Mind Games

Chapter 35

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: I'm back…this one's a little shorter, but I'll try to make up for my absence with another bonus chapter this weekend.

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J. Scott Marsh stood underneath the pier in the darkness, and listened to the wash of the Pacific. It was February, and the sun still set early – he could see the faintest of red on the horizon, which vanished as he watched.

He'd arrived in L.A. that afternoon via Vegas, and had gone first to the health club where the CIA courier had stashed the vest that Allman had given him, the one containing the controls for the wiring in Don Eppes' head. Marsh walked in as though he belonged to the club, headed down to the locker room, and using the key the courier had sent him, removed the duffel bag containing the vest. No one gave him a second look. In the car, he examined it for a moment. In L.A., he was within range of Eppes – he could conceivably turn the controllers on, speak to him, manipulate his mind with the touch of a dial. The thought was gratifying, the sense of power tantalizing, but it was not the time.

He proceeded to drive to another health club, where he actually registered as a member under a false name, and re-stashed the duffel, applying his own tamper-proof lock to the locker. He'd then contacted the CIA operative, Mike Tate, and told him to meet him underneath the pier at 8:00 p.m., sharp, and to come with the denim jacket that Eppes had worn during the attack. Marsh was there now, waiting.

He saw the dark figure from his position behind a piling, and knew it was Tate. The man moved as though out for a stroll, but no one would be strolling under the pier at this time of night, no one else would move with the trained alertness, the confidence of a CIA field agent, other than Tate. Marsh spoke from the piling. "Did you bring the jacket?"

Tate whirled, trying to see him in the darkness, and Marsh said, "Relax. It's just me. Stork Hannah Five Zero Dog Niner." He spoke Tate's code phrase and stepped out, hands up, empty; a peaceful gesture.

Tate did relax, and moved closer. He lifted a bag, and pulled out a dark colored jacket to demonstrate, then stuffed it back inside. "Yeah, it's here."

Marsh could see his face now, faintly illuminated by pier lights reflecting off the water.

Tate looked from side to side; then eased next to him. "I have news. I spent some time at the hospital and got my hands on Dr. Janovic's surgery schedule for the next two weeks. Don Eppes is scheduled for surgery in four days – on Thursday."

Marsh stared at him. "What? Are you sure?"

Tate nodded. "What does this mean?"

Marsh stared at the water, his mind racing. "They must have found the wiring somehow."

Tate shot another glance around; then leaned closer. "I have to tell you, sir, I'm not quite getting all this. The whole Eppes thing – they were, and Don Eppes still is, surrounded by government agents. What is the agency involved in, that we can't clue those agents in? And then that memo came out about Joe Bishop – about you – I know you said not to worry; that it's a red herring and I should ignore it, but I keep feeling like I'm going to screw something up if I don't know what in the hell's going on."

His expression was still trusting, but uncertain. It didn't matter anyway; Tate had now seen his face, his time had come. It was a shame; he'd been quite useful. Marsh smiled, clapping a hand on Tate's shoulder. "Don't worry, Mike," he said, gripping his shoulder tightly as he brought the unregistered Beretta to gut level and angled it toward Tate's chest. "You don't need to know."

The sound of the silencer was lost in the noise of the surf. Tate gave him one agonized, startled look, his eyes bugging out of his head, his mouth gaping like a carp, and then toppled into the sand. Marsh stepped over towards him, and bent and retrieved the bag. He paused for a moment, his hands canvassing the jacket in the darkness through the plastic bag, and then grunted with satisfaction as he felt the outlines of the boosters in the pockets. Tate was laying in the sand on his side, still gasping like a landed fish, blood running from his mouth, and Marsh leaned over him. "You served your country well, agent," he said, almost affectionately, and then stood, and put a bullet in Tate's brain.

Still holding the warm gun, he turned and trudged through the pilings, carrying the denim jacket. As soon as it was cool enough, he would stash the firearm back in its holster. He'd intended to wipe the piece and toss it into the Pacific, but he suspected that he was now going to need it again. The news that they had found the wiring was startling, but he was still in control. Already, he could see the outlines of a new plan in his mind.

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Masters frowned. "We gave Charlie Eppes a cell phone?" He looked across the table at Rogan and Wilkes – the three of them were alone in the small secure office they'd been using for phone meetings with Washington. It was after eight p.m., and they ate takeout sandwiches as they talked.

Rogan chewed and nodded. "Conaghan thought he would be the one best able to keep his friends in Europe on that side of the pond. Our man said that Dr. Eppes agreed that it was in his friends' best interest if they didn't know what had happened until they returned home. He also agreed not to call his father until after his testimony. Besides, his conversations are being monitored – all calls go through our people. If he starts to say anything he shouldn't, they can cut off the conversation. I don't think he will, though."

"How's he doing?" asked Wilkes.

"Our people said he seemed pretty wiped out after the flight. Martha Bodman is going to call in with a progress report on him every morning."

Masters grunted. "Okay. On a different subject – I got hold of Agent Ziegler – he said the CIA operative they used out here to plant the cameras and help stage the attack was Mike Tate. He's the one who took Don Eppes' jacket from the scene. We just sent a man over to Tate's apartment to retrieve the jacket, and we're going to ask him to come in for a debriefing, make sure we get his side of the story." He looked at Wilkes. "How did Don Eppes do today?"

Wilkes shook his head and sighed. "Okay. We have a lot to undo, though; I don't know if I can reverse two weeks worth of electrically supplemented brainwashing in three days."

"You have to," replied Masters. "He needs some time to recover from the surgery before the hearings."

Wilkes nodded, although he still looked unconvinced. "We can continue psychotherapy sessions after the surgery while he's recuperating, but without the wiring, I won't be able to see how he's progressing. On top of that, the wiring allows me to apply current to reinforce positive reactions, and suppress the negative ones. Once it's out, his future progress will all depend on his own strength of will, and how much control he can wield over his own emotions."

Masters looked unsympathetic. "I realize it's not optimal, but we have to meet a hearing date." He took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed.

Wilkes shook his head. "It's too bad we can't tell him that his brother is still alive – I think it would give him more motivation. I'll be the first one to say that it's too risky, though – Don's still in a highly controllable state. I'll feel a lot better when we get our hands on that jacket and get it out of the area. If it's within a hundred miles of him, it can boost the signals sent by the controls – as long as those boosters are close enough, he can basically be controlled by someone anywhere in North America, provided they have the proper equipment."

Rogan frowned. "Who could possibly have that equipment? Wasn't Cypress Institute where the controls were located?"

"It is where the main controls are located, yes," replied Wilkes, "but we also have field controls built into vests – there were several of those units made, and I know not all of them are accounted for. Some vests are out, being used on other missions, but the only person who knew where all of them were was Allman. We think he had a log, or some method of keeping track of them, but no one has been able to find it."

"So it's conceivable that Bishop might have managed to get his hands on one," mused Rogan.

Wilkes nodded. "All the more reason to get the wiring out of Eppes' head, in a hurry. I don't understand why you guys waited this long."

"Conaghan wanted to wait a bit, to see if someone would try to contact him. We thought maybe we'd be able to get to him through Eppes."

Wilkes shook his head. "Trust me; the last thing you want is someone to contact him."

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That evening, Dr. Martin Janovic stepped out of his Lexus, and onto his driveway. It had been a long day and a late evening; he'd had to deal with a head trauma, and it was after nine. His wife had the Porsche and the Escalade pulled into the garage crookedly again, and instead of moving them, he decided to leave the Lexus in the driveway; he was too tired to deal with it tonight. It should be safe, he thought, after all, it was a gated development.

The manicured shrubs and cedar trees surrounding the drive gave him a sense of privacy and security as he headed around his car toward the garage entrance. The family room abutted the garage, and through the window spilled a warm light. In it, he could see his wife's blonde head, along with his five-year-old son's, bent over something – a book perhaps. The scene made him smile.

"Don't move."

The smile abruptly faded from Janovic's face at the low command, and the feel of cold steel pressed against his jaw line. A hand gripped the back of his collar, and he sensed the man's face just behind his ear. His attacker's next words came as a whisper. "Listen carefully. You have a surgery scheduled for Thursday, to remove wiring from Don Eppes' head. You are not, under any circumstances, to remove the wiring. You will proceed with the surgery, for appearances, but you will not take out the wiring. Do what you have to, to convince the agents that you have done it – give them a set of wiring for a Parkinson's surgery if they want hard evidence that it's out. I will be able to tell whether you have complied or not, so don't try anything. If you do not do as I say, they will pay." Janovic could see the arm stretch around him, the pistol gesturing toward his wife and son in the window. "You will say nothing of this, to anyone – and don't try, because I am monitoring you. I guarantee, if you do not comply; there is nothing that will keep your family safe from me. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Janovic forced the word out of a tight throat, his heart hammering. "I understand."

"Good. Stay right where you are for three minutes. Do not turn around. When three minutes is up, go on into the house." The pressure on his neck vanished, and Janovic stood, his neck hairs prickling. The man's arrival had been completely silent, and so was his departure. Janovic waited, counting his racing heartbeats for three minutes – four, just to be sure, and then on shaking legs, walked toward the house.

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Rogan and Masters were at breakfast the next morning when the call came. Masters was plowing into a big plate of eggs and sausage at the café around the corner from their hotel, as Rogan bit thoughtfully into a piece of wheat toast. He waved it at Masters. "Bill, that stuff's gonna kill you," he said.

Masters grunted around a mouthful of egg. "In this line of work, I'm not worried about that. I figure a bullet will get me first."

"Not me," said Rogan. "I'm staying lean and mean, so I can dodge 'em." His cell phone vibrated, and he pulled it out and put it to his ear. "Yeah." His normally mild expression changed, and he frowned at Masters meaningfully. "Okay, thanks for the info."

He snapped the phone shut and with a quick glance to make sure no one was too close, leaned forward and spoke softly. "That was A.D. Wright. He said LAPD found a man shot under a pier this morning – they just ID'd him. He showed up as Sam Peters – which is an alias for Mike Tate."

"Shit." Masters lowered his fork. "Bishop. He's here."

"That would be my guess. He also said they got a warrant for Tate's apartment this morning after the find, and went through it. No jacket."

"Which means it's either still hidden somewhere else, or Bishop has it." Masters considered for a moment. "Eppes is going to the hospital this afternoon for his pre-surgery testing. I think you and I ought to go along, just to be safe. If it is Bishop, he might not be after Eppes – he could just be cleaning up loose ends. After all, Bishop had contact with Tate. But better safe than sorry."

Rogan grunted. "You ought to take that stance with the eggs and sausage."

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Amita slid her cell phone shut with a furrowed brow, and headed over to the restaurant table, where her colleagues were gathered for a late dinner. The Geneva bistro was a laid-back establishment that boasted light casual fare and wireless connections, and was a favorite gathering place for the international crowd who had gathered to work on the start-up of the Large Hadron Collider. She slid into her seat next to Larry, who murmured, "And how is Charles?"

"Okay," she said quietly, a slight frown of worry puckering her forehead. "He sounds really tired. He said he was fighting a cold, and that they've been working really long hours."

Larry raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound convinced."

She looked at him, and smiled ruefully. "I think maybe he and Don are fighting. You know how out of sorts he gets when they argue. He wouldn't talk about him."

Larry sighed and shook his head. "Ah, what else is new? I've heard Charlie's side of their arguments more times than I care to count. They'll work it out, I'm sure."

Amita's smile faltered; and she tried to force it back to her face. "Yes, I'm sure you're right," she said, trying to fight down the little twinge of uneasiness in her gut. "They'll work it out."

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End Chapter 35