Present
Nervously pacing in the bedroom of the small flat, Mac vehemently tapped the picture Inspector Bergman had given her. "This woman, this is Cynthia McPherson?"
Retired Admiral Harrison Spencer shook his head affirmatively. "Yes."
"She doesn't fit the image of a demonic figure," Webb said dryly.
"She's not evil and doesn't destroy minds! What she does, well, let's just say it's required," Spencer replied, his tone somewhere between defensive and derisive.
"You're wrong!" Mac argued, looking at McPherson's picture again.
In her hands was a woman who, according to Spencer, had been nurtured and trained in a caring, medical profession. What personality trait was required to turn such an individual into someone who could perform acts of mental barbarism and why was Harm involved with her.
"Her process is valid. Similar techniques are currently undergoing clinical trials for the treatment of PTSD in war veterans and trauma survivors," Spencer replied rationally. "It might even lead to a cure for Alzheimer's."
Mac turned on her heel and got in the man's face. "It's nuerohacking!"
"Sarah, calm down. You wanted him to explain, so let him," Webb said, pulling Mac to a seat on the bed before nodding to Spencer to continue.
"Colonel Mackenzie's technically correct, though I dislike the term as much as referring to the brain as wetware."
Mac glared at the man. "Get over it."
"Yes, well … as I was saying, great strides have been made in determining the brain's storage methods. Hence Cynthia's research focused on 'Memory Editors' – both those that enhance and those that wipe."
"It gives a whole new meaning to – I've changed my mind," Webb murmured under his breath.
Spencer ignored the barbs and growing animosity. "Without getting technical, the way the brain goes about things often leaves gaping holes for someone to access. Memory retrieval is one such hole. But in order to get to the hole, you need to breech a firewall of sorts or as Cynthia calls it – the McPherson Corridor."
Seeing he had an attentive audience, he continued. "She usually achieves the best results with individuals possessing anxieties that are repressed within the unconscious. Themes such as separation, intrusion, abandonment, isolation, betrayal, castration fears, life and death concerns are easier to identify and then crack. She probes until she finds the tiniest fissure in a person's psyche and then pries a wedge into it. Using increasing pressure, she widens the gap. Ultimately the victim surrenders and she breaks through the Corridor.
"Don't you mean she breaks their will to resist!" Mac shouted getting to her feet.
Webb intercepted her before she launched herself at the man who had consorted in such behavior. "Sarah, stop it! He's here to help. It won't do any good if you lay him out flat on his back!"
---------------------
(dreaming events from two years earlier)
Exhausted, cold, and in pain, 52 re-lived the memories and emotions each image evoked. 52 had held off as long as possible, concentrating on emotionless minutiae instead, but 52 could do so no longer.
The images cycled through again. PAIN. 52's walls cracked. The images cycled through again. 52's walls toppled. The images cycled through again. 52's walls were obliterated.
52 was now splayed open and vulnerable, each retrieval of a memory, and its subsequent re-storage, tracked a little more of the neural network involving the most tumultuous events of 52's life.
Hour after hour, the EEG machine received the electrical impulses, mapping 52's brain in fractions of milliseconds. One by one the 3.5 million receivers focused on the electrical circuitry involving his memory.
… 'Tell Harm I --
The audio file abruptly stopped at 0215 hours on day 9 of 52's captivity. After 104 hours of Phase 2 harassment, the EEG machine powered down on its own.
Silence, except for 52's whimpering. This too stopped when the HMD went black. 52 felt the tears make their way down 52's face, past 52's lips, past 52's chin, finally pooling with the drool on 52's neck. No one came to service 52.
Without another living soul present, 52 slept, unaware the machine had developed the necessary algorithm and schematic that even the most inept hacker could follow to breach his mental firewall. 52 slept, unaware he had been left alone for the past 24 hours and that it would be another 48 before he saw another living being.
-----------------
(dream continues)
"Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" Cynthia warned menacingly.
"My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" Spencer asked, removing his hands away from Harm's face.
