Robert was alone in the hotel suite he hadn't yet given up but hadn't slept in for weeks. He sat down on the bed and slipped the contents of the envelope onto the coverlet. He stared at the stack of papers for a moment before flipping the first over and seeing his name, birth date, and i.d. number—the letters and numbers produced by a manual typewriter in a font at once so unmistakable and familiar and now, in the age of computers, so foreign—printed out starkly in black and white. Robert Xavier Scorpio. Agent of the WSB.
Robert was shocked at the completeness of the file. The first twenty pages included a transcript of his three initial interviews with the Bureau, every question, every answer carefully documented. He briefly skimmed the single-spaced text, an embarrassing record of his youthful naïveté. He found his immature self difficult to recall and even more difficult to tolerate. Robert circa 1975 radiated an appalling juvenile certainty, about himself and about the world. Robert circa 2014 wanted to slap him, shake him, warn him how things would be and really are. He wanted to tell him not to judge too harshly. And he wanted to warn him about placing unthinking loyalty in a cause, in an agency, wanted to tell him instead to give his loyalty to a person, to an individual, to someone he loved. But the file wasn't time travel. He wasn't meeting his old self but seeing the wreckage of his history piled up behind him. There was nothing to be done to prevent the series of accidents and mistakes that was his life.
Next, he found records in the file of his early training and first assignments. He found evaluations of his conduct in the field written by O'Riley, his first partner. And Robert was honestly shocked: he'd thought she'd adored him, seen nothing but potential in him, admired his enthusiasm and commitment. Instead, O'Riley had flagged him early as problematic, a poor candidate for the Bureau. "Scorpio," she had written, "is overly critical, idealistic, and impractical. He will resist doing what he must if he feels it is morally wrong. He has an overdeveloped sense of propriety and justice."
Other evaluations and comments followed. In Shaun Donely's hand: "Needs to be handled carefully; needs clearly defined motivations for actions. Excellent completion rate. Recommended for increased security clearance and more challenging assignments." Robert skipped ahead a few pages in the file. He stopped when he reached a document describing the first case he and Anna worked together. France, 1978, they'd been sent to rescue a man being held by the DVX. He read the evaluation, again in Donely's writing: "Scorpio and Devane delivered the hostage. Were pursued, evaded capture. Reassignment recommended. Incompatible despite successful conclusion." So, Robert thought, he'd suspected them even then. Was it because of the way Robert had looked at Anna that first day in Shaun's office? Was it because they hadn't contacted him as soon as they were safe in Italy? When Shaun wrote that evaluation, had he already known that they were married? Robert turned the page.
Next, a copy of Robert's signed report identifying the Swede as a double agent. A note followed recording that Robert had been reassigned. Anna Devane, his former partner, injured on assignment, had requested retirement, and her request had been granted: Shaun Donely's signature. A brief note, scribbled in the margins, recorded that Agent Devane had been "compromised" and therefore was "expendable". The words startled Robert at first, but then he realized what they meant: not that she'd been a double agent, not that they knew about her other life, but that her face had been disfigured. As a young female agent, her beauty was seen as her most important asset. Her scar made her, in the opinion of the Bureau, useless. That's why it let her go. Robert was livid.
The following pages documented Robert's subsequent impressive list of cases, all with different partners, all undertaken in rapid succession, all increasingly dangerous. The young agent had hurled himself headlong into his assignments, taking terrible risks, realizing incredible outcomes. He was repeatedly promoted. And then suddenly he left, tired of the danger, exhausted by the pace, worn-out, craving stability. At regular intervals, with minimal annotation, the file recorded Robert's location, his job as police commissioner, his marriage to Holly Sutton.
Suddenly, in 1985, a flurry of notation: "Contact re-established with Anna Devane." Unsettling details of their reunion followed—dates of contact, patterns of movement, even transcriptions of snippets of conversations. Had their telephones been bugged, Robert wondered? Why had the Bureau been so interested? Robert turned the page. There he saw a picture of Robin in 1985, found a copy of her birth certificate (retrieved by the WSB after Robin had been delivered to Robert's doorstep and his paternity had become obvious). Though Robert and Anna had both left the Bureau, the Bureau had remained a part of their lives, and intensely interested in their activities.
Robert skipped ahead to 1990, the year Cesar Faison had appeared in Port Charles. The inquiries Robert had made about Faison, his suggestion to the agency that the DVX agent might still be alive, were recorded. The field agent Robert had met with reported Robert's refusal to reveal his source, the individual who had recognized Faison from past contact. The agent had scribbled questions on the official document: could the source be Shaun Donely? Anna Devane? How would they know Faison? How could they have identified him?
