The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book #4 in Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  After a few more heated exchanges in Chinese, the old man banged his hand on the steel post, raised the shotgun, and fired a shot into the far wall. Chung recoiled, lifted his hands and bowed his head as the smell of sulfur wafted through the room.

  A few seconds passed and the old man pointed the barrel of the gun at Cam. His dark eyes were wild, but his wrinkled hand stayed steady. Cam tried to hold his gaze, studying him. Cam’s fingers tingled. It was the delivery guy from dinner. What the hell was going on here?

  “Mr. Thorne,” he said in accented English. “Come me.”

  The old man motioned to the minivan driver, who fumbled at untying Cam’s knots. Cam lifted his hand; the end of his pinky protruded at a jagged angle. Cam pushed himself from the chair, his legs weak, and staggered toward the exit ahead of the shotgun-toting, wild-haired old Chinese man.

  As Cam passed near Chung, he took a deep breath, spun quickly and threw a right hook, burying his fist deep into the midsection of the man’s button-down dress shirt. Chung made a gurgling sound before dropping to his knees and then rolling onto his side, his body curled into the fetal position. Cam didn’t know what the old guy in the bathrobe had in mind, but whatever it was it wasn’t likely to change just because Cam evened the score a bit with Chung.

  A second gunshot froze Cam. “That my son, Mr. Thorne. No hurt him,” the man in the bathrobe said, the blast echoing in Cam’s ears. Cam turned and the men locked eyes. Chung moaned while the others eyed Cam nervously.

  Cam lifted his chin and held up his mangled hand. “Then you should have taught him some manners.”

  The man narrowed his eyes before smiling, revealing a mouth of pointed brown teeth. He waved a hand at the old woman dismissively. “That his mother’s job.” He motioned toward the garage. “We go now. You drive. I no have license.”

  Cam drove the minivan one-handed, his left hand resting atop his head to reduce the blood flow. But it throbbed nonetheless, every heart beat sending fresh blood to assault his damaged nerve endings.

  “You go hospital, get finger fixed.”

  Cam nodded. “Fine. But while I drive, you talk. What the hell is going on? And if you have no license, how did you deliver the Chinese food to my house tonight?” Life would have been a lot easier if they had decided on pizza instead.

  “I use my son license.” He smiled. “All Chinese men look same. Where bracelet?”

  “Someplace safe.”

  “Good.” The old man took a deep breath. “My name Pugh Wei. You call me Pugh.”

  Cam nodded. “Okay, Pugh. Back at the house, you called me Mr. Thorne. Have we met before?”

  “No. Your name on caller ID when you order food. I waiting for you order.”

  “Because you wanted to give me the bracelet.”

  Pugh nodded. “Bracelet very important.”

  Assuming it really did come from the Bat Creek burial mound, it was incredibly important. But that was a big assumption. “How did you get it?”

  “Long time ago.”

  Cam turned onto the Rourke Bridge in Lowell and crossed the Merrimack River. Normally while crossing the river Cam liked to daydream about Prince Henry Sinclair and other early explorers who used the Merrimack to travel through New England before Columbus. But today Pugh Wei’s story, along with the pain in his finger, held his full attention. “My guess is Lowell General’s going to be pretty busy on a Saturday night. And I’m not exactly dying. So we have time for a long story.”

  “Okay, I tell.”

  The story began in the minivan and continued for another half hour as they sat in the hospital waiting room, a bag of ice and a super-sized dose of Advil helping to numb Cam’s pinky; an orderly gave Cam a pair of sweatpants so he could change out of his urine-soaked jeans. They must have made quite a spectacle, an elderly disheveled Chinese man in a blue bathrobe earnestly narrating a decades-old saga to another man in bright red sweatpants holding his hand above his shoulder like a cross-dressing Statue of Liberty. At least Pugh had left the shotgun locked in the minivan.

  Occasionally Cam verified parts of Pugh’s saga on his smart phone, or Pugh would pause to look up a word for proper translation to English, but for the most part Pugh told his tale quickly.