"No. What they were looking for is even beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here without a word!"
"But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy."
"Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."
"But—"
"He's Subject 52 and I suggest you leave it at that!"
With a last glance at his former defense counsel, Harrison Spencer turned away. He momentarily paused as the strangled plea for help reached his ears. Hanging his head, he walked out the door, hearing it lock behind him.
Day 13. EEG analysis and montage amplification have clearly identified the location of Subject 52's McPherson Corridor. Topical antibiotic ointment should leave no trace of subject's minor burns. An explanation for his weight loss, Spencer's appearance, and things beyond my control will be dealt with during the memory wipe. Naso-esophagel intubation has been reinserted as have the two eustachean, two sphenoidal and nasopharyngeal cathodes. All remaining cranial transmitters have been realigned to the T1 and F4 electrodes.
"Sissy hurt 52?"
"He hurt himself," she answered finishing the application of the ointment.
"No! Sissy hurt 52," Gregor shouted, patting Harm's red cheeks to dry away the tracks of tears and blood left behind after the three thin wires had been reinserted.
"I was out of analgesic. The stuff in the can," she explained when her brother didn't understand.
"Don't hurt 52. Don't hurt 52. Don't hurt 52."
"God! You have your own work to do. Go do it!"
"Gregor help here. Gregor strong, cheap labor."
"Fine. Put a diaper on him while I get his medications ready."
"52 is going away soon."
"Why do say that?" Cynthia asked, confused why her brother was overly protective of this one and not the others. What wasn't a mystery were the drugs Spencer had previously prepared. Drugs that would put her subject's mind into a fog so that he will mistake what is true from what is untrue, what is right for what is wrong, and come to believe what did not happen actually had happened. And because the path to his McPherson Corridor was now known, new dreams could, in a manner of speaking, be cut and pasted over old memories.
"Only two wires left on his head. Two wires means 52 goes away soon. Two wires means 52 no longer remembers Gregor!"
The mapping of his brain had ended a while ago (he had lost track of time). The real horror of the place was discovered afterwards (he had lost track of time). For a period (he had lost track of time), stomach cramps and thirst plagued him. Then Admiral Spencer's brief presence (he had lost track of time) and unsympathetic exit confused him. But it was the mentally challenged man's simple explanation that finally enlightened him.
Cynthia laughed. "Now who is scaring him? And I wish it was 'soon'. Unfortunately, it'll take 15 days. But you're right; this is the final leg of his journey, so say goodbye if you must. But let me work."
Subject 52's Memory Editing sequencing will begin once core temperature reaches 94. Controlled doses of lysergic acid diethylamide, phencyclidine, and a derivative of sodium amatol will be administered while monitoring Subject's GABA, dopamine and serotonin levels.
Gregor stood alongside the bed and once again picked up 52's cold hand. He tightened his grip as his sister poured the cold slurry over 52's torso. By the time the second bucket thoroughly soaked the mattress, tears were streaming down Gregor's face.
Electromagnetic stimulation will be set at .0003 microvolts per millisecond to maintain Alpha waves at 8.3 Hz frequency. Repetitious sequencing will continue until behavior becomes endogenous and new experience set is in place. The algorithmic model forecasts reprogramming will be accomplished in eight days after which counter agents will be administered for seven days to neutralize side affects and deal with withdrawal seizures. Physical therapy to offset diminished stamina is also planned.
"You … won't … get …. away … with … this," Harm ground out, surprised his voice was functioning again. He watched her while trying to get his mind around the fact he was facing 15 more days of 'this'. The previous 13 days had felt like 13 months. He feared 15 more days would feel like 15 years.
His threat was ignored as his legs were spread apart, creating the ominous space on the bed. The leather portfolio was rolled open between his knees and ankles, many of its glass ampoules nearly empty; too many others yet untapped.
