The Siren Project (19 page)

“Mr Prescott, do you remember going to meet
John Mitchell at his hotel room?”

“Yeah . . . gave him . . . stuff . . .” His
response was slow and slurred, but the microphone in front of his mouth picked
up every word.

“After you left John Mitchell, you went to
join your team protecting the Angolan Foreign Minister. Do you remember that?’

“Yeah,”

“Then you got a call to meet Senator
Fraser. Can you tell me what happened when you went to see him?”

“Went to . . . his office . . . he had . .
. a meeting . . . talk . . . on . . . the way.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Traffic . . . weather . . . he was . . . stalling.”
Prescott’s head rocked slightly to the side as he started to lose consciousness.

The interrogator slapped him hard on the
cheek. “Then what happened?”

“We went . . . to . . . car park . . .
someone . . . jumped me . . . didn’t see . . .” Prescott’s face winced. “Argh .
. . head . . . hit me . . . head.”

“Do you remember what happened next?”

“Car . . . dragged to . . . car . . . something
smell . . . mouth . . . couldn’t breathe . . . sleep . . .”

The interrogator waited while Prescott’s
mind searched for more clues, then gently pressed him again. “Do you remember
waking up? Later, after the drug wore off?”

Prescott opened his mouth as if to speak
but seemed confused.

“What is the next thing you remember?”

“Lights,” he mumbled uncertainly.

“What kind of lights?”

“Bright . . . so bright . . . and sound . .
. static . . . behind me.”

“Could you see what was making the sound,
Mr Prescott?”

“No . . .”

“That’s got to be a particle accelerator,”
Mitch said, “Like the one we recorded.”

Prescott’s head lolled sideways, as he
drifted into unconsciousness. The interrogator slapped his cheek again, forcing
him awake while the doctor watched his vital signs anxiously.

“What else do you remember, Mr Prescott?”
the interrogator asked. “Tell me about the noise and the lights?”

“Men with . . . white masks . . .”

“Did they say anything to you?”

“Nothing . . .”

“Then what happened?”

“Tied . . . down . . .” he murmured, then
he yelled in anger. “Tied . . . down!”

One of the orderlies monitoring his vital
signs called out, “Heart rate up twenty percent.”

“What did the doctors do to you?”

Prescott calmed. “Metal . . . on my head .
. . cold.”

“They put some metal devices on your head? Is
that correct?”

“. . . clamps . . .”

“They clamped your head, so you couldn’t
move?”

“Hurt . . . silver balls.” Prescott stopped
talking as he became increasingly distressed.

“What are silver balls?”

“. . . near . . . my . . . head . . .”

“They clamped your skull, so you couldn’t
move, and put silver balls close to your head? Is that right?”

“Pain! . . . so much . . .” Prescott
screamed as the memory of the pain flooded back.

“Heart rate up thirty five percent!” the
doctor called as the monitor spiked.

The interrogator leaned closer to Prescott.
“What caused the pain?”

“The pictures . . . thousands . . . flashing
. . . fast . . . “

The doctor turned toward the observation
window. “Images could be used to generate responses within the brain. That
would permit brain function mapping. They'd have to map the brain before they
could apply the Electro Neural Pulses to condition the brain’s electrical
pathways.”

The interrogator continued. “What happened
after the flashing images?”

“Telephone . . . Mitch . . .”

“The next thing you remember is being back
in your apartment, answering the telephone?”

“Don’t know . . . headache . . . dizzy.”

“Do you remember anything else about the
place where they did this to you?”

“. . . freezing . . . “

Knightly turned to the Vice President. “The
particle accelerator would generate a lot of heat. They must have to work in a
low temperature environment to prevent it overheating.”

“Why did you want to kill John Mitchell?” the
interrogator asked.

“No . . . Mitch . . . friend.”

“Why did you try to shoot him?”

Prescott’s head rocked sideways again
distressed. “Pain stops . . . when . . . Mitch . . . dead . . . shoot pain . .
. not Mitch . . .” Tears formed in his eyes as he became increasingly
distressed.

Mitch tensed, his anger rising.”That’s
enough!”

“He’s going into cardiac arrest!” an
attendant yelled.

The doctor pulled open Prescott’s shirt and
listened to his heart with a stethoscope. “The drug is stopping his heart!”

One of the attendants wheeled a machine
close to the bed. The doctor grabbed the white handles of the electrodes, and
yelled, “Charge!” A buzzing filled the room as the defibrillator built up a
charge. “Clear!” The doctor said, then slammed the two electrodes onto
Prescott’s chest. For a moment, his back arched, then fell back, lifeless.

“Again!” the doctor yelled, and the buzzing
filled the room a second time. “Clear!” And he sent another bolt of electricity
into Prescott’s heart. The second doctor listened to his heart as the machines
displaying his vital signs flat lined.

“We’re losing him!” one of the attendants
called.

“Again!” the doctor called, then slammed
the electrodes on Prescott’s chest for a third time, but all the monitors
droned a single tone. The doctor studied the readouts, then shook his head. “He's
had enough juice to put an elephant to sleep.”

Mitch turned angrily on Knightly. “I hope
that was worth a good man’s life.”

“It was the first time we’ve got a report
on the conditioning process,” Knightly said, as he stared impassively at the
lifeless form in the surgery. “I'm sorry about your friend.” He turned away and
approached the Vice President’s group, where he entered into a whispered
discussion.

Mitch watched as they pulled the sheet over
his friend’s head, and wheeled him out. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
If I’d have known Knightly was going to kill him, I’d never have handed him
over.”

