Mind Games

Chapter 20

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks so much for your reviews; I very truly and humbly appreciate them.

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Don took a deep breath as the technician wheeled him into place again in front of the screen, and then positioned the thermal imaging scanner over his head. He'd eaten lunch and had fallen asleep afterward for about an hour before Jon Wilkes had appeared and woken him, asking him if he wanted to try another session. At the time, all he'd wanted was to continue his nap; he was unaccountably tired, but he also wanted to get the hell out of Cypress Institute and get to where Charlie was. Joe Bishop had assured him that Charlie was fine, but Don was counting the days until his release. If getting out sooner meant pushing his therapy sessions a little, so be it.

Wilkes' voice came over the speakers as the technician left the room, his voice upbeat, pleasant, already familiar. "Okay, Don, we're going to start in again." The thermal imagining scanner began its soft buzzing noise, and the screen flickered on, blank, intensely blue. It flickered again, and an image of Charlie came up on the screen – a publicity shot from one of his book signings. Don hadn't seen that picture before, and he wasn't entirely sure it was one of Charlie's best; the smile was bit forced, the expression a bit cocky.

Wilkes looked at Mike. "Give me some low level negative – irritation." Mike nodded and reached for the controls, and Wilkes pushed the button in for the microphone. "Don, tell me how you feel about your brother."

Don shirted uncomfortably in the chair, feeling inexplicably irritated. "Charlie? Well, he's a pretty unique guy. I already told you, he's a genius when it comes to mathematics. We didn't get along too well when we were younger – there was a pretty big age difference, and we just didn't get each other. We started working together a few years ago, though, and it's been good since then. I think we've gotten a lot closer."

'Liar,' a voice whispered inside his head. Don blinked in confusion; then frowned.

There was a brief silence, and then Wilkes' voice came over the speaker, his tone reproving. "Don, we told you at the beginning of these sessions to think of this as psychotherapy. Everything we talk about here is confidential, and you need to be entirely frank with us. If you aren't, the scans won't match your responses, and we won't be able to pass you. If you don't pass, it means no more fieldwork – maybe no more work for the FBI. We aren't here to judge you – just be truthful."

"I thought I was," protested Don.

"Okay, let me ask it this way. On a scale of one to ten, with one being hate, ten being love, and 5 being neutral, rate how you feel about Charlie."

"Oh, uh, it's probably a nine. I mean I love the guy, but he does drive me nuts sometimes – I don't know if I've quite reached a ten," Don said with a wry grin.

'You're such a liar. Be honest. You know he's an egotistical jerk,' the voice sounded in his head, and Don's grin faded. He frowned, and rubbed his forehead.

Wilkes looked at Mike. "Ramp it up a little – baseline anger and loathing - a little lower than the original settings for Marko Stiles." He pushed in the button for the microphone again. "Don, I want you to sit there for a moment, and concentrate on Charlie's picture, and think, really think about how you feel at this moment."

Don looked up at the screen, uncertainty on his face. There was only one reason Jon could be pushing this, questioning him, Don thought – his answers obviously weren't matching his brain scans. The image of Charlie's face filled the screen, the eager dark eyes, the brilliant smile, an image that ordinarily would have brought an answering smile to Don's lips. All he could feel, however, was anger, and disgust. He sat there, staring, trying desperately to conjure up something positive. He could hear the voice in his head - 'Face it, you never liked him, you always hated him. You put up with him for Mom and Dad's sakes – you've tolerated him for so long, you almost believe your own lies. Oh, you probably loved him once, when you were younger, but years of his selfishness and ego-trips destroyed that. You hate him, and you're lying to them, just like you lie to the rest of the world, just like you lie to yourself.'

Don could feel shock and confusion, love and hate, affection and disgust, whirling around inside of him; the emotions so strong, they made his head spin. Along with them was mounting panic. 'Quit lying,' the voice said, and Don shook his head and closed his eyes, putting his hands to the sides of his head, as if to cover his ears. "Shut up," he whispered.

Jon's voice came through the speaker. "Don, are you all right?"

Don was breathing heavily, and he could feel nausea rising. "Uh, no, I'm actually not," he said. His voice sounded ragged. "I think I'm a little too tired for this."

