Disclaimer: see chapter 1


28. Hope

"Oh boy," Mike only said as soon as they'd taken the professor back to his cell. Daniel Rosenthal pretended not to have heard him, simply because Mike wanted him to react to his stupid 'oh boy'.

But of course that wouldn't deter Mike from annoying him. "That's not looking good," he continued in the tone of someone who intended to initiate a spirited briefing with his boss.

Rosenthal couldn't hold back any longer. As a hacker, Kirtland was indispensable, but sometimes, all that this tech freak seemed capable of was to get on his nerves. "How do you figure it's not looking good?" Rosenthal snapped at him. "Eppes is at the end of his tether. It's only a matter of hours until he cooperates."

"But he declined."

"So what? Would it be the first time that we changed someone's mind?"

"But… what if he cracks again?"

"For G-d's sake, Mike, just leave it alone! Trust me, we'll take good care that our good little doctor doesn't misplace any of his marbles. You just go sit there at your computer and let me do the planning."

He had been wishing for it. He hadn't even dared hoping that Mike would actually shut up for once, but he'd been wishing for it. It hadn't been enough to hope though, he just knew him too well by now. "But… you've seen the professor yourself. How he totally blacks out sometimes, real scary. How he sometimes doesn't even hear you anymore."

"That could be because of the depression or because he's trying to remember."

"And if sooner or later that works?"

"That he remembers? Come on. If he's been unable to remember for half a year, that won't suddenly change here and now."

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"You can't hold me here forever." Charlie ardently tried to convince himself with that.

However, the apparently ever-present sardonic grin made that attempt fail. "You can't even begin to imagine, Professor, the things we can do."

Charlie swallowed. Still, he was prepared to do whatever was in his power to make his adversary change his mind. "My brother's surely already looking for me." And Charlie was hoping, hoping so much, that what he was saying was true.

Agent Johnson gave him a sneering laugh. "That's what you're hoping for? That on the outside, there are people looking for you? How naïve are you? No one – I'm telling you, no one! – is looking for you. Those people out there don't care a damn about you." He paused for a second while he made a half-turn as though he was about to leave Charlie alone again, then turned back around to face him. All of a sudden, his voice sounded a bit more human. "I really don't understand why you're still so adamant to shut your eyes to the truth. Those people out there don't want you to come back. Your family wants you to serve your country, can't you see that? What do you think your brother would say if you came back without having completed your assignment?"

Charlie's gaze became fickle as though it was wavering along with his conviction.

A desperate smile crept on Charlie's face. 'Your family wants you to serve your country' – that might be true. But it was sure as night followed day that Don wouldn't have wanted his brother engaging in terrorist activities. And even though last fall Johnson had succeeded in making him waver and doubt everything, it now occurred to Charlie that Don hadn't even wanted him to accept the assignment in the first place, so there wasn't much chance he would have wanted him to continue his work and help the CIA after they'd deprived him of his freedom. So that meant that this time, he'd given them exactly the answer Don would have liked him to give them. And Charlie was firm in his decision, he wouldn't become a criminal again, no matter what they were going to do to him. He had denied their 'offer' and he'd been right in doing so, perfectly right…

And if he was wrong?

All of a sudden, it occurred to Charlie what possibilities accepting the offer would have opened up to him. He would have gained a better idea of what those CIA terrorists were planning to do. He wouldn't be alone in this cell the whole time, but more likely back in some kind of office, in front of a computer. Maybe even in front of a computer that was connected to some kind of network so that he would have been able to let someone on the outside know what was going on? Maybe he would have been able to find out where he was?

In any case, he would have had some influence on the following events. And maybe he would have even been able to give them calculations of a kind that would make sure that their attacks wouldn't hurt anybody? Or maybe even of a kind that led other law enforcement agencies on their track?

All those possibilities, however, were gone now. So maybe he'd made a mistake after all? Would it have been better to promise the CIA terrorists his help – even though it would have only been in pretence?

Then, however, he remembered how it had been half a year ago. And just a while ago. He remembered what he'd done, and he still felt so immensely bad and filthy because of it. What if he'd consented, for pretence, and for some reason he would have been unable to protect those human lives, what if people would have died again because of his calculations?