  It began in the late 1940s when Pugh came to New York from China to attend college and learn English. When the Communists took over China in 1949, Pugh and hundreds of other “bourgeois” Chinese students were stranded here as political refugees with only rudimentary English, no support and a bleak future. A few years later the CIA rounded up one hundred of the refugees—working with a Cornell University professor by the name of Wolff, the Agency hoped to brainwash the students and return them to China as American spies. “They pay twenty-five dollars every day,” Pugh said. “We go hospital in New York City and they give drugs and do experiments.”

  Cam sat forward. “Are you talking about Project MK-Ultra?”

  Pugh shrugged. “I no know this name.”

  Cam’s heart raced, which caused his finger to throb. Whatever they called it, it was the same program Randall Sid first told him about last week. Which was an amazing coincidence, unless you didn’t happen to believe in coincidences. Cam eyed Pugh. “Did Randall Sid tell you to give me the bracelet?”

  Pugh stared back at him blankly. “I not know this man.” Cam wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. Pugh seemed to be telling the truth, but who knew if Randall Sid was even his real name?

  A few clicks on Cam’s phone quickly confirmed Pugh’s story, at least the part about the New York City tests: As part of Project MK-Ultra the CIA did indeed brainwash and drug Chinese refugees at Cornell Hospital in Manhattan in the 1950s; the program was run by a Cornell neurologist named Harold Wolff, a close friend of then-CIA director Allen Dulles.

  “Many Chinese people sick from drugs,” Pugh continued. “And sometimes they torture us—no let sleep or put in cold room or give electric shock. We want stop going hospital.” Pugh explained how, after a few months of these experiments, a bunch of the Chinese refugees met in secret and decided to send Pugh to Dr. Wolff’s office to plead their case.

  The story fascinated Cam. It sounded like something out of Nazi Germany. But what did it have to do with the bracelet?

  Pugh continued. “I go Dr. Wolff office.” Pugh stared into the distance as he related the events, as if watching the scene in his mind’s eye. Cam did some quick math in his head—based on the 1950s time frame, Pugh was probably in his mid-eighties now. But many elderly folks maintained perfect long-term memories. “I wait long time. One, two, three hours. Finally I talk Dr. Wolff. I ask he stop experiment. He say we no can stop. Say we go jail if we no go hospital.”

  “In some ways jail may have been better,” Cam observed.

  Pugh nodded. “Other man in office with Dr. Wolff while I wait. Door open and I listen. He name Len-urd Car-mike-el.” Cam punched at his smart phone. Pugh’s memory was correct: A behavioral psychologist named Leonard Carmichael was the President of Tufts University until 1953, at which point he became head of the Smithsonian Institution. As a fellow behavioral psychologist, it was entirely possible he knew Dr. Wolff and worked with him.

  Pugh continued. “Mr. Carmichael showing Dr. Wolff bracelet. Say is from Tennessee. Say is very important history. Show Dr. Wolff rock with writing.”

  “The Bat Creek Stone?” Cam pulled up an image of the artifact on his phone and showed it to Pugh. “Is this the rock?”

  Bat Creek Stone, Tennessee

  Pugh nodded twice. “Hie, that rock. Dr. Wolff very excited. He ask keep stone and bracelet for study.” Pugh dropped his eyes. “I angry Dr. Wolff. I take bracelet when he no looking.”

  “You stole it?”

  Pugh nodded. “He talk on phone and not look me. I take bracelet.”

  “So why are you giving it to me now?”

  “My son want sell. He think worth million dollars.” Cam doubted that. But a collector might pay six figures if the bracelet could indeed authenticate
the Bat Creek Stone. Pugh continued. “But I American now. Government do bad things, but I American. And bracelet important. I see you on television.” Cam had appeared on some documentaries, including one discussing the Bat Creek Stone.

  Pugh held Cam’s eyes. “I old man. You take bracelet.”

  Two days had passed since Cam’s adventures with Pugh and family. They had set and splintered his pinky in the emergency room. On the way home from the hospital Cam had swung by to retrieve the bracelet from the trash can and then filed a police report, red pants and all; Chung and sons were charged with a couple of felonies that, Cam hoped, would make them think twice before going after the bracelet again. He and Amanda had discussed what to do with the bracelet but had not reached a decision other than temporarily to put it in a safe deposit box. And they found a new Chinese take-out place.

