Chronic Vertigo
Chapter 8: Myopic [Part A]
by Kira
Author's Note: Perhaps one of my favorite chapters, and I'm very glad I finally got to post it. Many thanks to Twinnie for the French help and Carmen_sandiego & Jen, my incredable beta team. Also, Papergirl, you rock. I'm editing around you from now on. ;) For Molly, since she asked for the update.
"I need access to some secured files."
The man sitting across from Sloane wasn't one worth remembering, his bland features blending into the backdrop of the crowded Roman street like a wallflower. His eyes were vacant, cold and detached, as if he weren't listening to a word spoken at the table.
"What kind of security are we talking about?" Thick Italian accent, matching perfectly with the chorus of voices surrounding the small patio set on the edge of one of Rome's numerous squares, shrines to artists long dead and a past many strived for.
A path of domination.
It was for that reason Arvin Sloane always felt at home in the Italian capitol, the richly ordained city a testament to real, raw power. Once the seat of an empire the stretched across two continents and threatened more, the city seemed frozen, living on borrowed time until it could once again be used in proper fashion. It was a power Sloane wished to one day possess himself.
He took a sip of his drink, an Italian soda made to taste like the cherries his wife would pick on warm Tuscan days, and smiled. "Nothing difficult. They're on a network in Kuala Lumpur, under the care of an import export firm with holdings in Germany." Sloane tossed a black folder across the table with practiced ease, the man looking over his shoulder before picking it up.
"Grün Austäusche is located in the industrial side of Kuala Lumpur, uncharacteristic for a trading company. This has lead me to believe it serves a duel purpose," Sloane explained, a voice-over for the file his new contractor was now reading. The man continued reading, his voice muffled as it was directed at the folder and its contents.
"Duel purpose?" he asked, the desire to know more overwhelming. Why had he been contacted after all these years?
"It is believed the whearhouse is hiding a server containing classified information."
"CIA information, you mean," the man inferred. He leaned forward on the table, animated for the first time since sitting at the table for a quick lunch. "Don't you have regulars you use for these kinds of operations?"
Sloane sighed, apprehensive to a point. "It has come to my attention that my current employees may not be entirely trustworthy."
"And you trust an outsider?"
"We speak the same language," Sloane replied, smile faiding. "I'm paying you for your discression in this matter."
Joseph Bianchi leaned back and crossed his arms, observing the man before him, wondering what was really going on, and more importantly, what he wasn't being told. A securities expert by trade, Bianchi felt it was slightly ironic that his nondescript appearance was intensified by his surname, a name meaning light or white in his native Italian. And in essence, he wished to remain a blank canvas to others. What was going on inside his head, what plan he was up to next remaining a mystery to those who wished to employ him. He felt, after all these years, he was good at it.
But the man across from him was better.
Bianchi could get nothing from the outwardly normal appearance of his new employer and sighed. It was harder for him, a devote Catholic raised near Rome by a strict mother, to take on assignments he knew little about. With the chance for an innocent's death looming in the unknown. But money was money, and Sloane was correct in assuming this amount would keep Bianchi's silence.
"What's my time frame?" he asked, sliding the folder close. Documents for a latter time.
"Two days. I need certain files from those computers before a systematic cycling," Sloane retorted, his smile returning. "The information is cycled through the servers every day. I have managed to get the codes for access on Thursday. I hope I've given enough time for preparation?"
"More than enough," Bianchi replied.
"Good. Care to stay for lunch?"
//
"I think we should have left 'im," Weiss declared through a stuffed mouth. Vaughn wrinkled his nose at the smell of Chinese noodles filling the already cramped van, and wondered for a moment if it were that or the stench of blood oozing from the captured guard withered in a seat behind him that made his stomach turn. Weiss shoved another mouthful of noodles in his mouth. Apparently, not even a prisoner to interrogate would keeping him from his favorite food.
"That would have been great," Vaughn retorted wryly. "What would we say to the police when they arrived? Oops?"
"Somethin'. We've got badges," Weiss shrugged. Vaughn let out a short laugh. "You're thinking of that Cheech and Chong line, aren't you?"
"Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges."
Weiss broke out, laughing, Vaughn's straight-laced, book-learned English that had evolved over the years still lacked that natural flow, never more apparent than when he chucked a sentence full of slang and attempted to sound ethnic. Suffice to say, it never came out exactly how he wanted. The comedic value was intensified, and Weiss slammed a hand against his mouth to keep him from spitting out (and wasting) his food.
The van swerved a bit.
"You sure you're okay?" Weiss called to the front seat from where he sat in the nook made by the side wall and the passenger seat to oversee their silent prisoner.
"Yeah. Just a bit dizzy, that's all."
"Pull over, I'll drive."
"We're almost there," Vaughn retorted, voice groggy and thick with exhaustion. He sounded haunted and hollow, to his indefinite disappointment; he thought he was younger yet, able to do these things without age catching up to him.
"Feeling tired?"
Vaughn looked over his shoulder, eyes torn from the road by an astute observation by a man who could not see. The prisoner shifted, his dark eyes boring into Vaughn's wavering gaze with the level of malice expected from an angered child.
