Balassi gave a morbid laugh, then his tone suddenly became serious. “The higher ups in the Agency got wind of what happened to that agent and abruptly closed down the project—or so they thought.”
“So you gave people who were normal or simply a little depressed LSD, made them crazy without their knowledge, then tried to make them normal again?” Geoff was incredulous, the story so horribly fantastic he could barely believe what he was hearing. Even knowing what was happening now.
“In a manner of speaking, that’s correct. I know the whole thing seems ridiculous, and it was a ridiculous failure on one hand. It was doomed from the beginning. But at the same time, it was a great success. It failed because we really didn’t know what we were doing. We didn’t know exactly how we were altering the brain. Schmidt died a short while later, but I preserved his files in spite of the Agency’s directive, and a core group of us who were involved went underground. We kept in touch, indirectly at times, until it was safe to resurface.
“A short while later, with the help of those connections I went to the National Institutes of Health in Baltimore, where I developed the PET scanner and created one of the greatest advances medical science has known! With PET, we study the living biochemistry of the brain. We can actually see the neural pathways for love and hate, determine the brain patterns of a future concert pianist or a serial killer, make the necessary corrections early in life to either foster or suppress these potentials. Perhaps with proper resources we can develop a substance to change the brain’s chemistry to create a class of strong political leaders, another for brilliant physicians, and so on. It’s a window to the workings of the human brain like no other, Geoff. PET’s potential is limitless.”
“Who else is in on this with you, Balassi?”
Balassi brushed his disheveled hair back with his hand and continued, his dark eyes dancing with excitement. “The core group of MK Ultra is still together, Geoff. It never truly disbanded. We now have support from people higher up in the CIA and more powerful government agencies than we ever dreamed possible.
“They’ve funded my research for the last thirty-five years, created a corporation—PETronics—solely for this purpose. Without them, PET would not be here today. There’s no way I could have developed the sophisticated technology to this level in that short a period of time through the usual means, begging the NIH for piddley handouts, living from year to year, not knowing whether or not I would have to close down a project, justifying my research.
“PETronics has given me complete control over my research with unlimited funds funneled through the corporation and all they ask in return is for me to develop and test compounds for them, leaving me to spend the majority of my energies on the PET scanner. It’s the ideal situation.”
“You’re mad, Balassi.”
“You think small, Geoff, like most physicians. Why don’t you join us? We can be even greater with you on board. You can remain on staff here and follow Pederson as Chairman of the Department. We can see to that. The professional rewards will be great, not to mention the phenomenal financial return.”
“Dr. Pederson had so much more to lose, Balassi. Why did he do it?”
“Ah, what do you think, Geoff? Ego, of course. He wanted to have his name associated with these new endorphin compounds we’re working on, ones that will cure chronic pain and schizophrenia. You see, Geoff, we can do so much good.”
“Except you have to induce these conditions in innocent people before you can study them and find a cure.”
“Don’t be a simple-minded fool, Geoff. The testing phase of the study won’t go on forever. Oh, the Agency may want us to periodically synthesize and test a new neurotransmitter here and there—”
“Talk about simple-minded, don’t you realize you’re the one being manipulated by this renegade group? They jerk you around like a puppet on a string. You’ve prostituted yourself to them.”
“I guess that means no, doesn’t it?” asked Balassi with regret.
“Kapinsky didn’t commit suicide did he?”
“According to the police, you killed him,” said Balassi with a smile.
“You ordered Walter to kill him, didn’t you, and forged the suicide note? He was just an innocent fool. Or was he about to spill the beans and expose you? I know how you and Pederson blackmailed him, how you held the constant threat of exposing his homosexuality over him.”
“I’m impressed with your resourcefulness, Geoff, I really am. You must have a good source for such private information. Was it personal experience?”
“Far better than that. I came across Kapinsky’s personal diary. It spells out your involvement and Pederson’s all too clearly. I also have—had I should say—a packet of information given to me by Suzanne Gibson before Walter tried to butcher her.”
“Excellent work, Geoff. You’d be a real asset to the project. She could have been, too, but like you, she was a small thinker.”
“Not as small as you might think, Balassi. You almost destroyed a second generation when Walter tried to kill her.”
Balassi’s eyes narrowed. He seemed confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Cameron Daniels was her father,” Geoff said.
The blood drained from Balassi’s face, leaving his complexion a chalky white. His jaw dropped. It was a name he had not heard in many years. “That’s not possible,” he whispered.
“It’s true, Balassi. Suzanne Gibson, Daniels at the time, was just an infant when her father jumped to his death. I’ve seen the newspaper clippings, Suzanne’s documents.”
“This, this evidence you speak of, it must be in a secure place—”
“All of the information is on its way by courier to Washington as we speak.” Geoff’s thoughts returned to Stefan. He had to know. “Why did you have the security guard killed, Balassi? He had nothing to do with this.”
“He simply stumbled into a scene he should have not been a witness to and needed to be taken out of the picture. When your gun turned up in the morgue, well, it was felt to be too good an opportunity to miss.”
Geoff tensed. “Pity about Walter.”
Balassi grimaced in anger, his fist stabbing the air. “The project will continue, Geoff, regardless of what you do! There are very powerful people involved, not only here but in Washington. We have the support of visionaries at the highest levels of government, Geoff, far beyond just the CIA. They will be able to make your piddley evidence disappear.”
Director Bennington will be unavailable for an indefinite period of time.
“You had great promise, Geoff. It’s truly a shame to waste your life in prison. Two murder convictions, more if they find enough evidence to link you to Walter, the little girl and Smithers. You’ll be put away for well over a hundred years!” He gave a loud belly laugh; his dark eyes shifted in their sockets. “They have quite a watertight case against you, Geoff, dating back to the mercy killing of your beloved wife—”
“You filthy scum!” Geoff lunged toward Balassi, grabbed him by the shirt, slammed his back to the wall.
“What’s another thirty years behind bars, eh Balassi? The judge will just tack it on.” Geoff rammed the point of the knife firmly under Balassi’s chin. “I wonder what a knife track in the brainstem would look like on PET scan.”
Balassi stared at the knife. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, ran down the slope of his nose, landing on the coarse, grey hairs covering his upper lip.
Geoff pushed the knife further upward, causing Balassi to let out a choking sound. A drop of blood trickled down the blade, landed on the carpet.
Balassi struggled to get out the words. “Please, Geoff. Please. We can work—”
A police siren sounded faintly in the distance.
“I don’t make deals with the devil. I should kill you now and save human
ity, but I’ll let you bring yourself down. It’s only a matter of time.”
Geoff withdrew the knife and bolted out the window and down the fire escape.
Chapter 39
As Geoff ran up the steps to Kapinsky’s apartment, his anger gave way to determination. He entered the building, paused, looked around. No one seemed to pay any attention to him or the ubiquitous sirens. New Yorkers were used to sirens and emergency lights, especially near a hospital. He thought he’d be safe here for a little while longer. All he needed was an hour to plan and regroup. But pretty soon the police, or worse the group from the Sigma Project, would come looking here. Then he’d have nowhere to go.
Geoff carefully opened the apartment door a crack, peering through the opening to make sure no one was waiting for him.
It appeared empty. Things were just as he had left them earlier. No movement. No sounds. Once again he looked over his shoulder, then slithered inside and double-locked the door. He leaned his sweat-soaked back against the wall, took a long deep breath, removed the digital recorder from his pocket, placed it on the coffee table along with the pocketknife. He slumped down on the couch and rested his head in his hands. The tight knot in his stomach confirmed this wasn’t just a bad dream.
Balassi was finished. Geoff had gotten the entire conversation on disk. But who could he trust with the evidence? He had to think things through clearly. He must have one ally in the midst of this hornets’ nest, but who? Was Suzanne the only one? There had to be a back-up. There just had to be!
Geoff realized his next move would be the most important one of his life. It was like diffusing a time bomb without instructions or training. Two wires—one red, one black. Pull the right one and the trigger is deactivated. The other blows you to hell in a thousand pieces. Still, he had to be decisive and act quickly.
Faces popped in and out of his mind’s eye. If Balassi and Pederson were in on it, then no one at the Medical Center could be trusted. How about Spiros, Director of the ER? A man who had dedicated his life to patient care. It was hard to fathom, but he had to be in on it too. Who else could have directed the patients to Pederson and Balassi for their studies? The Medical Center had to be permeated and controlled by agents of the Sigma Project. Zelenkov and his group of international scientists, Trauma Center orderlies, nurses and technicians, infiltrators everywhere, at every level, all part of this vast, international conspiracy.
Geoff sat up abruptly, stared at the envelope containing the information given to him by Suzanne. He would have mailed it, but he didn’t know to whom to send it. Bennington was unavailable, and Lancaster couldn’t be trusted. The contents of the envelope could be Geoff’s ticket to freedom, or his death sentence. He couldn’t let the information fall into the wrong hands.
Geoff bit into his lower lip, drawing blood. The salty taste was strangely reassuring. He looked across the living room, his gaze coming to rest on Kapinsky’s computer. If he couldn’t get through to Bennington at the CIA by phone, what about sending the information by e-mail? It was worth a try.
Geoff sat down at the desk, flipped the power switch on, booted the old Dell computer. The welcome screen appeared after what seemed like an eternity, prompting Howard Kapinsky for his password. Damn.
Geoff looked over towards the couch for his fanny pack containing Stefan’s decoding flash drive, then realized he had left it back at his apartment last night. He was on his own.
He closed his eyes, tried to remember Kapinsky’s password at the hospital. He had seen Kapinsky log on the computer to check lab results and remembered it was a strange one. Something to do with food, his favorite food. Geoff tried several. Deli, corned beef, matzo ball. All were negative. Then, an epiphany.
“Knish,” he whispered aloud.
Welcome flashed across the screen. Geoff maneuvered through the internet, found a government directory. There wasn’t much listed under Central Intelligence Agency other than a central clearinghouse. Geoff felt it would be too risky. He couldn’t get it directly to Bennington that way.