"All right, no problem," replied Wilkes. "We'll continue tomorrow." He released the button and looked at Mike. "Remove the picture, and take his anger level down at the same time." He looked thoughtfully out at the man hunched in the wheelchair. "This is going to take a little longer than I thought – he's fighting it. We'll get there, though – it may take us the full two weeks, but we'll get there."

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Ian Edgerton strode down the hallway, returning from lunch and a quick telephone conversation with Charlie on the grounds outside the building. He'd given the anxious young man some reassurance, had told him that Don's therapy was progressing well. Charlie in turn had given him an update; apparently, one of the Iranian suspects had been apprehended trying to cross the border into Mexico, his picture had been emailed to the safe house, and Charlie had made a positive ID. One down, three to go. Ian privately thought that they had a chance with the Iranians, but the fourth man was going to be a lot tougher to find. His American features were so average a pencil sketch would get them nothing. It was too generic – without a photo, those blandly good-looking features could belong to hundreds of dark-haired American men.

As he turned down the hallway to head toward a waiting area, he was surprised to see Don Eppes being wheeled down the hallway, and he glanced at his watch as he altered his course and strode toward him. Don couldn't have spent more than a few minutes in his therapy session, and he looked pale, ill. Ian came up alongside the wheelchair, as they reached Don's room. "Hey, you okay?"

Don swallowed. He looked shaken, uncertain. "Yeah," he said unsteadily. "Just got tired all of a sudden. I'll be okay."

The technician looked at Ian, as the security guard outside the room rose from his chair and held the door open for them. "We've got the doc coming down to check him out, but we think he just tried to do too much today. He needs some rest."

Ian nodded; his face expressionless except for a tiny frown line between his eyes. He started to follow the technician into the room, but the man held up a hand. "Not now, please," he said, "the patient needs to rest. You can visit him later."

Ian halted where he was, and the door slowly swung closed.

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J. Scott Marsh turned down the hallway at CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia, and fixed a neutral expression on his face as he saw his bosses. His immediate superior, Mark Lewis, was conferring with the top man, Director James Conaghan, and they were headed right toward him. As they drew closer, Mark Lewis looked up in surprise. "Scott – I thought you were on vacation."

Marsh smiled with the just the right touch of sadness. He'd actually been back in town for five days, but hadn't returned to work until two days ago – he'd been establishing an alibi. "I was – a close family friend died. I came back for the funeral."

They exchanged handshakes, and Lewis and Conaghan both murmured condolences. "That's too bad," said Lewis. "You were where? Are you planning to go back?"

"Pensacola," lied Marsh. He had, in fact, flown into Pensacola, and driven the three hours to New Orleans. "Actually, I'm not sure what I'll do now about my vacation time. I won't be doing a two-week stretch, as I originally planned – I may take a short trip here or there, instead. I'll let you know." He nodded at Conaghan, as he moved off down the hall. "Good to see you, sir."

Lewis looked after him and said to Conaghan. "Good man, that Marsh. He's a hard worker. He's got good knowledge of the Middle East."

Conaghan grunted an affirmation. "I've heard that." To himself, he thought, "We probably could have used him on the Iranian weapons deal," but he said nothing. Even Lewis didn't know the particulars of that case. That knowledge had been restricted to the heads of the CIA, FBI and the DEA, and the three fixers, Joe Bishop, Brian Rogan, and Bill Masters. Of all of those men, only Conaghan himself and Joe Bishop were CIA.

Even the CIA staff treating Don Eppes at Cypress Institute had no knowledge of the operation that the Eppes men had just completed, although that staff had enough clearance for it. No, thought Conaghan, there was no need to let others in at this point. With Charlie Eppes at a safe house, soon to testify, they would have what they needed to stymie this particular attempt, although unfortunately they didn't appear to have the top men behind the plot in custody. Two of the Iranians were still at large, as was their mysterious American contact.

What they really needed was for Montreaux to crack, Conaghan reflected, as he continued down the hall, half-listening to Lewis. The man was denying any knowledge of the weapons deal, and even of his cocaine operation, saying it had been run by the Clemenceaus, who were rumored to be hiding out in the bayous around New Orleans. However, they had enough on the cocaine operation to get Montreaux on those charges. They had tried to use that as leverage to get Montreaux to give up his contacts for the weapons deal, but to no avail – he refused to talk. Charlie Eppes was their ace in the hole – he could put all of them away, if only they could find them all. The unknown American was the key – and Conaghan wondered, not for the first time, who he was, and where he could be.