His teeth chattered as Cynthia withdrew a fresh bottle, inserted the syringe into it, and slowly drew up the yellow liquid. He felt her hand squeeze his right foot and hold it firmly. The alcohol swab followed. This time it would be the tender instep that registered the pain. Despite the paralytic, his fingers began tingling. His other foot was swabbed.
"I … won't … forget … That's a… promise."
Frustrated by the unexpected inspection, worried by Spencer's meddling, annoyed by her brother's concern, and now angry with her Subject's tenacity, Cynthia drove the needle deep. Only when she elicited a cry, did she push the plunger.
"I'll … REMEMBER!"
Shoving her hovering brother out of the way, Cynthia stormed toward the head of the bed. Grabbing a fistful of hair, she yanked Harm's head back until his eyes could only focus on one thing – the two-way toggle switch on the EEG console. Seeing his eyes register fear, she moved her face an inch from his and whispered, "No you won't."
When his body temperature decreased to 94, she made sure he was looking when she flicked the switch from 'Receive' to 'Transmit'.
-------------------
Present
"I didn't know why he was there. Some things you just don't question," Spencer said, the defensiveness in his voice obvious. "Anyway, by the time I saw him, his McPherson Corridor had been compromised. I assume Cynthia continued with the process after I left."
As the chill in the room became more pronounced, Mac wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She needed to use the restroom, she needed a drink, she needed to throttle Webb and deck Spencer, but more than anything, she needed to find Harm.
"What's … What's this 'differential amnesia' process entail?" Mac asked, her hands fussing with the wedding ring on her finger.
"It's almost a reversal of the mapping process that led to his Corridor. Every thought or visual observation causes a certain neurological spike or pattern in the brain's electromagnetic field which can be decoded and recoded into specific thoughts, pictures, and voices," Spencer answered. He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples before continuing.
"If it's a particularly strong willed individual, a form of truth serum is administered to 'loosen the mind' or more accurately release the cortical functions of the brain. Hallucinogenic drugs are also injected -- always lysergic acid diethylamide and phencyclidine. Sometimes mescaline is added."
"LSD and PCB!" Mac cried, sinking onto the chair.
"Outward manifestations include dizziness, visual distortions, and restlessness. Then the bowels release. Inwardly, patients are gripped with confusion, panic, psychosis, and anxiety."
"Oh, God."
Webb went to Mac's side and placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. "Sarah, you don't need to listen to this."
She pushed him away. "Yes I do!"
Spencer ignored Webb's angry stare and took a deep breath.
"The cold slows the mental processes to manageable levels while the drugs interfere with his synapses – the junctions between his neurons."
Mac stared at him, incomprehension blanketing her face. Spencer continued. "Just as painkillers work by blocking the pain receptors on postsynaptic neurons, certain receptors are vital to maintaining a memory. To wipe a memory, Cynthia intervenes before the receptor can re-file the memory. To create a new memory, she intervenes again by managing the spikes and patterns passing from one neuron to the next."
Mac had little spit left. She used her tongue to wet her dry lips. "Intervenes how?"
Spencer swallowed a gulp of cold coffee, not wanting to continue.
"HOW?" Mac demanded.
"Direct brain stimulation," he whispered.
Spencer saw the immediate horror on her face. He knew she was envisioning a mind turned to mush; a zombie-like vegetable left to languish on the vine; a convulsive body foaming at the mouth. Before she could react verbally, he went on.
"It's not like the electro-convulsive therapy Dr. Cameron used back in the 50's. That was the equivalent of sending in an elephant to stomp out an ant. He used 150 volts of electrical current for four seconds. Here we're talking microvolts – maybe three-ten thousandths of a volt every thousandth of a second."
Mac's vision swam as the blood drained from her face. She leaned forward and forced her head between her legs. As stars went off in her head, she managed to ask, "Every thousandth of a second for how long?"
Spencer didn't know what to do to alleviate the time bomb sitting before him. Talking seemed to work so far. So he kept at it while continuing to mentally sift through the mass of fluctuations bombarding his head.
