Mind Games

Chapter 17

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Because you've been such wonderful readers and reviewers, a bonus chapter to tide you over until Friday...

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The guard at the air station entrance gave a curt wave, and Charlotte steered her Cadillac through the gate and onto the base, breathing a mental sigh of relief. Her charge had just taken a huge leap to safety – Charlie wouldn't be entirely safe until he was at his destination, but upon entering the NAS, his odds had improved dramatically. They had finished the ride in silence; the accident point was only a little over ten minutes away from the airfield, and Charlotte made for the far end of the base, towards a hangar with a small jet outside, without a word from Charlie.

She pulled in front of the hangar, and glanced across at him sympathetically. He looked anxious and miserable, and she knew he was worried about his brother. "Let's get you inside," she said, "while they prep your flight."

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him climb out of the vehicle, stiffly. He was limping – in the rush to get him away she hadn't noticed that before. "Maybe we should get someone to check you out," she said, as she moved beside him, guiding him toward the hangar entrance.

"I'm okay," he mumbled, noting for the first time that her Southern accent had disappeared. "Just banged up a little." In fact, his right knee had met the bottom of the dash, and his right arm had hit the door during the accident – both were badly bruised, but he was too worried about Don, too shaken by the events, to have any thought of dealing with them. Adding to his discomfort was Charlotte, and the crushing guilt and shame he felt over their doings last Friday. She was the last person he would talk to, even if he felt like talking.

Inside, Charlotte stepped aside to confer with a man who seemed to be in charge, although he was wearing neither a suit nor a uniform, just a polo shirt, slacks and a nondescript navy windbreaker. They conferred briefly, then she nodded at the man, who moved away to talk to another man in a crisp flight jumpsuit. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw Charlotte suddenly reach for and pull out her cell phone. She listened briefly, then spoke a word or two and hung up, and stepped back to Charlie, who stood there, dejectedly clutching his battered computer case.

She took his arm and pulled him aside. "We need to talk," she said, continuing until they were in a corner of the hangar, out of earshot of the personnel heading in and out of the doors. Outside, Charlie could hear the whine of jet engines.

"First," said Charlotte, "Ian just called – he couldn't say too much, but he told me that he and Don are on their way to the hospital – Ian is in the ambulance with him, and he said Don just came to, briefly. He went out again, but the fact that he woke is a good sign. The main thing is, they are safely away from the accident site. Joe Bishop called Ian right before they left, and they're arranging for Don to be transferred to a place called Cypress Institute, just north of New Orleans – they're famous for leading edge treatment of head injuries, among other things, and they are a private facility with high security. Don will be in the best hands possible, and as soon as he's healed enough to travel, they'll make sure he joins you. They're taking good care of him – you don't need to worry."

She studied his face. Charlie had seemed to relax just a bit at the news, but he still looked upset. "Second," Charlotte continued, "about last Friday. I want to clear up a few things. Ian told me you were pretty rattled afterward -,"

Charlie held up a hand, stopping her. "That's okay," he said, "I really don't want to talk about that."

"No, listen to me, Charlie." Charlotte's voice was earnest, and Charlie reluctantly turned to look up at her.

She took a breath, and looked him in the eyes. "I probably won't see you after this, and I want you to know what really happened. First of all, you did not snort cocaine. It was prescription drug called Adderall. It produces an "up" sensation similar to cocaine, but not nearly as strong. I carried it so I could pretend to hang with Montreaux's drug crowd, without getting so high that I couldn't function." She smiled at him. "I thought you might like to know that you didn't ingest an illegal drug."

"Secondly," she continued, "and more importantly, nothing happened in bed that night. I did sleep next to you, but you were completely out." She blushed and dropped her gaze, then lifted her gorgeous blue eyes again. "As a matter of fact, I wouldn't have minded if something did happen, and just between you and me, I tried a kiss, to see where it would go. I had no idea you were seeing someone seriously – Ian told me afterward. You were, actually, a perfect gentlemen." Her smile widened a bit. "In fact, you sat on the bed next to me, took my face in both hands, looked at me very seriously, and told me you weren't that kind of guy. Then you dropped like a rock – I think you were out before your head hit the pillow."

Charlie was staring at her with his mouth open, and he managed to close it and mustered a weak grin, and flushed to the roots of his hair. 'So much for the dashing undercover agent,' he thought to himself, but secretly, he was greatly relieved. He hadn't betrayed Amita, after all. "Thanks," he said quietly. "For telling me, I mean."

Charlotte smiled. "I have another confession," she said. "I intentionally pushed the liquor on you that night, including a couple of drinks laced with grain alcohol – I thought the sooner I could get you out of there the better. I figured you'd be safe in my room. It really was my fault that you ended up there – and ended up drunk."

Charlotte's expression turned more serious, and she said, "You did one heck of a job in there, Charlie, especially for your first time, but it's not over yet. I know you're worried about your brother, but you still have a job to do – you need to stay in one piece so you can report out, and they'll eventually need you to testify in the treason hearings. Just be patient – they'll get Don back to you. You'll be traveling without me – I'm heading in to Washington for my briefing, but they're taking you somewhere else."

She hesitated, then suddenly leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm gonna steal that kiss, now," she said. "All I can say is; she's one lucky girl. Good luck, Charlie Archer, or whatever your name is." She winked at him, and walked away.

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Don groaned, cracked open his eyes, then shut them immediately, wincing as the muted fluorescent light hit his eyes. His head was pounding; it felt as if someone was pressing on the left side of it with the handle of a shovel. He carefully tried again, squinting against the light, and got a group of images, which he managed to compile as the inside of a hospital room. He was lying in a bed, and Ian was sitting next to him. He closed his eyes, frowned, and tried again, this time turning his head slightly to focus on Ian. "What happened?"