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J. Scott Marsh proceeded down the hall to his office, nodding at the receptionist on the way in, and made his way to his desk. He sat down behind it and thought for a moment, his minding running over what he was trying to accomplish, and what could go wrong. Many things, he decided, although if his plot went as planned, if the Cypress agents did their jobs, the outcome would be almost flawless. Charlie Eppes would have been murdered by his own brother, and Don Eppes would be imprisoned. Once he was there, they would arrange for an 'escape,' and Don Eppes would vanish, never to be seen again. Yes, it was almost flawless – but not quite. If for any reason Don Eppes underwent a physical exam that included X-rays, the physician would find the wiring and the modules that had been implanted in him. It wouldn't take much of a leap to tie that back to his time in Cypress Institute, and from there to the man who had ordered it done, namely himself. Only two men knew that he was behind the request to send Eppes to Cypress Institute – Joe Bishop, and Dr. Allman. As far as the CIA knew, Joe Bishop was the one who had requested Eppes' transfer to Cypress Institute, but if Bishop found out that Eppes had been the recipient of advanced brainwashing techniques, he'd be quick to confess, and tell Conaghan that Marsh had suggested the transfer. It was obvious; Bishop had to go.

What was less clear was what to do with Allman. Dr. Allman had directed clandestine brainwashing operations before, most of them without Conaghan's knowledge. The doctor knew that it was part of his job to deny any knowledge of such operations if they ever came to be public knowledge – that specific requirement of his job was designed to protect the CIA Director from prosecution. If the inquiry came from the Director himself, though, it would be another story – Allman might decide that he needed to come clean. The risk was too great – Allman would need to go, too, eventually, but not until after Charlie Eppes was dead. He and his men would be needed until that happened.

There was no doubt - they were still needed. The first thing Marsh had done upon finding out the Eppes' true identities was to hire a private agency to watch Charlie's Craftsman home in L.A., to see if they had taken him there. It had become obvious after a few days that they'd taken the target somewhere else, obviously to a safe house – the Craftsman remained unoccupied. Charlie could be anywhere in the country. Marsh had cancelled the surveillance, and had let the plan proceed. There was no other way now – he was committed – he would have to let Don Eppes complete the job. The hard part – finding a way to get him to Cypress Institute and to have him turned – was nearly over. The only remaining problem would be cleaning up the two loose ends.

Perhaps they could both be dealt with at the same time, thought Marsh, if he were smart about it. However, first things first. Don Eppes was now five days into his 'therapy,' and according to Allman, was close to being broken – to be made to believe that he hated his brother. A few more days, Allman had told him that morning, and Don would be convinced that he wanted him dead.

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The breakthrough came a few days later, a little over one week into Don's therapy sessions. Wilkes, Korb, and Jamison had worked patiently, relentlessly over the preceding days, slowly ramping up the intensity of the artificial hatred, bombarding Eppes with images of Charlie while filling his brain with electrical impulses that induced feelings of loathing. The barrage was constant; even at night in Don's sleep a speaker was assigned to transmit words of hatred into the module in his head. Wilkes had to admit, he'd never seen a subject fight so hard – but the intensity of Don's feelings for his brother would prove to be his undoing – once they managed to convert him, those feelings would be just as strong, only manifesting themselves as hatred, instead of love.

As a precaution, they'd limited visits by Joe Bishop and the agent who they still knew as Ian Crocker out of concern that Don would describe his sessions in detail to them. They needn't have worried – apparently, Eppes was ashamed of his impulses, reluctant to admit even to himself that he was feeling hatred toward his brother. Instead, he let it fester inside, feeding his own feelings of self-doubt. On that morning, one week after they'd started therapy, they faced a man who had been shaken to his foundations, who was on the verge of breaking. That morning, they were going for it – no more mediocre settings of anger and irritation. Allman had given them approval to induce all-out rage.