"Sometimes a day, sometimes a week or more. It depends on what needs wiped and what's being implanted."
Mac sat back up. "Is it painful?"
"Some subjects have described it like a section of a picture puzzle in their head being taken apart, piece by piece. Each interlocking jigsaw facet examined, turned, flipped over, sorted, and repainted; then made to fit back together again where they don't belong."
Hearing her emotional reaction, he stopped short of sharing how others described the sensation. Or how the entire body vibrates like an electrical arc trapped between two circuits.
"I know it sounds excessive. But we're talking about minute amounts of nerve damage. At worse, subjects might mentally come up 'blank' when recalling a memory because the replacement didn't take."
"You sonofabitch! He's not a subject! HE'S MY HUSBAND!"
------------------
Three Days Earlier
"Sonofabitch!"
"Robert, don't!" Setting her equipment down, Cynthia didn't make it to the top of the landing before the man drove his fist into Harm's jaw for the second time. "Stop it. I need access to his nose!"
"Fine!"
Still groggy from the sedative, Harm grunted as his unseen assailant sucker punched him in the stomach instead. Doubled over, he was unprepared when he was shoved down the wooden steps, toppling head over heels. When he remained unmoving amidst stacks of old papers and cardboard boxes, Cynthia McPherson turned angrily for an explanation.
"He pissed on me!" the man said, wiping the back of his neck with a rag before stomping down the basement steps. He yelled over his shoulder, "Besides, if he's not banged up, no one's going to believe he's been in a car accident."
"Just stay away from his face!"
Sometime later, Harm woke disoriented and in pain. The tripod-mounted video camera pointed his way raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The foul odor of the ashtray near his nose turned his stomach. And the blood trickling from his nostril, over his swollen lip, and into his mouth set off alarm bells in his head. All viable reasons he considered returning to the nightmare he could no longer recall.
It took his scrambled mind a full minute to grasp the fire in his face was not from the beating he'd received but from the nightmarish wires protruding from his nose and cheeks. His ears, temple, and forehead weren't vacant either. All sported electrodes leading to an intimidating EEG machine off to his right.
The incomprehensible, draconian setting was rapidly eroding his belief that the image he'd been shown earlier was a cruelly concocted, photo-editing job to play with his mind. All remaining doubts were obliterated when he heard the woman's heartless tone. Her words ignited a fervent desire to be anywhere but here.
Friday, September 22, 2005; 2330 hours. Subject 52 has been fitted with a nasopharyngeal cathode, T1 and F4 cranial electrodes, as well as pairs of eustachean and sphenoidal electrodes. Because location of Subject's McPherson Corridor is already known, the Corridor can be accessed with minimum effort. Also, the new experiential set is not complex. Models are forecasting memory wipe and re-programming by Monday. Unfortunately, supply of HR4K paralytic has been depleted necessitating physical restraints.
"What is it you're trying to hide?" Harm asked, his voice belying the inner turmoil threatening to consume him.
The woman refused to make eye contact as she went methodically about her work.
"If you have the means to induce amnesia, what's the harm in telling me?"
His heart rate doubled when, instead of answering, she inserted all the wires emanating from his head into separate ports on the EEG machine. A waterfall of symbols immediately began scrolling down the laptop's screen, graphically illustrating every nuance of his thoughts.
When she continued to remain mute, his eyes scanned down his elongated body. He supposed he should be thankful his immobility was due to ropes, similar to those hanging from the large hooks in the ceiling, and not from broken vertebrae or chemical intervention. But he was finding it difficult to muster much gratitude.
The hard surface on which he lay was inconsistent with the thick padding that kept the restraints from biting into his skin. Evidently rope burns and ligature marks were not in his future. But, given the pain emanating from his chest, pummeling of his body was fair game.
He instinctively tried to pull away when the woman reached for his throat. Tethered too efficiently, he could do nothing as the woman's lithe fingers undid his tie. Moving the ends out of the way, he noted how she carefully secured his tie clip to his shirt pocket. He didn't doubt for a second the conscientious gesture was in her best interest rather than his.
