by Gayle Wilson
“And were the projects successful in telling the agency what was going on inside the Soviet Union?”
“I have no way of knowing that. All I was privy to were the results of the testing I did.”
“Could you tell us about those, then?”
“Normal double-blind validations used to determine how accurate their predictions were. Nothing esoteric there.”
“You said that the experiments had Mr. Gardner’s support. I take it he wasn’t in charge.”
“Oh, no. That was Marguery.”
“Marguery?”
“James Marguery. Quite the fair-haired boy at the agency in those days. Very bright. Very determined. As I understood it, Grill Flame was his brainchild. Mr. Gardner simply ran interference for it. And let me tell you, there was quite a need for that.”
“Who objected?” Griff asked.
Ethan knew Cabot’s questions were simply to keep the psychologist talking. Things at the agency hadn’t changed enough by Cabot’s day that he wouldn’t be well aware of who would attempt to quash that kind of experimentation.
“The President for one. He was convinced that if the press found out that the CIA was conducting psychic research, we’d become a laughingstock. Personally I think he was as concerned about the reaction of Congress as with the public.”
“Since there was no outcry, I take it the purpose of those projects was never leaked.”
“We were all sworn to strict secrecy. National security and all that.”
Ellington stopped abruptly as Cabot took a book from the central drawer of his desk and laid it between them. One brow arched, he looked at the psychologist.
“As I was about to say,” Ellington went on smoothly, “years later a great deal of information concerning that research was released under the provisions of the Freedom of Information Act. Names of the people involved and much of the outcome had been redacted, as is customary, but the intent of the research was quite clear. There was astonishingly little reaction from the public or the media. Of course, the reputation of the agency had suffered so greatly in the intervening years, I suppose that shouldn’t have come as a surprise.”
Cabot didn’t rise to the bait. He touched the book instead. “And you took the release of that information as permission to break your own oath of silence?”
Ellington’s response to that pointed question was a half smile and a slight inclination of his head. “Why not? There’s little in my book that hadn’t already been made public.”
“You claim to have been privy only to the testing of the preliminary subjects and to have no firsthand knowledge of the experiments themselves, so I would guess you used much of the information the CIA released in order to write this.”
For the first time, Ellington looked annoyed. “Very little, actually. I’d been given a detailed description of the goals of each of the projects so that I could determine which of the subjects I tested might be suitable. Most of what’s in the book came from those briefings. I also included methodologies of the preliminary screenings. My insight into the personalities of those in charge. The book is primarily an insider’s view of the people who worked on those projects.”
“Such as James Marguery,” Cabot said. “Whom you seem to admire very much, by the way.”
Despite having put this meeting together so late last night, again Cabot had done his homework. Ethan felt a scintilla of guilt at the thought of Griff reading Ellington’s book into the wee hours of the morning, while he and Raine…
Ethan blocked the image, concentrating instead on the psychologist’s answer. If Marguery had been in charge of those experiments—including one code-named Cassandra—then any insight Ellington could give them about him would be important.
“It would be hard to discuss any of this without mentioning Jimmy. He was the heart and soul of those projects. And because they were so sensitive, he never got his due. I tried to remedy that in my book by giving him credit for what he did. I don’t believe he ever made DCI, which was certainly his goal. He was Monty’s protégé. You might ask him what became of Marguery.”
“Then you haven’t heard?” Griff said.
“Oh, please don’t tell me the old man’s gone,” Ellington said, shaking his head with what appeared to be genuine regret. “He was a dominating force in the agency for such a long time.”
“Not dead, thank God. He was brutally attacked in his home a few nights ago and left in critical condition.”
“Attacked? But…why would anyone want to hurt Monty? Or kill him. Is that what you believe? That someone was trying to kill him?”
If the Englishman’s surprise wasn’t genuine, Ethan thought, he should have been making his living on stage. It would probably have paid more than doing double-blinds for the CIA.
“It would seem that way,” Cabot said. “If he weren’t such a tough old bird, they would have succeeded.”
“But surely Monty’s been out of intel for too long to be of interest to anyone. He must be in his eighties by now.”
“Mr. Snow and I had visited him the evening he was attacked to inquire about help for an ongoing investigation. Ms. McAllister’s name came up at that meeting.”
“Then…I take it that since we’re both here, you believe the attack on Monty is somehow related to those experiments in parapsychology?”
“It seems to be a possibility,” Cabot conceded.
“I can’t imagine why. Despite the controversial nature of the projects at the time, they all took place more than a quarter of a century ago. Who would care about them now?”
“You tell us,” Ethan suggested.
The dark eyes focused on his face. Ellington’s lips pursed as he thought about what he’d been asked.
“Monty, of course. Jimmy Marguery, perhaps. I can’t think of anyone else who would even remember what we did after all this time. Maybe some of those like Raine who participated.”
“Do you remember any of their names?”
The long white hands lifted in a gesture of dismissal. “I tested only a few of the subjects personally. I only remembered Raine’s after you’d introduced us.”