So maybe his intuition had been right after all. For this would have been too much. He couldn't have lived with having caused people's deaths again. Last time was more than enough. The thought of it was still compressing his lungs and made his thoughts fly about aimlessly as though they were trying to escape from him even though he knew that he would never be able to escape from them, never from his thoughts and never from himself. He was doomed to live with his deed and would never be able to undo it and never again be able to ban the horrendous truth from his memory: he had people's lives on his conscience.

Charlie shuddered, but that wasn't apt to shake off his inner cold.

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David and Colby were ringing the bell. Again. Colby, his sun-glasses protectively in front of his eyes, looked to the right and behind himself. Again. At the same time, David first checked the nameplate, then glanced to one of the windows and finally to his left and behind himself. Again. Then, they could hear footsteps and the door was opened for them. Again. David wondered (again) how many more times they would have to do this until they finally received a clue that would enable them to move this investigation along. Just like every other time, that thought was closely followed by the question what would put an end to this marathon of witness interviews, a clue that would put them in the right direction or going out of houses where a witness interview would be useful, which would make them clueless yet again.

"Hello?" the middle-aged woman greeted them with a distinctly questioning tone in her voice.

"Hello, Mrs. Jenkins. I'm Special Agent David Sinclair and this is Special Agent Colby Granger. We're with the FBI and we would like to ask you some questions."

They showed her their badges, which the woman took in with eyes that were widened with surprise. "FBI? Did something happen?"

Of course something happened, why else would we be here, Colby thought. He had heard this question too often both in his job history and today alone not to be annoyed by it.

"It's about Professor Charles Eppes," David replied and the woman gave a notable sigh of relief, probably because she and her family weren't affected directly by this affair. "He lives on the other side of the street, a few houses down."

Mrs. Jenkins nodded. She knew the young professor by sight and also knew a thing or two about the Eppes family, just the stuff you talked about among neighbors. "I've heard about what happened. Awful, just awful."

"Do you happen to know anything that might help us determine his current location?" David asked.

The woman frowned. "Location? But… he's dead. He was buried, that was… several weeks ago."

Several months, to be exact, Colby silently corrected her and at the same time understood what was going on. "The notification of his death last fall was based on a misunderstanding," he informed her as briefly as possible. "Two days ago, though, Professor Eppes disappeared again, and we assume that he's been kidnapped." He didn't give her an opportunity to express her dismay other than by the look on her face – one of her neighbors had been kidnapped?! And she'd thought this neighborhood was safe! – but went on immediately, "Maybe you noticed something during the past few days? Maybe a parked car that doesn't belong here or someone you haven't seen here before?"

Mrs. Jenkins, still busy with processing the new and shocking information, shook her head. "No… that is, a week or so ago, they must have gone on vacation, for the house was dark and the newspaper was lying out front. At least that's what Mrs. Connally told me, she lives in number 873, directly opposite them."

David suppressed a sigh. That Don and Alan had been in Nebraska was something they already knew. "Anything else?" he asked hopefully.

Again the shake of the head. "No, I'm sorry."

The two federal agents thanked her, said Mrs. Jenkins goodbye and continued their marathon with a little less hope than before.

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"Eppes."

"Hey, Dad."

"Charlie! How are you? How's your… how's it going?"

"Fine… and the work's going fine, too, Dad. Don't worry, I'm good here, really." Truth be spoken, he still found it all a bit creepy, but by and by, he was getting used to his new workspace, and his work was starting to pick up pace.

"Have you talked to Don yet?"

For a moment, Charlie felt a great desire to end the call there and then. "No," he said, and all of a sudden, he was very terse. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Of course. How about you tell me a little about your work? And who you're working with? And since we're already at it, maybe at this occasion I'll learn on which continent my son is currently staying?"

"Dad, please…"

"Don's worried about you, Charlie, just like I am. And by now you've been gone for four days and you still didn't consider it necessary to give him a call?"

