Extraordinary Powers

by Joseph Finder

  I didn’t see, but I nodded anyway. Rossi, however, turned out to be quite observant. “I’m yakking,” he apologized. “Let me put it another way. An agent in the field will be able to encode a classified document into a script for an ordinary news program broadcast over the Voice of America. To anyone listening it won’t sound like anything unusual, but the right computer will be able to decrypt it.”

  “Nice.”

  “Oh, anyway, there are a number of things we’re working on. Microdevices, for instance, are being designed here—we have them made elsewhere, by a nanofabrication laboratory.”

  “And what are they used for?”

  He wagged his head back and forth, as if indecisively, and then said, “These are tiny devices made of silicon and xenon, a few angstroms wide, which can, let’s say, be placed undetectably into a computer, serve as a transmitting device. There are far more interesting uses, but I’m not really free to go into it. So, if I may…”

  We returned to the white corridor, then entered another secured area, which Rossi accessed by inserting a different magnetic card in the vertical slot. He turned to me and observed simply, “Security.”

  Now we were in an entirely white, windowless corridor. A plaque directly in front of us said AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  Rossi led me down this corridor, through another set of doors, and into a peculiar-looking concrete chamber. At the center of the chamber was a smaller chamber, glass-enclosed, which contained a large white machine, maybe fifteen feet high by ten feet wide. It resembled a large square doughnut. Outside the glass walls was a bank of computer monitors.

  “A magnetic resonance imager,” I said. “I’ve seen them in hospitals. But this one looks quite a bit larger.”

  “Very good. The MRI you usually see in hospitals might range anywhere from a .5 tesla to a 1.5 tesla—a tesla is a measure of the strength of the magnet inside. Once in a great while you might see a two tesla in highly specialized use. This is a four.”

  “Awfully powerful.”

  “But quite safe. And modified somewhat. I directed the modification.” Rossi’s eyes roamed the bare concrete room as if distracted.

  “Safe for what?”

  “You’re looking at a replacement for the old polygraph. A modified MRI will soon be used by the Agency in debriefing intelligence officers, defectors, agents, and so on, to provide a reliable mental ‘fingerprint.’”

  “Would you like to explain that?”

  “I’m sure you’re aware of the many drawbacks of the old polygraph system.”

  I was, but I listened as he explained.

  “The old polygraph technique relies on blood pressure cuffs and electrodes that measure galvanic skin responses, sweat, changes in skin temperature, and so on. It’s crude, and it’s only—what?—sixty percent reliable. If that.”

  “All right,” I said impatiently.

  Rossi continued patiently: “The Soviets didn’t even use the thing, as you may know. They gave seminars on how to beat it. For God’s sake, do you remember the time when twenty-seven Cuban DGI double agents working against us were cleared by CIA flutter?”

  “Sure,” I said. It was part of Agency lore.

  “The damn thing registers only emotional responses, as you know. Which vary widely depending upon temperament. And yet the flutter is the cornerstone of so much of our intelligence operations. Not only for the CIA, but for the DIA and NSA and a number of intelligence agencies and divisions. Their operational security all hangs on this, establishing bona fides and reliability of product, even screening applicants and recruits.”

  “And it’s easy to defeat,” I added.

  “Embarrassingly easy,” Rossi agreed. “Not just sociopaths or people who don’t register the normal range of human emotions, guilt and anxiety, pangs of conscience, and whatnot. But any trained professional can beat the machine using any of a number of drugs. Even doing something simple like causing oneself physical pain during the test can skew the results. Stepping on a thumbtack, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Okay,” I prompted him.

  “So, with your permission, I’d like to get started, and have you on your way back to Mr. Truslow.”

  ELEVEN

  “Half an hour,” Rossi told me, “and you should be out of here. And on your way.”

  We stood in the outer MRI chamber, inspecting 3-D computer reconstructions of the human brain, rendered on a computer’s color monitor. On the screen in front of me, a lifelike image of a brain rotated and then flew apart, section by section, like a pink grapefruit.

  One of Rossi’s lab assistants, a small, dark-haired former MIT graduate student named Ann, sat at the monitor and called up the various images. The cerebral cortex, she explained to me in a soft, little-girl voice, was made up of six layers. “We’ve discovered that there is a discernible difference between the appearance of the cortex in someone who’s telling the truth and someone who’s lying,” she said. She added confidentially, “Of course, I still have no idea whether this originates in the neurons or in the glial cells, but we’re working on that.”

  She produced a computer image of a liar’s brain, which seemed to be shaded somewhat differently from the nonliar’s brain.

  “If you want to take off your jacket,” Rossi said, “you’ll be more comfortable.” I did so, and removed my tie, placed them both on the back of a chair. Meanwhile, Ann went into the inner chamber and began adjusting the machine.

  “Now, anything metal,” he went on. “Keys, belt buckles, suspenders, coins. Your watch, too. Since it’s really just one big magnet, anything made of steel or iron is going to fly out of your pockets. The magnet can stop your watch, or at least screw it up pretty badly.” He chortled good-humoredly. “Also, your wallet.”

