Sophie cleared her throat and a few faces in the back rows turned towards them, but snapped back again to the front when Dr Petri spoke.
Alex massaged his wrist. It was aching. He rummaged around in his pocket for some painkillers but remembered he’d left them in the hotel room. He and Sophie slipped into a couple of empty seats near the back.
Dr Petri didn’t notice them and continued his lecture. Alex saw a familiar face on the large screen at the front – a Russian psychologist named Ivan Pavlov, famous for his work in classical conditioning. In an accidental discovery, Pavlov was looking at salivation in dogs in response to being fed when he noticed that his dogs would begin to salivate whenever he entered the room, even when he was not bringing them food. This was an important behaviourist breakthrough and Pavlov devoted his life to it until his death in 1936. ‘Pavlov’s dogs’ became a famous experiment, used to illustrate classical conditioning and taught in all undergraduate study.
Alex’s own behavioural therapies had their foundations in some of Pavlov’s work and he followed the slides – labelled in a mixture of Romanian and English – on conditioning, control and suggestion with interest. Although modern psychology followed strict ethical guidelines, the history of the discipline was somewhat murkier.
Dr Petri finished his lecture, staying to chat to a couple of students afterwards, two male and one female. When the theatre was empty, Alex and Sophie stood and made their way to the front.
Dr Petri narrowed his eyes as they approached. Alex pulled his warmest smile and stretched out his right hand.
‘Dr Petri? Dr Alex Madison.’
Dr Petri paused for a second before the recognition appeared on his face. His eyes darted to Sophie and back to Alex.
‘What are you doing here?’ Dr Petri shook his head and shuffled his papers together, unplugging his laptop from the projector lead and sliding it all into a large battered leather bag.
‘I said I’d—’
‘You didn’t say you were coming here,’ said Dr Petri, fastening the clasps on his bag and straightening up.
‘My apologies. I thought it might be best.’
Dr Petri considered this for a moment. ‘Who told you?’ he said. ‘Was it my secretary, Magda? Was it Dr Franks? It’s really not his area.’
Alex was confused. ