More Deaths Than One (19 page)

“Who’s Sven Berquist?”

“Director of Research and Development at
Issy. I remember Will laughing when he told Doug that this powerful
man didn’t even bother to put any security features on his
computer. A simple password, but nothing else, like he couldn’t
imagine anyone breaking into his computer. Mostly he used it to
write his memoirs, Will said, so maybe Berquist didn’t care.”

“Do you know what Will learned from the
memoirs?”

“Some. Usually I tuned out when Will and Doug
got on the subject of computers, but I wanted to hear about
Berquist. Until Will hacked into his computer, I didn’t know
anything except he’s nearing retirement age, he’s still tall and
imposing, and his eyes are a bright, piercing blue.”

Bob leaned back and waited for her to tell
the story in her own time.

“Will said Berquist is a Swedish Jew who
attached himself to the OSS during World War Two. An interpreter, I
think. At twenty years old, Berquist knew he was meant for great
things, and he saw the OSS as a means of getting there.

“Then he met the guys from Issy. Issy had
sent some people to Sweden to see if they could meet German
scientists who’d be willing to share the secrets of their research
into biological warfare. Berquist arranged the meetings. After the
war, Issy offered him a job, but he kept his ties with the OSS
people. He built the Research and Development Department into a
vast private intelligence agency modeled after the CIA.”

She covered her face with her hands. Bob
thought she was crying, but when she took her hands away, her eyes
looked dry and feverish.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “None of us
did.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“The kinds of things Issy is involved with.
They’ve got scientists all over the world working for them, and
they own controlling interest in all kinds of businesses,
especially research laboratories and think tanks. They’re like a
huge octopus sitting on the world, tentacles reaching
everywhere.”

“What kinds of things are they involved
with?”

“I just know about old projects. Berquist
didn’t get further than the Korean War in his memoirs. Doug found
out about some of the more current projects, like what’s going on
at the Rosewood Research Institute, but he wouldn’t tell me. He
said it was too dangerous.” She flexed her biceps. “As if I
couldn’t take care of myself.”

“Yet Doug is dead,” he reminded her.

“Don’t you think I know that?” she said, a
throb of anger in her voice. After a long pause, she continued in a
more subdued tone. “I haven’t been able to do much work since they
found his body, so I stare out of my office window a lot. A few
days ago I noticed you. You’d be there, and then you’d seem to
vanish, kind of like those blinking eyes that used to come in
Cracker Jack boxes. That’s when I realized you must be working
undercover, investigating Doug’s death.”

“What are the old projects ISI worked on?”
Bob asked.

Tracy frowned. “Why do you want to know about
that?”

“No reason. Just curious.” Then, remembering
something the man from the State Department had told him long ago,
he added, “In an investigation, it’s important to look for the
unusual, even if the unusual has nothing to do with the matter at
hand.”

She nodded slowly. “I can see that.” She ran
a finger around the rim of her beer mug. “The subject of one
project was a man who’d been hypnotized, then sent to wait tables
at a very secret, very important dinner for some of the key people
during the Korean War. In his hypnotic state, the waiter could
remember everything everyone said and did. After he parroted it
back, they erased his memory and brought him out of the trance. He
resumed his normal life without ever knowing what he’d done. I
remember Doug and Will joking about a secret agent so secret he
himself didn’t know he was an agent, but I thought it sad. And
creepy.”

Bob tried to ignore the acrid taste in his
mouth. “Do any other projects come to mind?”

“They tried to desensitize soldiers to the
act of killing. During World War Two, less than fifteen percent
actually shot at the enemy.” Her hands clenched into fists. “They
must have learned how to get soldiers to kill, because I read that
in Vietnam over eighty-five percent shot to kill. They had all
sorts of projects. They developed an aerosol spray for use in
biological warfare and something called a micro-bio-innoculator
that’s so tiny the victim feels nothing when it penetrates. And
since the body absorbs the innoculator, no one can find a trace of
the dart. They also developed lasers so tiny they can zap a single
molecule. And Cerberus.”

“Cerberus? Like the three-headed hound
guarding the gates of hell?”

She nodded. “Berquist had a special interest
in that project. During World War Two, he had met several amputees.
They all told him the loss of the limb devastated them, the pain
debilitated them, and dealing with the stump humiliated them. But
the absolute worst was the phantom pain, the cramping, twitching,
itching, in the missing limb. You can’t scratch an itch or massage
a muscle in a body part that is no longer there.

“Berquist reasoned that since the brain
apparently retained a memory of the limb, he could erase the
phantom pain by erasing the memory of the limb.”

“Did he succeed?” Bob asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Will said they
experimented on some of the soldiers who lost limbs in South Korea,
but that’s as far as Berquist got with his memoirs.”

She finished the last of her beer, snatched
her purse, and started to slide out of the booth.

“Do you have time for a few more questions?”
Bob asked.

She sighed heavily. “A few, then I have to
go.”

“Who is Evans?”

“The only Evans I know is Alex Evans. He’s
the Assistant Director of Research and Development, but the guys
who work for him don’t look like scientists.” She winced. “They
give me the chills. They seem way too mean and menacing, and they
all have those hard, cold eyes. They don’t belong with the rest of
us, so people are always spreading wild rumors about them.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Oh, you know, like they’re Evans’s secret
police, or like they’re killers.” Her eyes widened. “They must be
the ones who killed Doug.”

“Tell me about Evans.”

“I don’t know anything. I’ve heard people say
he’s a megalomaniac who wants power at any cost and doesn’t care
who pays as long as it’s not him. And he’s going to take over when
Berquist retires, which may be soon. Berquist has prostate
cancer.”

“What does Evans look like?

“He’s about fifty and still good-looking, but
not as good-looking as Berquist, and he has dark hair with streaks
of silver in it.”

“Can you be more specific—height, eye color,
distinguishing marks?”

She shook her head apologetically. “I only
saw him once or twice.”

“What about the kind of car he drives?”

“I don’t know. The suits have their own
private entrance on the other side of the campus.”

“Where the razor wire is?”

“That’s the computer center. Supposedly,
be-neath the building is an installation containing acres of
computers, but I’ve never been over there. The private entrance for
the suits is around the corner from the computer center. It’s a
garage door leading to an underground parking lot that has about as
much security as the computer center. Everyone uses the commons,
even the suits. The commons is what we call the park-like area, in
case you didn’t know. I often see Mr. Evans’s men on the commons,
so maybe Mr. Evans comes sometimes, too. If you want, I can ask
around about him.”

“That’s not a good idea. You don’t want to
bring yourself to his attention.”

Tracy stared at the ceiling, as though trying
to make up her mind about something. Finally, she looked at
Bob.

“I work in accounting, and I discovered that
during the past couple of years, huge amounts of money have been
pumped into the Research and Development Department. They’ve
obtained unsecured, interest-free, multi-million dollar loans from
dozens of savings and loan companies all over the country, like
Silverado here in Denver and Lincoln Savings and Loan in Irvine,
California.”

She clutched her purse to her chest like a
shield. “What’s strange is there’s no repayment schedule. It’s like
the savings and loans gave away free money. Most of the money was
transferred to a couple of different accounts in a bank in the
Cayman Islands, but when I went back to double check my figures,
all trace of the loans had disappeared.

“I think I stumbled on something I wasn’t
supposed to see. Except for Doug, I never told anybody else about
my discovery.” She shivered. “Is it cold in here?”

Bob nodded, but he knew the chill they both
felt had nothing to do with the ambient temperature.

Chapter 16

Bob found Scott in the basement of his
church, mopping up after the Vietnam veteran’s support group.

Scott gave him a warm smile. “I’m sorry you
missed the meeting.”

Bob tried to return the smile but without
much success. “I came to see you.”

“Always glad of an excuse to put off work.”
Scott set the mop in the bucket. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You seem to be well acquainted with the
veteran community. Do you know anyone who could tell me about mind
control experiments done on soldiers during the Korean War?”

Hearing the words hanging in the air between
them, Bob wished he had phrased his question in a more roundabout
manner. Spoken bluntly, it sounded outlandish.

“I do know someone.” Scott got out his
wallet, extracted a small piece of paper, and handed it to Bob.

Bob glanced at it. It was an address and
phone number for Dr. James Willet in Omaha. He shifted his gaze to
Scott, unable to keep his incredulity from showing.

“How did you know what I wanted?”

Scott tugged at an ear. “I didn’t. I got it
for me. Dr. Willet’s a psychologist specializing in the problems of
veterans. He has a particular interest in memory dysfunctions and
debilitating nightmares, especially those arising from possible
abuse or interference. I heard about him at a meeting once, and
after talking about my nightmares the other day, I asked around
until I found someone who knew how to get in touch with him.”

Bob tried to return the paper to him, but
Scott waved it away.

“I decided against going.” He looked at Bob
with serene eyes. “I know I did those things I saw in my
dreams.”

“You weren’t responsible. The people who
programmed you are the ones to blame.”

Scott shook his head. “I fired the weapons. I
have to accept that. And I do. But I decided I don’t want to live
in the past. It’s more important to be in the present with my
family and my work. They deserve all of me now, so I have to handle
it, get over it, and forget it.”

“An admirable goal.”

“A necessary goal. I have you and Kerry to
thank for making me finally face what I did.” He gave Bob a shrewd
look. “You don’t seem surprised by my revelation.”

“No. It seems as if mind alteration is much
more prevalent than I ever realized. I’m just sorry it happened to
you.”

“I’ve come to see that we’re controlled every
minute of every day. We’re bombarded with ads, commercials,
newspaper articles, television shows, all of which program us to
think and act in certain ways, to accept modes of behavior that
were anathema a couple of generations ago.” Scott’s mouth twisted
in a wry smile. “I’ll get off my soapbox now.”

“I don’t mind.”

Scott grabbed hold of the mop. “I’d better
finish here. Rose will be expecting me. You’re welcome to come to
dinner. We can talk afterward.”

“I wouldn’t be good company tonight. Maybe
another time.”

“I’ll hold you to that. And bring Kerry. We
all love her.”

Bob smiled.

***

The sodium vapor lights gave Colfax Avenue an
unearthly glow, like an alien world with a dying sun.

The hookers teetered on their platform shoes
and tugged at their miniscule skirts. Here and there a tattered old
man smelling of urine, vomit and cheap whiskey slept fitfully in a
doorway, while the homeless women pushed their shopping carts,
doggedly steering clear of grifters, drug dealers, and crazies.

Bob walked among them. He’d detoured by the
boardinghouse to see if it was still being staked out—it was—and
now he had nothing to do but wait for Kerry to show up for her
shift at the coffee shop.

Feeling twitchy, as if someone were following
him, he cut diagonally across the street and glanced over his
shoulder.

Herbert Townsend weaved through the crowd. He
didn’t rant but peered anxiously into the faces of the people he
passed. He turned his head toward Bob, and their gazes met.
Townsend loped toward Bob, hand outstretched.

The man wanted his ID back, Bob realized. He
paused under a streetlight, pulled his picture off the nametag, and
returned it to Townsend. He planned to return to ISI, but as long
as he didn’t try to enter any building except the cafeteria or
health club, he could do without it.

Townsend carefully stowed it in a pocket of
his jeans and curved his lips into something resembling a
smile.

“Are you hungry?” Bob asked.

A brief pause as if the words filtered into
his head through the aluminum foil helmet, then Townsend
nodded.

Bob headed for Rimrock Coffee Shop, Townsend
close on his heels.

“Let’s go in here,” Bob said, pausing outside
the brightly lit restaurant.

Townsend shook his head no.

“It will be okay.”

Bob entered the coffee shop. The taller
Townsend followed, trying to hide behind Bob’s back.