  “My wallet?”

  “The thing can demagnetize things like bank cards, magnetic strips, stuff like that. You don’t have a steel plate in your head or anything like that, right?”

  “No.” I finished emptying my pockets and placing the contents on a lab table.

  “All right,” he said, leading me into the inner chamber. “This might feel a bit claustrophobic. Does that bother you?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Excellent. There’s a mirror in there, too, so you can see yourself, but a lot of people don’t like looking at themselves lying flat in the machine. I guess it suggests to some people what they’re going to look like in their coffins.” He chortled again.

  I lay down on the white platform, and Ann strapped me in. The straps around my head fit snugly and were cushioned with sponges. The whole setup was vaguely uncomfortable.

  Slowly she moved the platform into the center of the machine. Inside the doughnut hole was, as they said, a mirror, enabling me to see my head and torso.

  From somewhere in the room I heard Ann’s voice:

  “—to start the magnet.”

  Then, from a speaker inside the machine, I heard Rossi’s voice: “All right in there?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “How long does this take?’

  “Six hours,” the voice came back. “I’m kidding. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “Very funny.”

  “All set?”

  “Let’s get on with it,” I said.

  “You’ll hear a pounding noise,” Rossi came back, “but you’ll still be able to hear my voice over that. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said impatiently.

  The head guard made it impossible to move my head, which was an unpleasant feeling. “Let’s get on with it.” Suddenly a loud jackhammer-like sound started, a rhythmic thudding, spaced less than a second apart.

  “Ben, I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” came Rossi’s voice, metallic. “Answer yes or no.”

  “This isn’t my first flutter,” I said.

  “I understand,” came the metallic reply. “Is your name Benjamin Ellison?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is your name John Doe?”

  “No.”


  “Are you a physician?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had an extramarital affair?”

  “What is this?” I said angrily.

  “Please, just bear with me. Yes or no.”

  I hesitated. Like Jimmy Carter, I have felt lust in my heart. “No.”

  “Were you employed by the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you live in Boston?”

  “Yes.”

  I heard a female voice from the room, Ann’s voice, and then a male voice coming from somewhere nearby. Then Rossi’s amplified question: “Were you an agent for Soviet intelligence?”

  I gave a sputter of disbelief.

  “Yes or no, Ben. You understand these questions are designed to test the parameters of your anxiety levels. Were you an agent for Soviet intelligence?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you married to Martha Sinclair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holding up okay in there, Ben?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Continue.”

  “Were you born in New York City?”

  “No.”

  “Were you born in Philadelphia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you thirty-eight years old?”

  “No.”

  “Are you thirty-nine years old?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your name Benjamin Ellison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, Ben, I want you to lie for the next two questions. Is your legal specialty real estate law?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Have you ever masturbated?”

  “No.”

  “Now the truth. When you worked for American intelligence, did you at the same time work for the intelligence service of any other nation?”

  “No.”

  “Since the termination of your employment with the Central Intelligence Agency, have you been in touch at any time with any intelligence officer formerly associated with what was once the Soviet Union or the Soviet Bloc nations?”

  “No.”

  There was a long pause, and then Rossi’s voice came again. “Thanks, Ben. That’ll do.”

  “So get me out of here already.”

  “Ann will have you out in a minute.” The jackhammering stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the silence was an enormous relief. My ears felt thick. I heard voices again, distantly: the lab techs, surely.

  “All set, Mr. Ellison,” came Ann’s voice as she pulled the platform back. “I hope to God he’s all right.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “I said, we’re all set.” She reached down and unstrapped the head guard, then undid the Velcro restraints at my ankles and thighs.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “Except for my hearing, which I imagine will recover in a couple of days.”

  Ann gave me a penetrating look, furrowed her brow, and then said, “You’ll be fine.” She helped me off the platform.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” she said as I got to my feet, adding angrily, “Didn’t work didn’t work.”

  “What didn’t work?”

  She looked at me, puzzled again. She hesitated a moment, then said, “Everything went fine.” I followed her to the outside room, where Rossi stood, his hands in the pockets of his suit coat, in a relaxed stance.

  “Thanks, Ben,” he said. “Well, you’re all clear. No surprise. The computer-enhanced images—the snapshots of your brain-wave activity, in effect—indicate you were being entirely truthful, except when I asked you to lie.”

  Rossi then turned around to pick up a sheaf of files. I approached to retrieve my belongings, and heard him mutter something about Truslow.

  “What about Truslow?” I asked.

  He turned around, smiling pleasantly. “What do you mean?”

  “Were you talking to me?” I asked.

  He stared at me for a full five seconds. Shook his head. His eyes stared coldly.

  “Forget it,” I said, but of course I’d heard him. We’d been standing no more than three feet apart; there was no way I could have misheard him. Something about Truslow. Baffling. Perhaps he didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud.