  After walking Astarte to the bus stop Cam went for a three-mile run; the ten-degree temperature actually helped—his pinky turned numb so it didn’t throb. As he ran he thought about an email a buddy from his hockey team sent him with a link to an article about Ronnie Lott, a football player. Lott broke his pinky and, when it wouldn’t heal correctly, had it amputated at the last knuckle so he could return to the field. The email concluded: “Game Thursday. Cut off the finger, stop whining and come play!” Cam could imagine how the conversation with Amanda would go….

  He sprinted the last hundred yards into a northwesterly wind and was only mildly surprised to see Randall Sid in a camel hair overcoat and fur hat leaning against a telephone pole in front of his home. Randall smiled as Cam stopped in front of him, the wrinkles around his mouth contrasting with the smooth brown skin of his cheeks and neck. “In my younger days I might have kept up with you. Even with my short legs.” Clouds of gray vapor escaped Randall’s mouth as he spoke. He smiled. “Especially into the breeze—I do not offer much wind resistance.”

  Cam walked in a small circle, fighting to fill his lungs. He said, “I used to be faster before I messed up my knee, but I was never a thoroughbred.” He smiled and sucked in air. “Now I’m more of a plow horse.” He breathed again. “Soon I’ll probably be glue.”

  Randall pushed himself off the telephone pole, the movement causing another argyle sweater—this one purple and beige—to peek out from above the top button of the overcoat. “Speaking of horses, did you know I have a twin brother?”

  “How would I know that? I don’t even know if Randall Sid is your real name.” And what did having a twin have to do with horses?

  He smiled again. “Actually, it is not. Randall is my brother’s name. Sid is indeed my surname, but I think that is the result of an impatient immigration official who could not understand my father’s accent—I suspect the agent was a fan of the great Spanish warrior, El Cid.” His hazel eyes danced beneath his dark eyebrows. With the hat covering his wrinkled forehead, he looked twenty years younger. “In any event, my name is Morgan, Morgan Sid. My brother and I switched identities. He is a jockey.”

  Cam angled his head. So there was the connection to horses. “Really, a jockey?”

  Randall’s—or, rather, Morgan’s—eyes twinkled. “In actuality, no. Our father was a jockey, but my brother owned an automobile driving school.” He lifted his hat. “That accounts for all the gray hair. How he survived, I shall never know.”

  Cam was having trouble following the conversation’s thread. But there was something … captivating about the little man. “I guess I’m supposed to ask why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you switch identities with your brother?”

  “Because even though I am retired, the Agency insists on watching me. Watching us all. The obvious solution presented itself: My brother took a leisurely cruise around the world while I took residence in his condominium in the Back Bay.”

  “But the CIA must know you have a twin.”

  He scoffed. “Please. We are eighty years old—do you think they put their best man on the case? Besides, they care more about what we do outside the country than in. I’m sure my brother is being closely watched as he purchases trinkets in some of the world’s finest tourist traps.”

  Cam nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “The worst part is that I had to give up my apartment in Chinatown—do you know how difficult it is to find quality Chinese food in the Back Bay?”

  Cam shook his head. “I have some stories of my own…”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed. But back to Randall. The ingrate had the nerve to upgrade to first class—I think his cabin is more spacious than the condominium he left me. Which reminds me, do you know how to operate a garbage disposal?”

  “Look for an on/off switch under the sink.”

  “Aha. That just might be the trick.”

  Cam smiled, his breathing returning to normal. “The CIA doesn’t bother you because they think you’re Randall, not Morgan. But they might figure it out if you start putting banana peels in your garbage, because Randall never did.”

  “Precisely.” The small man’s normally dark facial skin had grayed in the cold. “Of course, I am more handsome than my brother, though they do not seem to notice.” He said the words lightly, smiling. “But to be safe, going forward please call me Randall. Indeed, I myself have begun to think of Randall as my name. It is the only way for the ruse to succeed. Though I refuse to adopt his wardrobe—the man wears gray as if it were a pastel. And I refuse to take up smoking.” He shuddered. “Filthy habit.”