"And dizzy? Tell me, American, what happened before you killed my partner?" he taunted, his grin toothless. Vaughn re-directed his eyes to the road, using the blank instinctive side of his mind to drive as he attempted to recall the answer to the prisoner's seeminly insane question. It came as shattered images, a sweet, delicious stream of nothingness pouring through his veins, flowing to his mind. Calmness. He noticed then the throbbing in his ankle had stopped, the offending joint now quiet.
"Vaughn? What's going on?" Weiss spoke through the silence. The captured man laughed – a deep, hollow, cold laugh that caused Weiss to shutter and retreat into his crevasse.
"Fools," the man exclaimed, "fools all of you!"
Weiss had a feeling this wasn't the funny clown type of fool being discussed.
//
"Director! Agent Bristow! We've got a call!"
It was Sydney who arrived first, practically ripping the tech's ear off as she yanked his headset off and fixed it on her own head. Kendall scowled at her unprofessional outburst but stayed silent as he found a discarded headset of his own.
"Hello?" Sydney asked tenatively, her voice rushed and tight as if she couldn't completely believe she was standing here. That everything was okay. If there was one thing this life had taught her over the years, it was that the worst usually happens.
"You're back early," Vaughn's tired voice replied. She could see him, sitting there on the flight home, a lopsided grin on his lined and weary face.
"Yeah. Was no problem. What about you? Is everything okay?"
"Fine. Just a bit tired."
"What about Cho?" Kendall jumped in, giving Sydney a blank stare as she glared at him for interrupting her conversation. His job was his job, and no agent was going to keep him from performing it.
"She turned out to be working for, for Sloane or Irina. There were pictures of Sydney and Dixon on their mission in Russia," he explained. Weiss, seated across the aisle from him, looked up as Vaughn rambled off unimportant details.
He's stalling. Eric deduced, giving the uncooperative prisoner two seats behind him an over the shoulder glance. He wanted to know what knowledge he possessed that could help his friend – such as when the question and answer session was going to start.
It was so insane, it was almost laughable – certifiable, for an ironic word choice. Working inside the CIA for as many years as he had, it was almost impossible to avoid the topic of memory and its alteration. Since as early as the 1950's, the FBI had been fascinated with the vulnerability of the human mind and memory, viewing the pair as a toy they'd just figured out how to modify. Armed with groups of psychologists and medical doctors, they began to 'play.'
Memory, to them, became a block of clay, moldable to their twisted desires. Detached from the psychological effects of their actions, the FBI would change and alter what operatives and sources remembered when the contents of such memories were deemed highly classified or controversial. Dangerous in practice, the methods were used only under extreme circumstances.
But their counterparts weren't.
The methods for retrieving memory were derived directly from those of alteration and just as inhumane. Recovered memory is worth more than eyewitness testimony in the intelligence world, and thus, psychologists specializing in memory retrieval became needed not only by the FBI, but other agencies as well, including the CIA. Deemed a necessary evil by directors, these foggy pieces of clay could be reshaped and retrieved.
A side effect, or spin off, was discovered in the late 60's by a psychologist on loan from Harvard to the FBI for his expertise on memorie retrieval. After researching the FBI's projects, he deduced that not only could they alter and implant memories, but could hide them as well. In effect, lock them away for future use. The subject would be oblivious to their existence, and thus, unable to retrieve them on their own.
The key, he said, was in memory strands.
Memories are normally retrieved by a sensory trigger – a smell, sound, taste, sight, or even a touch – that reminds one of a memory. A link exists, a kind of card in an old library card catalogue that connects the consciousness to a stored memory. This connection is a strand, or memory strand. The Harvard psychologist deduced that if a memory occurred, or could be implanted, so could a sensory trigger in the form of words. A password to unlock a memory holding information.
But what about regression techniques that battered the mind, probing until it found what it was looking for? The day before his departure, he gave them the simple answer: layers. If the memory was layered, one part atop another, then regression would simply unearth the first, more nostalgic layer and stop there, unable to go any deeper. Like any regression, the danger lie in how far the probe went, and how chopped up the psyche lie when finished. With the amount of digging needed to even approach the second layer, there was no telling how coherent the information would be when it finally came out.
The FBI, in the end, deemed the risks too dangerous and terminated that phase of the project.
..
"App – Cho attempted to interrupt the operation for her employer," Weiss heard Vaughn say lethargically, leaning his head back against the headrest. "We're waiting until we return to LA before we ask any questions."
"Good call, Agent Vaughn. What's your ETA?" If he weren't so tired, Vaughn might have smiled at the rare compliment from the FBI director. Instead, he took it in stride and let his eyes slip closed, thankful the only person who could see him was Weiss, and a comment about sleeping on the job would only be hypocritical on his part.
"5 hours," he sleepily replied, feeling a fog close in on the edge of his consciousness. A thick, soft, comforting fog that was begging to be embraced. He rubbed the base of his neck absentmindedly as voices continued to speak his ear, the last thought he had before sleep came was that of concern, the skin on the back of his neck swollen in such a way he did not remember.
//
Sark had never liked Italy.
There was a smile off his face nonetheless.