He watched with a sense of deja vu as those same fingers efficiently unbuttoned his shirt. Then, with business-like proficiency, she freed his shirttails from his pants before sliding the shirt off his shoulders. Pushing up his t-shirt, she exposed his battered torso to the damp, cold air.
After all her efforts, she gave the raw scrapes and contusions on his chest and ribcage little more than a cursory glance. Instead, she was suddenly more intent on adjusting the thermostat on the far wall.
"At least tell me where I am," he tried again, noticing his suit coat draped neatly over a chair.
"Agent Rabb, you should have paid attention on the ride here," the man replied instead as he carried two filled buckets into the small, walk-in meat locker. "Then again, I'll cut you some slack. You were, after all, incapacitated by drugs."
Harm looked up and for the first time saw the man who had likely joined them at Staszow. He was probably the same man responsible for his recent beating. And there was no doubt he was the man who was second in command at the CIA. "Assistant Deputy Director Robert Kroger," Harm grimly acknowledged.
"I'm impressed. Considering we never met first hand, given your short tenure with the Company," the man smirked then turned to the woman. "Cynthia, do you need more?"
Concentrating on her laptop, she simply nodded yes.
Put out by the manual labor, Kroger turned back to Harm. "I didn't appreciate your little accident, Rabb. If I had my way, you'd be dead right now," Kroger sneered.
Harm noted the man's wet collar and then his own wet groin. "There are worse things," he said, smirking with satisfaction.
Kroger flexed his scraped knuckles and moved closer to where Harm lay. Grinning threateningly, he pointed to the small, black battery and coil of wire next to the EEG machine. "You got that right."
"Robert, get the water."
"You're no fun, Cynthia."
Distracted by the ominous equipment, Harm wasn't prepared when the woman started slowly pouring the icy water over his torso. She moved on to systematically drench his arms, legs, and dislodged clothing before using the second bucket to deal with any areas she missed. Even his shoes and socks weren't spared. Suddenly wet to the bone, his body registered the room's dropping temperature and the frosty draft coming through the overhead vent.
His unease grew when Kroger returned with more buckets and several bags of ice. While the woman dispensed the additional liquid, Kroger personally saw to the placement of the ice bags, positioning them beneath his neck, in his arm pits, and between his thighs.
"Robert, you can leave now."
"I still say he's too much trouble at this point."
"You may need him again, considering you killed the others. Besides, I have too much invested in this one."
"Suit yourself. I'm going to bed."
After Kroger left, Cynthia locked the door behind him and picked up the coil of wire. Harm tried to control his fear and think on his feet, or more appropriately his back. The situation was no more fathomable than the 8X10 images Cynthia flashed him on the Gulfstream, nor her absurd claim they had a child.
Noting she'd become more talkative, he tried more conversation. "What about the boy?"
"What about him?"
"Don't I get to see him?"
"We'll see how it goes."
"Is he here?"
"What disturbs you more, his existence, or the circumstances under which we made him?"
"You didn't answer my question. Is he here?"
Cynthia looked at him, or more accurately through him. She smiled and answered, "Yes, he's here. Now answer my question."
"The circumstances under which he was conceived."
"The circumstances under which 'we made' him," she corrected. "But I sense you have doubts. No matter. He served his purpose."
"You talk of him like an object. Do you even love him?"
Slamming the coil down, Cynthia moved to his sodden feet. "I won't discuss him anymore!"
Having been able to take her mind off the potential torture device, Harm didn't want to push his luck, so he changed the subject.
"How long have you worked for the Company?"
"You don't get to ask that."
"What do I get to ask?"
"You can ask for a picture of your wife."
Harm paused and considered the bizarre conversation. It would be at least two more days before Mac returned home and confirmed his disappearance. Then again, he was already told he'd be returned home by Monday night. The question was, in what kind of condition? Then there was the likelihood Webb was involved. Was he or someone else already looking for him? Would they get here before the woman initiated his 'reprogramming'?