Ian was studying him, calmly. "You were in an accident. You have a moderate concussion – you've been in and out. We brought you to University Hospital, and they choppered you over to a place called Cypress Institute – they specialize in spinal and head trauma cases. That's where you are now."

Don blinked and closed his eyes, trying to process the information. Snatches of it were coming back to him – the undercover operation, driving away from Montreaux's house – now the recollections were bursting back, popping like mental popcorn. The trip to the airfield, the highway, talking to Ian on the cell phone…His eyes snapped open suddenly, and he tried to sit up. "Charlie," he gasped. "Where's Charlie?"

Ian put a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him back onto the pillow. "Charlie's fine. Agent 1 got him out of there – she just called me. He's already in the air, on the way to a safe house."

Don blinked. "She?"

Ian smiled. "I guess it doesn't matter now, we're all out. Charlotte Sumner was Agent 1."

Don processed that for a minute, groggily. "Charlie wasn't hurt?"

The corner of Ian's mouth lifted, as he recalled Charlie's computer case, and the miracle of his escape. "No. He walked away from the accident – he might have had a bruise or two, but otherwise he was fine. He didn't want to leave you – we made him go."

Don closed his eyes and sighed. "Thank God for that."

"I'll tell you the rest later," Ian said. "The doctor's already sent you for some scans – he's reading them now. We'll get you healed up, and as soon as you're released, they're going to send you to the safe house with Charlie. You can relax – security here's tight as a drum, and Bishop put a couple of extra guys on your room. Montreaux's in custody, anyway."

Don frowned – he was drifting off again, and he fought to stay awake. "What about – the visitors – the guys - Charlie saw?" He managed to get the words out; then closed his eyes as he waited for the response.

Ian's face clouded. "We didn't apprehend anyone else. They must have cleared out as soon as they became suspicious, before the tactical team could get there. Charlie's going to have to do his best to give a description." He paused, waiting, but there was nothing but silence. "Don."

There was no response; Don was out again. A slight frown line appeared between Ian's normally expressionless eyes, and he settled in to wait.

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J. Scott Marsh faced Dr. George Allman across the desk in his office, as the doctor tented his fingers, and spoke. "I am assuming that this is another Class X."

Marsh nodded. "Yes. We'll want the usual deniability by the agency. Director Conaghan officially knows nothing about this, and I, in fact, am not really here. Agent Bishop actually gave the order to have Archer sent here, and he will be the Agency's official contact, but he is not to know what you're doing. There are others here, also, agents, guards – none of them should know. We will keep the usual arrangement – you will limit your communications on Archer's true progress to a single point of contact, namely me. I am assuming that his head injury will not keep you from entering him into the program."

Allman pursed his lips. "No, it's a moderate concussion – it will delay us two days, but the head injuries will actually help us hide the incisions. For the auditory module, we can go in through the slight cut in his scalp, above his left ear. He won't be entirely healed when we begin the process, but the surgeries are truly minimally invasive; I don't expect an issue. I will tell Bishop and the others, however, that his concussion is more serious than we thought – that he will require some surgery and at least two weeks, maybe more, of rehabilitation. We will use that time to reprogram him."

"The less time, the better. Joan Simms only took two weeks, if I remember right."

Allman shrugged. "It depends on the situation, and the emotions involved. If the subject feels strongly about the situation or the target, we can progress much faster. Joan hated her husband; it wasn't a stretch to reprogram her to kill him."

Marsh frowned. "I have no idea what kind of relationship Archer has with the target. What happens if the subject truly cares about the intended target?"

"It doesn't matter if the feelings are positive or negative, as long as they're strong. We can twist them – love can be converted to hatred, easily. Where we encounter difficulty, is when the subject is indifferent to the situation or intended target. Think of a stream of water, approaching a fork. The right side of the fork represents positive emotions like love, and the left, negative, like hate. Our techniques are like a water gate at the fork – we flip the gate to channel the emotion to the side we want. If the water is gushing, we can generate strong feelings either way, love or hate. If the stream is just a trickle, all we can manage is mild like or dislike. Of course, there are other techniques we can use to make that indifference grow into hate, but they take longer. I need a minimum of two weeks if Don Archer feels strongly about his target. If he is indifferent then I will need at least a month."

Marsh frowned. "And how do you assess that, without tipping him off?"

"It's easy enough to do – we show him pictures, map his responses with brain scans. We would need access to his personal history – we would want pictures of the intended target, of people close to him to use as a baseline."

Marsh said thoughtfully. "Joe Bishop, his handler, knows his real name."

Allman grinned. "You CIA guys are so secretive; you're in the same organization and still keep info from each other. I can tell Bishop that I need the information for rehabilitation reasons, to test Archer's memory and emotional responses." He paused. "Can I ask why you're programming him – who are you after?"

"A man named Charles Archer," said Marsh smoothly. "He and Don Archer are brothers in real life. Charles has become a national security threat – we think he is the key to a terrorist plot. He has gone into hiding, and we think that Don will be the only one that he'll trust enough to contact. We need Don to find him and eliminate him." He paused. "Of course, like all of these jobs, it must be kept highly secret – even top officials at the CIA won't know. That way, if any suspicions are aroused in the public sector, they can deny with impunity." He smiled. "But then, we've been through this before, haven't we, my friend?"

Allman smiled. "Yes indeed. And even though our efforts will go unsung, I will sleep better at night knowing I eliminated a threat to our nation's security."

"So will I," murmured Marsh, with a smile. "So will I."

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End Chapter 17