third floor twice as secure as the second floor, making the merchandise in the showroom much less valuable than the merchandise on the third floor. The hallway on the third floor looked much like the hallway on the second floor. Same white paint. Same wood trim. One thing was different. The hallway on the third floor was noticeably narrower. The walls were thicker. Marti pointed to a doorway at the end of the hallway on the right.