Robert flipped further ahead, to 1991. Again, intense interest in his relationship with Anna: a copy of their second marriage certificate, for god's sake, the itinerary of their honeymoon. Later, a note that Anna Devane had been assigned as a WSB special agent investigating the mysterious Cartel. Concern expressed that she might be a double agent. A note about the bug she'd planted in Robert's office while under Faison's influence, while under his hypnotic spell. Anna's exoneration; Faison's arrest.
Robert had reached December 1991. And this was what he was looking for. This was when things got messy.
Anna was dreaming, though some of it might have been remembering. She was on Faison's yacht; she could tell because there was a sound, a subtle vibration, the slightest sensation of movement. She felt tired, nauseous, her stomach distended, her head light, dizzy. Suddenly Faison was in the room with her, looking at her, scrutinizing her. "I'm only seasick, Cesar," she told him; "just nauseous from the motion."
One moment Cesar was twenty-three years younger, the next he was the man gagged in the Wyndemere stables, waiting while she and Robert argued whether or not he should die. "I'm seasick, Cesar," she told both men, the young and the old. "I need to lie down. I need to rest."
Young Cesar stared at her, sympathetic, uncomprehending. He offered her a bottle with two pills inside it, one yellow, one blue. "You should take this, Anna. It will help with your nausea."
Anna saw her hand reach out and take the bottle. "Thank you, Caesar. I will. I will take them, but later, and then I'll lie down."
When she looked back up, the man in front of her was no longer young. His expression was hard, skeptical, challenging. "You weren't sick for the first month of our journey," he spat. "Why are you sick now, my Anna? I've never heard of seasickness being so delayed. You should take the pills. I'd like to watch you take them now. I don't want to leave them for you to take later."
Anna stared back at him, tried to smile, tried to disarm him. But there was no use. She could trick the young Cesar but not the old. The old Cesar knew that she would kill him, given the chance. The old Cesar finally understood the depths of the revulsion she felt for him.
The first details Robert knew. Anna had been black boxed, suspected of working for Faison, suspected of revealing secrets to him, suspected of loving him, suspected of leaving Robert for him. Robert felt anger and guilt as he read the file—anger that the Bureau had been so quick to expect the worst of Anna, and guilt because he himself had felt the slightest nagging doubt, a hint of a fear that Anna had abandoned him and not been snatched away. Robert read through speculations, hits on Robert's whereabouts as he tracked Cesar's yacht down to South America. And then he saw the order against his own life. Robert had gone rogue, the file recorded. He was black boxed. He and Anna were to be killed on sight.
The WSB had tracked Robert's every move. They knew where he was headed and had reasoned out his target. Robert thought he'd gone dark but they'd been watching him the whole time. He next found an order sent from headquarters instructing the agents working his file to "observe and clean up" after his final confrontation with Cesar. It was assumed someone was going to be killed—Robert, Anna, Faison. Whoever survived would be dealt with by the Bureau. As it turned out, none of them died. Given the black box orders on all three, Robert wondered why they'd been allowed to survive.
More pages. Photographs of the explosion and the aftermath. More orders from headquarters, this time to keep Robert Scorpio and Anna Devane's "rescues" under wraps. Officially they were dead. Next followed medical files recording Robert's treatment. He'd been in hospital for four weeks recovering from a concussion, a broken arm, and first- and second-degree burns.
And then he saw the notes leading up to and transcripts of his meeting with Agent Carlton. Robert's hands started to sweat. He wondered if the lies Robert knew about would be acknowledged in the file. And he wondered if there were still more lies he didn't know about recorded there. He began to read.
The dream shifted. Anna tried to move her hands but couldn't; they were strapped down. Everything was dark. She tried to call out but couldn't; her mouth was dry. She heard the sound of a steady, rapid beep. It sounded like a monitor, the kind they used in hospitals, a heart-rate monitor.
The dreaming Anna felt herself split in two, split into the Anna who remembered and the Anna who forgot. She sensed amnesiac Anna's panic: who am I, how did I get here? She wanted to answer her questions, but the Anna who remembered had questions of her own. What was this place? She didn't sense movement; she wasn't on the yacht anymore. Why were her hands tied? Why couldn't she see? She thought she could sense cloth over her eyes; was she blindfolded? Was this what had happened after the explosion? Was the cloth over her eyes a bandage? Who had taken care of her? And why was she restrained?