“What about other people at the agency who worked on those projects?” Ethan asked. “Do you remember any of their names?”
Looking down at his hands as if he were trying to think, Ellington finally shook his head. “As I said, it’s been a very long time ago.”
“Any idea where we might find James Marguery?” Cabot asked. “He was no longer with the CIA when I came onboard.”
“I expected him to contact me when the book came out. It is, as you say, a very flattering portrait. He didn’t, however. And by then we’d lost touch.”
“You mention in the book that there’s a town in Virginia named for his family.”
“Of course. Purportedly they were one of the FFVs.”
“FFVs?” Ethan asked.
“First families of Virginia. There was even a plantation, if I remember correctly. Perhaps someone in the area could tell you what’s happened to Jimmy.”
Cabot made a note on his pad before he looked up again. “There is one small discrepancy that I noticed…. Perhapsthere’s a simple explanation for it.”
“What kind of discrepancy?”
“A project on the CIA’s original list of proposals that isn’t covered in your book. Something called Cassandra.”
There was the smallest hesitation before Ellington answered. “Are you sure? It doesn’t ring a bell. Perhaps it was never implemented.”
“I’m almost sure it was,” Cabot said. “Perhaps it didn’t deal with remote viewing.”
“Oh, but they all did,” Ellington said. “At least the ones I’m familiar with. Many of them were eventually taken over by the Defence Intelligence Agency. Maybe the DIA can tell you more.”
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Ellington,” Cabot said, rising. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“That’s all you need, then? You realize we’ve only scratched the surfa
ce of the methodologies employed—”
“This,” Cabot interrupted, touching the book on his desk again, “and the information pried loose by the Freedom of Information Act will give us the answers to any other questions that may come up, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” Ellington said, sounding slightly taken aback to be dismissed so abruptly.
Maybe like so many people of his age, he enjoyed living in the past. Especially if those events were his only connection to history. His only claim to fame.
He rose, stretching across Ethan to offer his hand again to Raine. “So good to see you again, my dear.”
“Thank you,” she said, ignoring his hand.
After a moment the Englishman straightened. Without any apparent embarrassment over her rejection, he bowed to Raine and then again to Cabot before he walked across the thick carpet to the outer door.
“Perhaps there is one other thing you could help us with before you go,” Cabot said, stopping him just as he reached out for the knob. “A professional opinion, if you will. As a psychologist. And for a purely hypothetical situation, you understand.”
The psychologist’s small smile indicated his familiarity with Cabot’s disclaimer. “Of course.”
“What might cause someone to put himself into a dangerous situation, one he particularly feared?”
Ethan couldn’t believe Griff was asking that. Not in front of Raine. He held his tongue, however, recognizing that his surge of fury was the result of the exact emotional involvement Cabot had warned him about last night.
“You’ll have to be more specific than that, I’m afraid,” Ellington said. “There are so many variables…”
“If someone who had a fear of heights climbed out on the ledge of a building, for example.”
If Griff were really interested in a psychologist’s opinion, Ethan thought angrily, then he should provide him with all the pertinent information. Otherwise this was nothing more than a farce.
“And what if the person on the ledge has no memory of how he got out there or why he was there.”
The dark eyes of the psychologist focused on his face. “That’s a particularly interesting scenario. No memory of the event at all?”
“That’s right.”
Again, Ellington’s lips pursed as he considered the situation. “A psychotic episode, perhaps.”
“Would you be so kind as to explain exactly what that means?” Cabot asked.
“The ledge seems less dangerous at that moment than something else the person has encountered. Something far more terrifying than their fear of heights had driven them there.”
“And yet they don’t remember what it was?”
Ellington shrugged. “A form of escape. The human mind is remarkably adept at protecting itself from things it can’t or doesn’t want to deal with.”
“Like repressed memories,” the head of the Phoenix clarified.
“Exactly. Something that’s painful or frightening in the extreme is repressed or forgotten.”
“What about a post-hypnotic suggestion?” Ethan challenged, rejecting the idea that there was anything “psy chotic” about Raine’s behavior. “Couldn’t that also explain the situation we’ve described?”
“Perhaps. If this happened during the course of some kind of long-term therapy with the intent of lessening the person’s phobia concerning heights, then they might be induced to climb out on a ledge. Is that what you’re suggesting?”
Ethan realized that his defense of Raine’s actions might endanger whatever Cabot had been trying to accomplish. Knowing Griff as he did, he had to trust that his intent was something other than an attempt to embarrass her.
“I’m simply offering another hypothetical solution.”
“An interesting theory, but far less likely than the other, I should think,” Ellington said, not unkindly.
“Thank you, Dr. Ellington,” Griff said, his tone again clearly dismissive.
“You’re very welcome. Feel free to call me if you have other questions.” He again bowed slightly before he opened the door and stepped through, leaving behind him a thick silence.
“You honestly didn’t remember him?”