What about the FBI? They’d probably sit on it.
Geoff took a deep breath, logged out, turned off the computer. He still had the matter of what to do with the vials. He needed a back-up. There was only one solution. He’d turn himself and all the information he had into the police. Deliver it all on a silver platter to O’Malley, make the captain the hero of the day.
A street-wise, free-spirited cop like O’Malley couldn’t be in with the CIA. He might be on the take, like a lot of cops in New York, but Geoff couldn’t believe O’Malley would take kindly to an order from above, especially one from outside the department, about how to handle an investigation.
There was only one problem. O’Malley was a cop out to solve a murder—several murders—and all the evidence pointed towards Geoff. And it wasn’t just circumstantial. O’Malley had told him as much over the phone. They had his ID covered with Suzanne’s blood, and his gun had been used to murder the security guard. Walter’s body conveniently disappearing would make Geoff’s version of the truth seem like pure fantasy. No, even though he thought O’Malley would listen, he was just a small fry in the NYPD.
The tape of his conversation with Balassi was powerful evidence in Geoff’s favor, but it could easily be made out to be a fake, or simply disappear. There’d be pressure from high up to scapegoat Geoff and cover up anything else.
But at least he’d have half a chance, especially with the files he had from Suzanne and the conversation with Balassi on disk, which was more than he would have trying to run from the CIA. He’d probably be safer in jail.
Geoff picked up the phone and punched in O’Malley’s number.
“This is Captain O’Malley. I’m away from my desk right now. Please leave a message after the tone, or hold and a dispatcher...”
Voice mail. Shit. The tone came. Geoff hesitated, then put down the receiver.
The sound of the phone ringing just about sent him through the roof. His pulse raced. His heart pounded. Someone had discovered him. Trying to send the e-mail had tipped off whoever was monitoring the phone lines that someone was in Kapinsky’s apartment. Goddamnit.
Geoff stared at the phone as it continued ringing. Maybe it was the wrong number. Maybe they were just checking to see if he’d go for the bait, if he was really there. Whatever the case, he had to get the hell out. Now.
Geoff ran to the kitchen, grabbed the two vials of endorphins out of the freezer and placed them in the envelope. He picked up a marker from Kapinsky’s desk and wrote “Confidential—Hand Deliver to Detective Donald O’Malley, NYPD, only,” on the front in thick black letters, underlined the word “only” in red. He folded the envelope in half, tucked it into his running shorts. He was going to deliver it directly to O’Malley himself.
Chapter 40
Geoff’s pulse raced and his heart pounded fiercely as he maneuvered through the underpass and headed up the backside of Fort Tryon Park. The shortest route to the precinct house was straight up Fort Washington Avenue from Kapinsky’s apartment to the south, but he would fool them all by coming down out of the park from the north.
It was a scorcher of a day, and Geoff’s side ached sharply, but his legs continued their pace, carrying him ever closer to his destination. The hill was a killer, but he was in great shape and loved the challenge. His breathing was fine. No tightness.
Geoff could see the exit from the park at Cabrini Circle off in the distance, about a hundred yards away. The path looked clear, no one ahead or behind him, no helicopters overhead. No sign he was being followed.
His feet pounded the hot pavement as he kicked up his pace for the final sprint, the last twenty-five yards. Sweat poured off his head, drenching his body. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. Ten yards to go, then he would bolt as fast as his legs could carry him to the stationhouse just a few blocks down from
the park. It would all be out of his hands.
Geoff closed in on the exit, picked up his pace, pushed himself to the limit. The exit was wide open, Cabrini Circle just about empty. No blockades. No police cruisers. He gave it all he had, sprinted past the gate out onto the cobblestone street.
The unmarked Ford that struck him from the left side came seemingly from nowhere as he exited Fort Tryon Park onto Cabrini Circle. He felt crushing pain in his left hip as he was flung onto the hood of the speeding car, his bloodied face flattened against the windshield. Their gazes met. Even in his semi-conscious state, Geoff could not mistake the cold-blooded stare of an assassin. The driver slammed on the brakes, throwing him off the hood onto the ground like a limp ragdoll.
Then all was blackness.
Chapter 41
The ambulance came to a screeching halt just outside the entrance to Fort Tryon Park at Cabrini Circle. An unmarked grey patrol car had arrived at the scene first and cordoned off the area, plainclothesman kneeling at the side of the victim, making feeble attempts to assess injuries. The paramedics bounded out of their vehicle, equipment in hand, and rushed to the victim lying motionless in a pool of blood on the hot pavement.
“’Bout time you guys got here,” said the cop, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the medics.
“Took three minutes from the time we got the damn call,” shot back Enrique Santos. “What took so long to call it in?”
“Had to shoo away a couple of grave robbers lookin’ for money, jewelry, stuff like that. These animals don’t care there’s someone dyin’ out on the street. Think they’d maybe lend a hand, do somethin’ good-Samaritan-like? No way. It’s a fuckin’ jungle out here. If you find anything on him, bag it and give it to me.”
The Endorphin Conspiracy Page 22