Someone, probably Carlton, had scribbled "Project Theseus" at the top of the first page of the next set of documents. Another sick schoolboy joke, Robert thought, reminded again of Anna's accusation that leaving was what he did best. It had wounded him deeply when she'd said it all those years ago because it was true, but the sad fact was he hadn't changed his behaviour. In Paris, he'd left Anna injured, alone, and pregnant after their last assignment. When Anna came back into his life, he'd abandoned Holly emotionally, though he remained, always concerned with moral rectitude, committed to their marriage. He'd only ever occupied the same physical space as Cheryl, allowing her to fall in love with him while keeping himself emotionally always an arm's length away. He'd loved Kate, poor Kate, while loving Anna, repeatedly leaving Kate to share his most intimate thoughts, memories, and feelings with Anna, repeatedly leaving Anna to share his bed with Kate, hurting them both terribly. Robert was Theseus. Certainly, after everything that had happened, it should have been more difficult to persuade him to abandon his injured and vulnerable wife. He never should have believed the lies he was told.
Robert carefully read the preparatory instructions sent from headquarters. "Scorpio should be persuaded to work with us. We want 'buy-in'; he'll be easier to control working for reward. You are authorized to offer medical care and information. Under no circumstance at this point mention . . . .": the end of the sentence was blacked out. "Use threats only if the promise of reward fails. Begin with Devane's life. Then with his child's. Scorpio will be less compliant under these circumstances. This should be regarded as a last resort."
Again, Robert was angry. The bastards were prepared to threaten even Robin's life to get their way.
"Agent Scorpio?" The man sitting at the desk stood, offered his hand. "It's an honour to meet you, Sir. You're a legend in the Bureau. New cadets study at least two of your more famous cases—Istanbul and Mexico City. Your solutions and final manoeuvres were always so inventive and elegant."
Robert didn't take the man's hand, just stared at him. "What's happened to my wife? No one will talk to me about her. I don't know if she's alive or dead."
Carlton smiled at him. "I understand, Robert—may I call you Robert? First things first: you've waited long enough to find this out. Your wife is alive."
Robert swayed slightly.
"Please, sit down. Here." Carlton rushed out in front of his desk and helped Robert into a chair. He looked at Robert sympathetically. "You should have been told this earlier. I'm sorry. I'm not sure why my superiors saw fit to keep you in the dark."
Carlton returned to his own seat. "As I said, your wife is alive. But I'm afraid she's not well. She suffered significant head injuries in the explosion. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but she's been in a coma since the accident. To be honest, we don't know her prognosis. Our doctors aren't optimistic that she'll recover anytime soon. If—I'm sorry, when—she regains consciousness, her convalescence will be long. We do know that she stands the best shot of complete recovery if she has the very best care. Which is what we're providing her with, Robert. I promise you."
"I want to see her," Robert demanded. "I should be with her. Take me to her right now."
Carlton shook his head. "I'm sorry, Robert, that isn't possible. She's not here. She's been flown to Europe. She's being treated in one of our military hospitals."
"Tell me where. Get me a flight. I want to be with my wife."
Carlton settled back into his chair. "I can do that for you, certainly. I can arrange for you to be taken to her. But she won't recognize you. She won't open her eyes. She won't squeeze your hand. You can sit by her side, but honestly, Robert, she won't be in the room with your. She's somewhere else."
Robert said nothing.
Carlton sighed. "I have to convey a message from headquarters that I personally find very distasteful. But you understand I'm just following orders." He looked pained. "We've been caring for Anna Devane despite the fact that she's been black boxed by the Bureau."
"As I've been," Robert told him.
Carlton smiled. "Yes. But Robert, your black box has been lifted. Anna's hasn't—yet. You're still a former agent in good standing, a status that carries with it certain privileges. For example, the best medical care. Agent Devane is suspected of having been a double agent. And yet we've flown her to the most highly regarded centre for the treatment of brain injury in the world. Why might we have done that?"
Robert said nothing.
"Because of you. Because of our gratitude toward and our respect for you. And we're prepared to continue caring for Anna if you'd like us to. Of course, we'd want something from you in return. We'd like you to come back and work for the Bureau. We've created a new branch of intelligence, a new program, and we think you'd be a perfect fit. You come back to us, we take care of your wife. We arrange for the very best doctors. We keep you updated on her progress. The moment she regains consciousness, we let you know."
Robert stared at Carlton. "If I say no?"
Carlton shrugged. "Then we fly you to be with your wife, Robert. And you collect her. You arrange for medical care somewhere else. As I said, I find this subject distasteful. But the Bureau wants you to know that it will stop caring for Agent Devane if you decline its invitation."
"So I'm being blackmailed."
Carlton smiled, shook his head. "No, I don't want you to think of it that way. The WSB is offering to reward you for your loyalty. We want to help you. Unfortunately the organization feels no obligation to your wife. You're the key to helping her recover, Robert. The choice is yours: you can have her back now, as a physical shell, or you can take a chance and hope to have her back, well and whole again, later. In the meantime, you help us out."