  “What about family?”

  He shrugged. “My brother’s wife is deceased and his son resides in Texas. I remain an eligible bachelor.” He raised an eyebrow. “Does your Amanda have a sister, perhaps? Or even a widowed mother?”

  “Um, no.” Cam smiled and bent over, stretching his hamstrings. “But you still haven’t said why you switched identities with your brother.”

  “So I could follow you. Is it not obvious?”

  Not at all. “Why me?”

  “As I said, because they are trying to brainwash you. It seems in recent months the Agency is redoubling its efforts directed at researchers like yourself.”

  Cam exhaled. “Even if what you say is true, why should you care?”

  He stepped back, feigning disbelief. “Why should I care? I think, therefore I am, Mr. Thorne. Now do you understand?”

  “Actually, no.” The sweat was beginning to dry on his body, making Cam’s back itch. And now they were debating philosophy. “I wasn’t questioning your existence. I simply asked why you are following me.”

  The little man sighed. “Because the human condition demands it. I have spent my life working on Project MK-Ultra, but I was never privy to the large picture, never understood the project’s entire scope. That is how the Agency operates—everyone only sees a sliver of the mission. I often wondered why we were doing what we were doing. And was it working? Then some … actuarial with an abacus for a brain decided it was time for me to retire.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. A lifetime of work, only to awake the next morning with very little to keep me occupied.”

  Cam shook his head. “Again, you still haven’t explained why you chose to follow me instead of taking up stamp collecting or something.”

  He raised his bushy eyebrows. “Because the scent of the chase has filled my nostrils.” He did a little skip, one foot to the other. “How does one stop at the last chapter of a fine novel? How does one leave the last piece of lobster uneaten? How does one stop wondering?”

  “You tell me. You’re the expert on brainwashing.”

  “Ah, touché. Perhaps we can solve that mystery together, though I am sure stamp collecting is not the solution. But to respond to your question: I follow you because I require answers. The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. I spent my entire life working on the MK-Ultra project; I must know how it all ends.” He blinked. “I simply must.”

  “Well, why we’re on the subject, how do you even begin to justify experimenting on U.S. citizens like you di
d?”

  Randall gave him a quizzical look. “It was not practical to experiment on, say, French citizens. The Agency is here, our scientists are here, our facilities are here.” He shrugged. “And so our experiments are here.”

  Cam sighed. “I don’t mean how in a logistical sense, I mean how in a moral sense.”

  Randall stared off into space as if pondering the question for the first time. “I suppose because we see our mission as one of necessity. At the time, during the Cold War, our country’s very survival was at stake. Project MK-Ultra was developed to counteract the Soviets. But all weapons—especially weapons of the mind, like these—must be tested before they are deployed. And the only way to perform tests on the human mind is to perform tests on … human minds. There are no firing ranges or pilot simulations for mind control.” He shrugged again. “We could not very well not conduct experiments, could we? We needed to know if these drugs worked, if we really could manipulate human behavior.”

  “But people died.”

  “A few, perhaps. Out of thousands. But potentially millions of lives could have been saved.”

  Cam kicked at a frozen piece of slush. He did not want to become one of the CIA’s guinea pigs. Especially a dead one. “So you know what happened Saturday night?”

  “I do. I observed the entire sordid encounter. From a distance, of course.”

  “Really?” Cam studied him. “Not to be insensitive, but I’m guessing your size allows you to be pretty unobtrusive.”

  “I am exactly five feet tall, Mr. Thorne, including my lifts. Four foot ten without them. And I weigh one hundred twelve pounds. Even at my age, I am an accomplished contortionist. I can stay out of sight behind a shrub or a trash can or even a grassy knoll.” He grinned. “I once concealed myself for six hours inside a hiker’s backpack.” He paused. “An empty one, of course.”

  Cam looked up and down the street. “If they’re brainwashing me, aren’t they also watching me? And won’t they see you here now?”