"Well? Are you interested?" she asked.
The cold now thoroughly chilling his body, his teeth chattered when he answered, "Yes, I'd like to see a picture of my wife."
Rifling through her black bag, Cynthia McPherson smirked as she withdrew the photo. Holding it between her fingers, she positioned it a foot from Harm's face and carefully studied his reaction.
Within the first second, his mind registered three things: The red dress Mac wore was from the Embassy party 30 hours ago. Clayton Webb's hungry lips were devouring her neck. The demure smile on her face suggested she was enjoying his advances.
Within the second second, three things occurred: The odds that anyone might find him plummeted. His level of despise for Clayton Webb skyrocketed. The deep-seated trust he had in Mac flickered.
Satisfied the picture's mental baggage would be sufficient to re-open the Corridor, Cynthia carefully propped the picture against the leather satchel between Harm's splayed legs, keeping it within his field of vision. She then slowly untied the wet laces of his left shoe. Sliding it off his foot, she hooked a finger in his sock, clearly intending to remove it as well.
Having a little play in the restraints on his legs, Harm yanked his foot out of her grasp, driven by a need he couldn't explain. When the woman's head jerked up to confront him, he remembered seeing the same expression on her face hours ago. Grasping at straws, he blurted out, "Is Kroger your strong, cheap labor now?"
There it was again -- anger, worry, and fear; all rolled into one.
"What do you know of strong, cheap labor?"
How did he answer that?
"WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF STRONG, CHEAP LABOR?" she yelled, reclaiming his foot and pulling off his wet sock.
"I … I don't remember," he answered honestly. The despair in his answer brought back a myriad of feelings. The same feelings he experienced when he made the same declaration a month ago in the Emergency Room and again on the plane ride home from the States."
When she continued staring uncertainly, he drew upon his Hostage 101 training that drove home the importance of making a personal connection with your captor. "Please, the ice between my legs is uncomfortable."
In a gesture completely unexpected, she withdrew the bag and placed it on his chest instead.
"Thank you," he said, chalking up the small victory.
Moments later, any ground he gained in controlling the situation was squelched when she selected an ampoule and syringe.
Subject 52 requires a higher than normal dosage of Flunitrazepam.
"Rohypnol?"
A smile flickered across the woman's face as she slowly drew up the colorless liquid. Better known as the date-rape drug, it was an effective means to relax subjects and 'loosen' their minds.
Pausing to take a deep drag on her cigarette, she asked again, "What do you know of strong, cheap labor?"
He searched his mind and came up with, "Nothing." When she pried two toes apart, he added. "I'm telling you the truth! I don't remember. Isn't that the whole idea?"
His question was answered by a ring of blue smoke blown his way and a hot needle prick in his toe. Unable to fight back, he watched her silently enjoy another cigarette as the drug made its languorous way through his system. The need to sleep and the creeping cold sapped his reserves. His head lolled to the side, a trickle of spit forming at the corner of his mouth.
Moments later, his head was straightened. The woman moved in closer and exhaled inches from his face. Looking him in the eyes, she said, "Tell me. What do you know of strong, cheap labor?"
He gagged on the smell of her breath. The cigarette and spearmint mixture pervaded the clot of blood in his nostril and overpowered the coppery taste in his mouth. Ready to vomit, he answered, "Gregor … I saw Gregor and the phrase popped into my head."
It sounded ludicrous to his ears, but somehow he knew it was the truth. The woman backed off and paced nervously. She finally paused and toggled on the recording device; then employed her cold, analytic tone. Subject 52 is experiencing fragmented associations. She then resumed pacing. Five minutes later, she stopped in front of him, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him. "What else do you remember!"
Harm looked at his bare foot. He looked at the 'transmit' switch on the EEG machine. He looked at the black battery. He looked at the leather case filled with a dozen ampoules. The irony of the situation nearly made him laugh. Somewhere, somehow, sometime, he suspected they had all been used to make him forget that which he was now seemingly accused of remembering.