Robert's head dropped.
"And Robert," Carlton continued, "the WSB wants to give you something further, something we know you'll want, given the hell you've been through for the last six months."
Robert looked up again.
"We've heard whispers that Cesar Faison survived the explosion as well." Carlton looked grim. He was a consummate actor. "The Bureau would like Faison dead, as we suspect you would. He's been a thorn in our side for too long. We can offer you intelligence about his whereabouts as we receive it. And we can promise you the assignment to terminate him when the time comes. We're offering you everything here. I don't see how you can possibly turn us down."
The dream changed again. The Anna who'd forgotten was confused. She'd never experienced sensations like this before. But dreaming Anna had. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Was it conflating 1979 with 1992? She felt her abdomen and back seize, felt a wave of pain wash over her. But this wasn't 1979. Anna remembered the room she'd given birth to Robin in, remembered the kind midwife, her soothing voice, remembered the warmth, the heat of the day. In the dream, Anna's hands were still tied to the bed, but now she could see. The room was white, sterile, cold. She could see two figures, gowned and masked, hovering around her. She felt them guide her legs into stirrups. The pain came over her again.
Robert had taken the offer. He'd joined their new branch of intelligence—an assassination squad. He'd received tantalizing false information about Cesar Faison—that he'd been tracked to Germany, next to Finland, then to Croatia. And he'd received phony updates on Anna's condition—that she was beginning to emerge from her coma, that brain scans were showing positive activity, that she'd moved her hand, her foot. Two years after the accident he was told that she was awake but couldn't speak, didn't seem to recognize anyone from her past (she'd been shown photographs to which she'd shown no response). Robert had demanded to see her but he was told no, the doctors thought it would be too dangerous, could compromise her recovery.
By then he knew that they were feeding him fictions, that he was being manipulated. After five years he told his handlers he didn't want their updates anymore, or their transparently fabricated reports of Faison's movements. After seven years, disgusted with himself and with the work he'd been doing for the Bureau, he'd simply walked away, but not before confronting Carlton. That's when he'd learned it had all been a lie. Anna had never been flown to Europe for treatment. She hadn't been seen by the best doctors. She'd been treated in a second-rate Venezuelan hospital, been given no special care, and simply disappeared one night when her guard fell asleep. They suspected her doctor had taken her somewhere, who knew for what reason. She was still a very beautiful woman. But she was certainly dead by now. Carlton had laughed when he told Robert this. In response, Robert grabbed Carlton around the neck, squeezed, and almost killed him. But before he could, he was stopped. It took four men to pry open Robert's fingers and drag him away from his commanding officer.
He turned his attention back to the file. He found a copy of a short message sent to the hospital where Anna had been kept. "Black box order to be carried out after delivery."
The bastards had planned to kill her all along, Robert realized. Then he wondered, delivery of what? Why had they delayed? He flipped forward in the dossier but found nothing.
Anna heard a small cry. "Robin?" she screamed in her dream. "Robin?" She was sure she'd heard Robin cry. Robin was being taken away from her. She had to get her baby daughter back. She had to fight.
Then there was confusion. She felt hands on her arms, her face, felt herself lashing out, her hands pushing someone away, felt her right hand contacting something hard and soft.
"Mom!" she heard. "It's okay; you're safe. Mom, calm down! Please, Mom, you'll hurt yourself. You're safe here with us. Please, stop it. Stop it now!"
Robert's phone rang and he jumped. He looked; it was Robin, and it was four in the morning. His stomach lurched. "What is it, Sweetheart? Is everything okay?"
Robin told him it wasn't.
Fifteen minutes later he was standing in his daughter's living room. She looked at him, distraught.
"What's going on, Dad?" she asked, her face white, her eyes hollow. "I've never seen Mom like this. We couldn't calm her down. Look what she did to Patrick."
Robert glanced over at his daughter's husband. His eye was already darkening; Robert knew it would look much, much worse in a few hours.
Robert drew Robin in, hugged her. "I don't know what's going on, Luv. I'm sorry I wasn't here to help you. I shouldn't have asked you to take care of her right now. But I promise it will be okay. I promise I'll help her. "
Robin pulled back. "We've given her a mild sedative. I didn't like to do it, but we couldn't get her to relax, couldn't settle her down. She may have fallen asleep again by now. Could you go up and check on her? I'm worried I'll just upset her."
He released his daughter, murmured an apology to Patrick, and headed upstairs to Anna. He entered the guest room, saw her curled up on the bed. She looked asleep. He lowered himself down next to her, wrapped himself around her. He was surprised when she whispered his name. "Robert," she said; "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too," he told her. "Now we move on."