Griff’s question brought Raine’s eyes up. She had been looking down on her hands, which rested together in her lap. Her face was controlled, but because they were so attuned after last night, Ethan could tell she was uncomfortable with what had just occurred.
“No more than I remember how I ended up on that ledge.”
“And Marguery?”
She shook her head.
“Your contact while working on the project was Mr. Gardner, despite what Ellington indicated about Marguery’s role?”
“Actually, I don’t remember Mr. Gardner’s participation in the experiments. I remember the maps and the photographs. I remember trying to visualize what was there, but…” She shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid the rest is a blur.”
There seemed to be nowhere else to go with this. If Raine couldn’t remember or if she hadn’t known any of the principles involved except Gardner, then they would have to continue to seek other avenues of information.
“Do you want me to check out the place in Virginia that Ellington mentioned?” he asked Cabot. “Try to find Marguery?”
“It’s a possibility, but I’m afraid we won’t find anything there that will do us much good,” Griff said.
“Meaning?”
“According to Steiner, Jimmy Marguery committed suicide a few years after he left the CIA. Whatever information he had about those projects, apparently he took it with him to the grave.”
Chapter Sixteen
“If Marguery’s dead, I don’t understand why we should come all the way out here.”
Although they had had to stop and ask for directions in the nearby town, they were close enough now that Raine could see the house through the trees. The road they’d been directed to had been a winding two-lane threaded between farms that produced the same Tidewater crops they had in the eighteen hundreds: tobacco, sorghum and horses.
“To interview his widow,” Ethan said, turning onto the long unpaved drive that led up to Myrtlewood, the Marguerys’ plantation house. Evenly spaced, massive oaks stood sentinel on either side of the dirt track, probably planted when the house was built.
Raine had known who they were coming to see. What she didn’t understand was why Cabot had insisted this interview was necessary or why he thought they should be the ones to conduct it.
Neither he nor Ethan seemed to suspect the old woman was connected to either Cassandra or The Covenant, so the need for Raine’s impressions of her shouldn’t come into it. Unless there was something going on here she hadn’t been told, she didn’t see why some other Phoenix operative couldn’t have handled this.
“Not all husbands talk to their wives,” Raine said. “Especially not that generation. And especially not if their profession involved national security.”
“It can’t hurt to ask a few questions. Besides, we don’t have that many avenues of investigation left.”
Famous last words, she thought. Anxiety about this trip had been building since Ethan had told her where they were going, and she had no explanation for what she felt. She didn’t argue any further, however, studying the house they were approaching instead.
There was no doubt that in its heyday it had been a show place, clear and tangible evidence of the Marguerys’ prominence in the area, a prominence that had caused the town they’d just passed through to be named for them. As they drove nearer, it became increasingly apparent that time had not been kind to the Greek-Revival-style mansion. The columns still gleamed white in the afternoon sunlight, but the plantings around them were wildly overgrown, and the paint was peeling on the front facade.
“Does Mrs. Marguery know we’re coming?” Raine asked. She leaned forward to take in the shaded veranda that seemed to stretch around the house.
“We couldn’t think of a good reason to give her warning
.”
And a lot of good ones not to, Raine conceded. Whoever was behind all this had been two steps ahead of them from the beginning.
“Do you know her name?”
With one hand Ethan fumbled a piece of paper out of the inside pocket of his blazer. Without looking at it, he handed it to her.
The lettering was precise, very neat and highly legible. Ethan’s, she decided before she concentrated on the information it conveyed.
“Sabina Marguery.”
Somewhere within her memory the name struck a chord. Of course, if Marguery had played the central role in the remote viewing projects, she might have met his wife. She had so few clear memories of those days, she couldn’t be sure if she had or not.
As Ethan pulled the SUV to a stop in front of the decaying mansion, the anxiety she’d felt since they’d left Washington became full-blown dread. It was all she could do to force her fingers to close around the handle of the car door.
“What’s wrong?” Ethan asked as he offered his hand to help her out.
She shook her head. After Ellington’s brutal assessment this morning, she was unwilling to admit to anyone what she was feeling. Ethan could ask the questions. All she had to do was to walk into this house and listen.
THE BIG, RAW-BONED WOMAN who answered their knock looked to be in her late forties. Her hair was scraped back and pinned in a tight knot at the top of her head. The face beneath the unbecoming hairstyle was plain, sun-browned and devoid of any softening touch of cosmetics. The brown eyes were as unwelcoming as her clipped answer to Ethan’s question had been.
“I’m Ms. Marguery,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Sabina Marguery?”
Ethan had obviously been expecting someone much older, as Raine had. Of course, Marguery wouldn’t be the first man to marry a woman years younger than he was.
“Sabina’s my aunt. She don’t see visitors.”
As the woman began to push the door closed, Ethan resorted to the same tactic he’d used the night he’d come to the beach house. “Would you ask her to make an exception? I have some news for her about an old friend.”