Mind Games

Chapter 30

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all.

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Dr. George Allman peered through the windshield, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, as he maneuvered down the rutted, muddy road. It was pitch-black in this remote section of the bayou, and his Toyota Avalon Touring Sedan was ill equipped to handle the rough road, pitted with patches of muck that threatened to stop him in his tracks. His cell phone buzzed on his seat beside him, and he glanced briefly at the number – it was his office number, which he'd forwarded to his cell phone before he left. Well, it was going to have to wait, he thought; he needed every bit of concentration just to navigate the road. Damn spooks, he thought to himself. Why couldn't Bishop and Marsh meet him somewhere civilized?

With a sigh of relief, he spotted Marsh's Buick Lucerne rental pulled over by the side of the road; Marsh had told him what he was driving. Allman grabbed his cell phone from the seat and stepped out of the vehicle, then pulled the control vest from his trunk, before carefully picking his way through the tall grass by the side of the road. No telling what was hiding in that grass out in the bayou, in the darkness of night. He was halfway to the Buick before he heard Marsh's voice call to him from the edge of the trees. He narrowed his eyes, and barely made out the outline of a figure against a stand of pines. Why in the hell couldn't they sit in the car and talk?

With a sigh, he trudged through the grass, sinking one of his expensive loafers into slime on the way to Marsh's side. He stifled an oath as he stepped up next to the agent. "You guys take this cloak and dagger stuff a little too far. Where's Bishop?"

Marsh smiled and jerked his head toward the dark expanse of forest. "Taking a leak. You brought the apparatus?"

Allman glanced into the blackness under the trees with a shudder. "He sure must like his privacy. There's no way you'd catch me in there." He hefted what looked like an outdoorsman's vest, fitted with pockets. "This is it. Put it on; I'll show you how to use it."

Marsh slid the vest on, and Allman pulled open a tab on a large pocket on the left front. The pocket was actually a flap that swung out, revealing a small video screen. "This is your visual feed. It's tuned to the camera in the denim jacket that we gave Don Eppes. Of course, Agent Tate has the jacket right now, but when and if you break Eppes out, you can have Tate get it back to him. There's obviously not much to see right now – Tate must still have the jacket in his trunk, so the camera isn't picking up anything."

He turned a knob, and the scene switched from blackness to the muted lighting of a residential room. "That's the Eppes living room. All of the cameras we placed in the Eppes household, Don Eppes' apartment, and at the FBI offices are tied in here – just switch the knob to different settings to get them. I'm not sure if you'll need them, but it was an easy matter to program in the settings." He closed the flap, and opened a small one on the top right, pulling out a cord.

He handed it to Marsh. "This is the earpiece for your audio. It will pick up the audio feed from any of the cameras, including the one in Eppes' jacket, so you can hear what's going on around him, as well as see it. The metal button up near your neckline isn't a decoration – it's a mike. It sends a signal directly to the transmitter inside Eppes' head, near his ear. You speak into it, and he'll hear a voice inside his head. It's turned off right now."

He pulled open another large flap on the lower right front of the jacket, and another flap opened. Yet another screen came up, with two displays. "This is the control for the wires in his brain. It's a much simpler version of the master controls we have at Cypress, but it's effective enough. The controls and the display on the right are for his emotional centers – you can adjust the current to ramp up or play down his emotions. The controls on the left are for his thought and decision centers. Generally, when you want him to do something, you want to jam his decision centers and ramp up the negative emotions, while giving him verbal instructions to act. There's a small manual in the inside pocket that outlines the basic settings. When you give this control unit to your man, make sure he studies the manual. If at all possible, let him try out the controls on a small task first, before he has to control Eppes in any vital situation. If you want, you can meet with some of the staff – Wilkes or Ziegler know how to use this better than I do."

Marsh nodded. "Thanks, but I'm still under instructions to keep this covert. Do Wilkes or Ziegler know that your orders have been coming from me?"

Allman looked offended. "Of course not. That would violate procedure for plausible deniability. You made that clear – I haven't deviated from the original order."

Marsh grunted. "Good." He pulled off the vest and carefully set it on the ground behind him.

Allman shot an apprehensive look into the darkness under the trees. "Bishop sure is taking his time. What in the hell's he doing in there?"

Marsh smiled. "Same thing you're going to be doing."

Allman turned to look at him, puzzled, but had no time to respond. There was a loud report, then a split-second of searing pain in his chest, and he dropped with a sick-sounding thud, his exploded artery gushing blood through the bullet hole in his chest.

Marsh stepped back, carefully wiped the gun; and holding it by a handkerchief, moved over to the car and opened the trunk. Joe Bishop lay inside, already dead, wrapped in large plastic bags. One hand was extended, and Marsh carefully applied Bishop's fingertips and palm to the gun – it was Bishop's service revolver, registered to him. Marsh deposited the gun on the front seat, and then stepped back and retrieved the vest, stooping to check Allman's pulse. Dead. He could hear the buzz of a cell phone vibrating in Allman's pocket. Someone was apparently trying to reach the doctor, and Marsh wondered to himself if it was the CIA – had they already made the connection to Allman? It wouldn't matter now.

He drove back out of the swamp access road, leaving Allman and his car there. About three miles away, he tossed the gun and Bishop's cell phone in the tall grass next to a bridge over a small river – it would look as if they'd intended to be thrown into the water, and that Bishop had missed. With any luck, the CIA would put a GPS trace on Bishop's cell phone, and find both the phone and his gun. They would also undoubtedly find Allman's body the same way – through the GPS chip in his phone. When they did the ballistics, they'd match the bullet in Allman's chest to Bishop's weapon. Of course, Bishop himself would be nowhere to be found; he would have seemingly fled the country. In reality, however, his body would be submerged, deep in the Mississippi river.

The only two men, other than Jack and Pierre Montreaux, who knew that Marsh was involved were now gone. The Montreaux men wouldn't talk. Without the Eppes brothers' testimony, the government had no case against them – not for treason, not even with respect to the drug charges. Jack Montreaux would keep his mouth shut, and he and his cousin Pierre would walk. Of course, the two Iranians who had been apprehended would also remain silent, or face not only death from their own countrymen, but dishonor. The only loose end now was Don Eppes. If they found the wiring and he was cleared of his brother's murder and allowed to testify in the drug trial, he could become a threat – not to Marsh directly – but to the Montreaux men. If that happened, the Montreaux cousins might change their minds about talking about the Iran deal. So, for Marsh to be truly safe, Don Eppes needed to be eliminated. That, however, would be work for another day. He had time; he had access to the federal court schedules, and the Montreaux hearings were at least three weeks away.

A half hour later, Marsh successfully rid himself of Joe Bishop, sliding the agent's weighted body into the murky waters of the Mississippi outside of New Orleans. He then made arrangements for the vest – he placed it in a duffel, and stashed it in a downtown bus station locker, hiding the key in a potted plant near the terminal. He then got back on I-10 toward his rented condo in Perdido Key. At about two hours into the drive, around one a.m., he got a call from Mike Tate.

"Bishop here," said Marsh. "What's the report?"

Tate's voice sounded tinny over the line. "The good news is; they didn't do any X-rays on Eppes. I got a look at his chart – according to his file there were no films or scans of any kind. They diagnosed Eppes with shock, and are keeping him overnight as a precaution. The bad news is; they did assign him a neurological specialist – his name's Janovic. He may decide to take some X-rays before they release him."

"Is Eppes talking?"

"That, I couldn't tell you – he came to, apparently, but the two agents in charge have been with him ever since. They admitted him – he's in a room but one of them is with him at all times. I can't get close enough."

"Get a bug in Janovic's office."

"I just did that. He left for the night – I did it as soon as he was gone."

"All right. You're on duty until Eppes is out of that hospital. We'll need to make sure they don't take any scans before they release him back into custody. Call me if anything comes up."

He snapped the phone shut, and two hours later, he pulled into the parking lot of a small bar that straddled the Florida-Alabama line, just a few miles from his condominium. It was three a.m., but the place was still loaded with people, ranging from the local rednecks to the well-heeled vacationers who rented the Gulf-front condominiums. He hooked up with a young woman – sufficiently inebriated to not remember the time clearly – he'd plant an earlier time in her head before the night was over. She would be his alibi for the night – if he ever needed one.