He leaned against an outer wall of the Pantheon, watching with fake interest as couples and families passed, entering the famous Roman monument. The circular building, complete with a hole in the roof often referred to as the Devil's Hole, from when the Devil broke in, had begun as a monument to mother earth when Rome was still a pagan city. The visitors now wished to see the statues testament to human achievement under the impression it was a Christian building.
A place of shady alliances, a past held by ancient dueling religions in this city of world domination; perfect for this meet to the point of irony.
"He took your bait," Bianchi drawled, reading a map a few steps away from Sark. "Has an operation planned out for Munich, tomorrow."
"Good," Sark replied discreetly. "I'll pass that to my employer." He took a few steps forward and paused just when he stood even with Bianchi. "Now, tell me where you're really going."
//
"Vaughn, Vaughn, c'mon, wake up," Sydney gently coaxed, shaking his shoulder. She bent over his chair as CIA agents collected the prisoner and led him from the plane. Weiss departed with them, mumbling something about a stomachache and too much Chinese food, leaving Sydney alone in the open cabin. Slumbering before her, head rolled to the side, was Vaughn, his breathing slower than normal, but nothing to be concerned about. Oblivious to the world with his headset still on, he appeared almost childlike.
His unresponsiveness during the call-in had only helped to deepen her worst fears, and for a few heart-pounding moments, she felt as if the floor would fall from beneath her and send her plummeting into her own personal hell. But Weiss' calm affirmation that he had simply fallen asleep had quelled her fears a little, though she remained surprised by the uncharacteristic move.
Something, she decided, was off, and she'd accompanied the retrieval agents to the plane.
"Michael, you have to wake up now," she tried again, his first name falling clumsily from her tongue. He stirred, his head falling to the other side and hitting her hand. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, or perhaps concern as her warm hand came in contact with chilled skin. The cabin was warm; she'd already taken off her overcoat.
"Laisse-moi dormir, (Let me sleep)" he mumbled, and turned over in the seat. Turned over. She half-expected him to curl up and start sucking his thumb. She, instead, laughed and sat down next to him.
"Il faut se lever maintenant. (You have to get up now)" Two can play at this game , Sydney thought. But in the back of her mind, a warning sign went up. While, like every woman, she loved the husky use of French when used by her fluent boyfriend, the unintentional use of his mother tongue was rare; his devotion to his job and father's memory a constant deterrent from the use of his mother's language. If something was wrong, and this was no ordinary sleep, coaxing him from a dream land would be easier if she played along, and for once, she was thankful for her comprehensive knowledge of the language.
"J'ai vraiment pas envie de me lever, (I really don't want to get up)" was his whispered reply, but she could already see the layers of sleep cracking, his green eyes slowly opening and focusing on her. He sighed but didn't move, just looked at her and smiled. "Geeze," he yawned,
"how long have I been out?" he asked.
Sydney frowned. "Aren't we the linguist today?" she quipped, leaning against the back of the seat. Worry lines appeared, confusion evident on his face.
"Hrmm?" he purred. Sydney reached with her free hand and brushed back from his forehead into his hair, a stroke that brought her hand to cup his face. He leaned into her, thankful for the warm touch, for her presence. For her.
"Now who talks in their sleep," she laughed, "you were! I told you to wake up, and out comes French."
"Oh," he muttered, cheeks reddening, "that."
"That what?"
He shook his head slightly, so not to loose contact with her hand. "Nothing really. You probably told me it was time to wake up."
"I'm sensing a story," she replied. He sighed and sat up, elbows on knees as he bent his head downward, two hands running through his hair, then down to rest over his eyes.
"Every morning, my mother would say that, to get me to school on time. Always in English, like my dad," he replied, head still bent. "I guess it's just become a natural reaction. I was out like a light!"
He'd expected her to laugh but the plane was deathly quiet.
Concerned, he turned his head upwards, in her direction, but she bent over his neck, pushing him down again. He grimaced, body stiff from sleeping in the same position the entire flight, but complied.
"What?" he asked, voice harsh, concerned.
Sydney's eyes widened, fingers brushing away the fine hair at the back of his neck, wishing her eyes were playing tricks on her.
A needle puncture mark lie at the base of his neck. His sleep, as she had feared, was not due to simple exhaustion.
//
"Were you successful?"
Apple Cho stood on the front deck of the Hong Kong-Kowloon ferry, long black hair flowing behind her in the wind. She picked, annoyed, at the bandage on her upper arm and growled under her breath; it hurt like hell.
"I was," she replied.
"Good. The money will be deposited in your account. You have the thanks of my employer."
"Anything to get back at that bastard," Apple bit out, her anger showing through her emotionless mask.
"We'll call if we require your services again." And the caller hung up.
Apple gazed across the ocean as she pocketed the cellular phone, part of her feeling sorry for what she had done. What goes around comes around, she told herself, but part of her still regretted her actions. Apple had seen first hand the effects of her bodyguard's injection on others, one of the reasons why she'd handed the needle off to him instead of doing it herself. Sleep, she hoped, would come easier knowing she was not directly responsible.
Apple pushed those thoughts from her mind as she appreciated the Chinese sunset.