Even before they started, Don Eppes sat in the wheelchair, clutching the arms, his body tight. Wilkes knew that he dreaded the sessions. Truthfully, Eppes no longer needed a wheelchair; he'd been doing physical therapy in the afternoons and had regained most of his strength. The wheelchair was designed to keep the patient's head in the proper position for scanning however, so they'd left it in place. As they powered up the screen, Jon Wilkes could see the image of Don's brain light up with the negative emotions associated with fear – apprehension, dread.

He pushed the button for the microphone, and spoke into it. "Okay, Don, we're going to begin." The screen flickered and an image of Charlie appeared, and simultaneously, Mike Korb applied current to the appropriate leads in Eppes' brain. The image on Don's brain scan began to change – color disappearing in some regions, reappearing in others as the feeling of hatred took hold.

Wilkes continued. "Don, yesterday, we talked about your reluctance to admit how you really feel about Charlie, and we speculated that you might be ashamed of those feelings, and of how it might appear to your father. I asked you to think about that over the evening."

Don swallowed hard, clenching the arms of the wheelchair as he looked at Charlie's picture. He had to admit, he felt nothing but disgust every time he saw his picture. 'Look at him,' whispered the voice inside his head. 'Wouldn't you just like to put your hands around his neck? You've been the good son, trying to keep peace in the family by pretending to like him. But truthfully, would Dad even care? How do you know he doesn't despise him, too, and doesn't want to admit it? Maybe Dad's tired of being his caretaker. Charlie is selfish, has always been selfish. Even if you did admit you hated him, Dad wouldn't care - in fact, maybe it would give him the courage to make his own break from that soul-sucking little bastard.'

"Yeah," said Don, his voice unsteady. "I thought about it."

"And?"

"He can be pretty selfish."

"Start ramping up," said Wilkes to Korb. He pushed the button and spoke into the microphone. "You know he is. It's okay to admit it."

Don could feel anger, hot and black, beginning to spiral inside him. "He just uses my Dad," he said, his voice rising. "My Dad ends up doing all the cooking, most of the cleaning. He works too, he goes to school, and then he comes home and keeps house for Charlie." ' He uses you, too,' whispered the voice in his head. Charlie's face wavered on the screen, the expression changing – the innocence in his brother's eyes becoming devious, the light-hearted smile, cold and calculating.

"He uses me, too," Don said.

"Bingo," said Jamison, his voice coming over the speaker from the isolation booth. "I just got a direct repeat – the first one."

Wilkes nodded, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "We're closing in. Ramp it all the way up, Mike, and I'll make a printout. I want to try something." He depressed the microphone button. "Look at him, Don, and tell me how you feel."

Don was shaking with anger now, breathing heavily, rage swirling through him. The words were on the tip of his tongue – he hated him, he hated him – but somewhere deep inside, a voice was telling him no, he didn't – he loved him, and if he admitted that he hated him aloud, that love would vanish. He groaned with frustration, sweat rolling off his brow.

Wilkes had snatched the printout, and dashed out of the control booth with the printout and another he had pulled from the file. He flew downstairs, burst into the room and knelt in front of Don, who sat rigidly, trembling in the chair, his jaw clenched, looking as though he was about to explode. They were at a critical point, Wilkes knew – Don couldn't physically sustain that level of rage for long – he would stroke out. He shoved two printouts in front of him and spoke urgently. "Don, look at this – I know you're fighting the reality that you truly hate him – but you need to see this. One of these scans is your brain's reaction to the image of Charlie, taken just now, and the other is your reaction to Marko Stiles. Look at them, Don, they're identical."

Don was staring at the pictures, agony on his face, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. "No," he whispered.

Wilkes put on a sympathetic expression. "I know it's hard for someone of your character to admit, Don, but brain scans don't lie. Look at them – you know it's true. It's not your fault you were born into the same family as him – in fact, from what I understand about him; a good person should hate him. It's okay to say it."

'Say it,' whispered the voice inside Don's head. 'Say it – feel the freedom, the release, from finally admitting it. You hate him, more than anything on this earth.'

"You're right - I hate him," Don rasped, shaking, his face going dark with rage. He looked up at the screen at Charlie's image, his eyes filled with loathing. "I hate him."

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End Chapter 20

A/N: Charlie shows up again next chapter...