Christa struggled to find words. She went
to put her hand on Mitch’s shoulder, but stopped at the last moment,
uncertainly.

Behind them, the Vice President and his
entourage departed, then Knightly rejoined them, his hands plunged into his
coat pockets and a look of apprehension on his face. “I know this will sound
trite, Mitchell, but Prescott was a casualty of war. A very insidious war.”

“I don’t know who’s worse, the brain
melting spooks, or you.”

“In all likelihood, Mitchell, we couldn't
have done anything for him. If he'd escaped, he'd have come looking for you
again, to kill you. Just because we had him sedated, doesn’t mean his
conditioning was broken. It wasn’t.”

Mitch bristled. “So he was expendable?”

“His sacrifice didn't go unnoticed. The
Vice President now believes something is going on, although I think he’s
doubtful about Christa’s abilities. In any event, he'll work with us.”

“And the President?” Christa asked.

“The Vice President will refrain from
discussing the situation with the President, until you can clear him, although
he’s adamant, nothing like this could happen to the President. He's too well
guarded, and his schedule is too tight for anyone to abduct and condition him
in secret. I’m inclined to agree. Considering how unreliable this process is, a
failure against the President would be a very public failure. They’re not ready
to deal with that yet.”

“Do we continue to search for Dr Steinus?”
Christa asked.

Knightly nodded. “We need Steinus to
unravel the technology for us, but stay in contact with this mole. If he can
tell us who in the government is under their control, and where the key
facilities are, then we can deal with the problem in a more direct way. Until
then, we’ll keep a close eye on Senator Fraser, find out who he talks to. The
problem is our people have a disturbing habit of disappearing, or changing
sides.” He reached into his pocket and handed Christa a small card. “With
Echelon on our backs, let’s stay off the satellites. Snail mail me letters to
this post box. I’ll make sure we check it daily. You set up a safe box I can
send mail to you, too. It’s primitive and slow, but under the circumstances,
it’s the safest method.”

Mitch glanced from Christa to Knightly
surprised. “Aren’t you keeping Christa with you? You need her to give the
President the once over, and she’s susceptible to this technology.”

Christa opened her mouth to protest, but
Knightly spoke first. “It will be some time before we can get Christa close to
the President, and he’s too big a target for them to try for at this stage
anyway. You’re still the main focus, so Christa will go with you.”

“It’s too dangerous, especially with that
bomb in her head.”

Knightly looked surprised. “She told you
about the implant?” He glanced curiously at Christa. “No matter, you need her
to warn you of ENP conditioned agents.” Mitch began to protest, but Knightly
was insistent. “I appreciate your concerns, Mitchell, but this is not
negotiable. She goes with you.” He nodded farewell, then hurried from the room.

When Mitch and Christa were alone in the
observation room, he said, “This is nuts. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Maybe some of your recklessness is rubbing
off on me,” she replied with a smile. “So, how do you plan on getting us back
to the West Coast?”

Christa watched the waves crash onto the
beach from the Santa Monica pier while Mitch paced nearby. They'd been waiting
only a short time, but were already growing apprehensive. The moment of
rendezvous was always going to be the most dangerous time. Mitch had purchased
their plane tickets to LA with cash and their false identities to avoid being
traced. Once they arrived in LA, they took a cab to the pier. On the way, he'd
called Mouse via the London relay, albeit without a scrambler, and spoke only
one sentence.

“I’ll be at the fishing spot in thirty
minutes.”

“I’ll bring the bait,” Mouse said,
confirming he understood.

Let their super
computers decode that!
Mitch thought as he stood
on the Santa Monica pier, where once a month they fished for sand bass. He
watched the approaches to the pier suspiciously while Christa leaned against
the railing.

“It’s pretty here. My mother used to take
me to the beach when I was a little girl. We made sand castles.”

Mitch tensed imperceptibly as two men
jogged past the pier, relaxing only after they had passed. “Are you close to
your mother?”

“We were ... yes, very close,” she replied
with profound sadness in her voice. “She taught me so much. She was a very
unique woman.”

“What happened to her?”

Christa looked away, hiding her face. “I’d
rather not talk about it.”

Mitch let it go, as he resumed watching the
approaches to the pier. He noticed a man wave to them from the road. Mitch
slipped his hand under Christa’s arm. “There’s Mouse.”

They hurried up the beach, then after a quick
greeting, Mouse led them to a mobile home parked on the side of the road. Its
motor was running, while Gunter waited patiently behind the wheel.

“Traveling in style, I see,” Mitch
observed.

“I’m glad you like it,” Mouse said with a
sly grin, “Because you own it! We used one of your offshore accounts to wire
the money to the company we bought it from.”

Mitch looked around, feigning disapproval. “Couldn’t
you have picked a better color?”

Mouse chuckled as they climbed aboard. “Okay
G, let’s roll!”

Before they had settled into their seats, Gunter
had the lumbering mobile home moving forward onto the road.

Mouse dropped into a chair and waved
broadly at the well appointed vehicle. “It guzzles gas like a tank and handles
like a pig, but we call it home! All we need is warp drive, and we could go
where no industrial spies have gone before!”

Mitch looked up and down the vehicle,
noting the cables that ran the length of the floor networking a chain of
computers and electronic devices together and turning the Winnebago into an
electronic nerve center. “Looks like you’ve replaced the stuff you lost when
they stripped our houses.”

“Better than before! Everything’s next
generation, state of the art.” Mouse smiled proudly. “I paid for it, all mine.”