  I turned my attention to the array of belongings on the table next to us, the watch and belt and coins and so on, and Rossi said again, as clearly as the last time, “Is it possible?”

  I look at him and said nothing.

  “Did it work?” came Rossi’s voice again, somewhat indistinct, a little distant, but—

  —and this time I was quite certain—

  —his mouth had not moved.

  He had not spoken a word. The realization sank in, and I felt my insides turn to ice.

  PART

  II

  THE TALENT

  The Pentagon has spent millions of dollars, according to three new reports, on secret projects to investigate extrasensory phenomena and to see if the sheer power of the human mind can be harnessed to perform various acts of espionage.…

  —The New York Times, January 10, 1984

  FINANCIAL TIMES

  * * *

  Europe Fears Nazi Rule in Ravaged Germany

  * * *

  BY ELIZABETH WILSON IN BONN

  In the three-man race for Chancellor of Germany, Mr. Jurgen Krauss, leader of the reborn National Socialist Party, appears to be overtaking both the moderate candidate, Christian Democratic Party leader Wilhelm Vogel, and the incumbent.…

  In the wake of the German stock market crash and the subsequent depression, there are widespread fears here and around Europe of a resurgence of a new form of Nazism.…

  TWELVE

  We stared at each other for a moment, Rossi and I. In the long months since that instant, I’ve never been able to explain this aspect to anyone’s satisfaction, least of all mine.

  I heard Charles Rossi’s voice almost as clearly, almost as distinctly, as if he’d spoken to me.

  Not quite as if he’d spoken aloud. The timbre was different from the spoken voice, the way a long distance telephone connection sounds at once different from a clear, local one. A little less distinct; a little distant, a trace muffled, like a voice heard through a cheap motel room plasterboard wall.

  There was an unmistakable difference between Rossi’s spoken voice and his—what else can I call it?—his “mental” voice, his thought voice. The spoken voice was somehow crisper; the mental voice was softer, smoother, more rounded.

  I was able to hear Rossi’s thoughts.

  My head began to pound, a throbbing, vicious pain that localized at my right temple. Around everything in the room—Rossi, his gaping assistant, the machinery, the rubberized lab coats that hung on hooks by the door—was a shimmering rainbow of an aura. My skin began to prickle unpleasantly, flushing hot and then cold, and I could feel a wave of nausea overtake my stomach.

  There have been volumes upon volumes written on the subject of extrasensory perception and psychic phenomena and “psi,” the vast majority of which is packed with nonsense—I know, I’ve probably read every bit of it—but not one theorist ever speculated that it would be like this.

  I could hear his thoughts.

  Not all of his thoughts, thank God, or I would surely have gone crazy long ago. Certain ones, things that entered his mind with sufficient urgency, sufficient intensity.

  Or at least so I came to realize much later.

  But at that moment, at that moment of realization, I had not put all of this together the way I have by now. I only knew—knew—that I was hearing something that Rossi had not spoken aloud, and it filled me with a bottomless dread.

  I was on the edge of a precipice; it was a struggle now to keep from losing my mind entirely.

  At that moment I was convinced that something in me had snapped, some thread of my sanity had broken; that the magnetic forces of the MRI machine had done something terrible to me, had somehow precipitated a nervous breakdown, that I was losing my grip on reality.

>   And so I responded in the only way I could: absolute denial. I wish I could claim credit for being shrewd, or clever, say I knew even then I must keep this strange and awful development to myself, but that wasn’t the first thing that came to me. My instinct was to preserve some semblance of sanity—not to let on to Rossi that I was hearing things.

  He spoke first, quietly. “I didn’t say anything about Mr. Truslow.” He was probing me, watching my eyes from this uncomfortably close distance.

  I said slowly, “I thought you did, Charlie. Must have misheard.”

  Turning to the lab table, I gathered my wallet, keys, coins, and pens, and began putting them in my pocket. As I did so, I backed slowly, casually, away from him. The headache intensified, the cold flush. It was a full-blown migraine.

  “I didn’t say anything at all,” Rossi said levelly.

  I smiled dismissively, nodded. Wanted to sit down somewhere, tie something around my forehead, squeeze the pain from it.

  He gave me another long, penetrating stare, and—

  —and I heard, a murmur: Does he have it?

  With forced joviality, I said, “So if we’re all through for the day—”

  Rossi eyed me suspiciously. Blinked once, twice, and said, “Soon. We need to sit down and talk for a couple of minutes.”

  “Look,” I said. “I have a terrific headache. A migraine, I’m pretty sure.”

  I was at least six feet away from him now, putting my suit jacket back on. Rossi was still watching me as if I were a boa constrictor coiling and uncoiling in the middle of his bedroom. In the silence I strained to hear another of these murmurs, these faint voices.

  Nothing.

  Had I imagined these last few moments? Had they been hallucinations, like the shimmering aura that surrounded all the objects in the room? Would I come to my senses now, after this momentary departure from sanity?