Lost in the incongruity, he was too slow conjuring up an adequate answer before her clenched fist came down hard on his chest, the ring on her little finger opening a cut near his clavicle.
"UGH!"
"What else do you remember!"
When she made a move to strike again, he went with the obvious. "… Cold! … being … cold …"
"Don't guess!"
Fatigued by hours without decent sleep, weakened by lack of food, groggy from the new sedative compromising his system, stressed from the cold, and needing relief from the pain, Harm shut his eyes.
(((one-thousand-one; one-thousand-two; one-thousand-three))) His eyes shot open.
"What else do you remember?" She asked more calmly.
"Three seconds."
"What about three seconds?"
He glanced at the battery. "Pain. Pain came after three seconds."
"What else do you remember?"
Suspecting the ad hoc interrogation was the least of the potential evils that surrounded him, he tried to recall anything of substance that would placate the agitated woman.
The ice, wet clothes, and air-conditioning lowered his core temperature as the relentless questioning continued. The monotony was occasionally punctuated by assaults from an endless supply of ammonia capsules and more blows to his chest. By the time she lit up her seventh cigarette, he had managed only a handful of fragments that meant little more to him than infantile dependency – excessive drooling, diaper changes, and force feeding.
"What else do you remember?"
Again he replayed the same litany. "I remember … Gregor." The truth was he remembered nothing specific about the man. "…I … remember … the phrase strong … cheap labor." The truth was he had no idea why he associated it with the woman's brother. "… I … remember drooling … and the stench of … a diaper … and … and … "
The ammonia revived him. "… one-thousand-one … one-thousand-two … one-thousand-three … then pain … "
"What else do you remember?"
"… and … being … fed."
More ammonia. More ice. More water. More smoke. "What else do you remember?"
When he was close to succumbing to unconsciousness, a place where the irritating ammonia and smoke couldn't find him, another fragment came from somewhere unbidden, and he answered, "… the cave …"
The new revelation surprised them both. It also ignited a change in the woman's demeanor and rekindled a foreboding in Harm's head.
Through the narrow slits of his heavy eyelids, he watched as the woman's mannerisms exuded a dangerous volatility. He sucked in a deep breath as she prematurely ground out the cigarette. He winced as she launched herself at him. He cringed as she frantically reached between his legs. He mentally screamed when she withdrew another syringe. And he prayed when she selected the ampoule marked 'phencyclidine'.
Stale cigarette smoke and spearmint swirled about him, each smell chasing the other, creating a vortex that pulled him down. The deeper he descended, the faster he spiraled until, like a centrifuge, his present circumstances separated from his past. And it was the latter onto which his mind grasped.
If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have dreamt the dream he could never recall. If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have re-lived the events which couldn't be real. If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have remembered Mac and Webb and Paraguay and Never. If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have missed Cynthia McPherson tighten the rubber tourniquet around her own arm and inject the PCP into her own vein.
Hours later, if he had woken on his own, he would have seen the naked woman cowering in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself as she rocked back and forth. If he had woken on his own, he might have come to understand her failure as a woman. If he had woken on his own, he might have understood her failure as a sister. And if he had woken on his own, he might have figured out what she considered her greatest failure – a flaw in her process.
But he didn't awaken on his own. He woke as the result of the incessant banging on the meat locker door. Once his eyes focused, what stood beside him was as crazed a woman as he had ever seen.
"Cynthia! Damn it, let me in!" Kroger yelled.
She finally acknowledged the noise and released the door's inside deadbolt. Kroger stormed in. Seeing her naked, he looked around the room and asked uncertainly, "Cynthia, what the hell is going on?"
"It's your fault. And it's his fault. And you're both going to pay," she answered. Then Cynthia McPherson wasted no time shooting Assistant Deputy Director Robert Kroger of the CIA between the eyes. Before he hit the ground, she was gone, slamming the door shut behind her.