"I'm very busy here, Dad. Besides…" Charlie hesitated, but he was growing tired of his father's pushing. "Besides, Don would just harangue me again and explain to me what I'm doing wrong or what I did do wrong again this time. And he'd try to grill me about the assignment although he knows fully well that I'm not allowed to tell him anything. He's just still pissed that I took the job without consulting him first and didn't let him order me around."

"That's not true, Charlie, and you know it. Just give him a call. Or do you intend on not talking to him at all for the entire month?"

'Wouldn't be the first time,' Charlie was about to answer, but something held him back. It was true, a couple of years ago, the contact between his brother and him had been reduced to the bare necessities. He'd never really been able to reconcile himself to that, though. And somehow, he felt and hoped and thought that this time of alienation was over now and had given way to a new era, one of brotherly connectedness.


"Eppes."

"Hi, Don." It sounded a little stiff.

"Charlie!" That did not sound stiff. "Hey… how are you? Dad said you're… how're you doing?"

Welcome back, unwanted nervousness. But somehow, it made him feel better that Don was apparently feeling just as awkward with this conversation as himself.

"I'm fine. You?" Oh boy, would they ever manage to say something at least slightly meaningful today?

"Yeah, me too, listen…"

I am, Don, but if I'm supposed to listen, you're supposed to talk.

"I'm…" Yeah…? "I won't keep pestering you to tell me about your assignment, okay? But only if you promise to tell me that you give me a call as soon as something seems fishy or dangerous to you. Okay?"

Wow. For a moment, Charlie was speechless. They'd come to the meaningful part much sooner than he'd expected.

"Okay," he eventually agreed.

They were silent for a moment before Charlie began to talk again, a still slightly hesitant grin on his face, "Hey, Dad told me you're worried. You're getting soft."

A short moment of hesitation, but then Charlie could hear from his brother's voice that he too was grinning. "Me and soft? Wait, me and worried? Oh no, Chuck. I'm sure you must have misunderstood something. Or Dad's getting old."

"Let's agree on the latter."

"Alright. But listen, we should keep this to ourselves. Because for an old man, he still makes some damn good lasagna."

In his memory, Charlie could hear himself laugh, but now, the thought of that time only caused a smile that could hardly be sadder. It only now occurred to him that he'd broken his promise. When he'd found out about the CIA terrorists' misdoings, he'd been so upset he hadn't stopped for a second to think about the consequences – or to call Don and tell him about his suspicion. Now he didn't have that opportunity anymore. Just like during his assignment, he was separated from the people that were important to him, but back then, he'd at least been able to have some sort of contact to the world outside. He'd been able to converse with his family and his friends, even though he'd granted himself only few minutes a day to spend thinking of his real life, usually before going to bed, since at that point of time he'd been too tired to effectively work anyway. Besides, talking to them before going to bed had distracted him from the magnitude of his work and given him all the calm he'd needed to spend some restorative hours of sleep. Yes, those phone calls during his assignment had given him strength, and now he was longing so much to get them back that it hurt.

By now he'd asked himself why they had even granted him that connection to the outside world. After all, he could have given them information about the project. And maybe then, someone from the outside world, someone with access to other data than himself, might have found out what kind of deception was going on.

On the other hand, he realized that they had never expected him to find out the truth, and denying him any contact to anyone on the outside would only have made him mistrustful and wary. Still, a nagging suspicion had started to form in his mind, and by now he was almost certain that it was true: from what he'd found out about his former employers, it was highly unlikely that they'd just trusted him not to tell anybody anything that would have given the outside world an opportunity to uncover the truth. It was far more likely that they'd made sure he kept his non-disclosure agreement – and that meant that, with all probability, they'd been spying on him, they'd listened in at the conversations he'd had with his dad and with Don and with Larry and with Amita.

As things stood now, that wouldn't bother him anymore. They could listen in all they wanted. If he could only talk to one of them again, hear their voices, he'd be overjoyed already. However, he wasn't deluding himself. The period of relative imprisonment was over. This wasn't relative anymore, this was absolute. They wouldn't let him go on a long leash again. He was their prisoner and that he'd remain, barring a miracle.