Later, he left her sleeping in bed and stood on the balcony of his condominium, savoring a scotch, watching the early morning moonlight glint off the water of the Gulf. He still had it, he reflected. He'd been out of the field for years, but it was in his blood, instinctive. He smiled to himself, and raised his glass in a silent toast. He was invincible. Tomorrow, he would report in to Khalid, and open discussions for a new plan to get them their weapons technology.

Really, as he thought about it, with the deaths of Dr. Eppes, Allman, and Bishop, the pressure was now off. Even if they found the wiring in Don Eppes' head, anything suspicious would lead back to Joe Bishop. And if they hadn't found the wiring, to be safe, he could still eliminate Eppes, but in that case, he could afford to take his time. He glanced back at the young, nubile creature in his bed. A few days on the Gulf Coast wouldn't hurt a thing. He drained the last of his scotch, and headed back to bed.

The CIA courier in New Orleans got the call early in the morning from an agent who identified himself as Joe Bishop, and packed quickly, enough clothing for a week. As directed, he headed for the bus terminal, found the appropriate potted plant, and retrieved a key from the dirt. He then located the locker, took the duffel bag that he found inside, and carried it to his car. He didn't look inside – it was not part of the instructions. He'd done a courier drop before – it usually involved transporting something confidential enough that the agency didn't want to send it by commercial air, but not big or important enough that it warranted a private agency jet.

He grabbed a coffee and a couple of beignets, and hit the road. He was going to need the caffeine - it was a long drive to L.A.

Don sat on the edge of the bed, numbly listening to his discharge instructions, waiting for the nurse to leave so he could put on the orange jumpsuit that lay on the bed next to him. They had taken his bloodstained clothes, and he would travel to the MDC, the Metropolitan Detention Center, looking like the criminal that he was. He was beyond caring – they could lock him up for good for all he cared – they could, they should send him to death row. He deserved it.

Finally, the nurse stopped talking. Moments later, Don was trudging down the hallway in the orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front of him, an LAPD officer's hand on his arm. Rogan and Masters, his companions during the night, had disappeared.

Moving like a zombie, he was ushered outside to a prison van, through a side door, so the good citizens in the lobby wouldn't have to see him, wouldn't have to lay eyes on such a low, disgusting example of humanity. Brother-killer, scum of the earth. He climbed into the van, sat, and closed his eyes, dimly aware of the sound of a helicopter over his head, of the early morning traffic noises around him. Sounds of ordinary life – something he'd had once. The van rolled away, and was keenly aware that he was leaving that life behind him forever.

Charlie stirred blearily, as he sensed movement around him. Quietly, quickly, two hospital orderlies were shifting his IVs from a stand to his bed, and disengaging the lock that held the wheeled bed in place. They began to push, and he felt a sense of momentary vertigo as the bed rolled forward. Agent Cooperman stepped forward into his line of vision. "Doctor Eppes, we're moving you to another hospital for your own safety. It's a short helicopter ride, just relax."

The instruction was unnecessary; Charlie was too weak, and too groggy from grief and medication to want to move, even if he could. Instead, he lay there as the hallway swept past him, feeling as if he was traveling down a tunnel, leaving his old life behind him. It had been so safe and warm and simple – Don had been right, he never should have taken the undercover assignment. Things had gone so horribly wrong, and although he couldn't know for sure what had triggered his brother's insane attack, he couldn't shake the suspicion that it had been a result of Don's head injury during the accident – an accident that never would have happened if only he'd listened, and stayed in L.A.

Deep inside, however, Charlie feared that the accident had nothing to do with Don's attack. If the head injury had been causing Don to behave irrationally, he would have been acting that way toward everyone. The cold fact was that Don had been behaving normally around everyone except Charlie. He had to face the shocking truth that the brother he loved apparently hated him so much that he would throw everything away – his career, his freedom, possibly his own life - just to be rid of him. The dark thoughts traveled with Charlie as he was whisked down the hallway. It made no difference to him where they moved him - no matter where he went, he was doomed to their company, to his own internal hell.

As the helicopter lifted into the morning sunlight, he lay on his gurney like a dead man, oblivious to the prison van far below, making its way out into the L.A. traffic.

End Chapter 30

A/N: Next up – the team gets a briefing, and Alan makes his appearance…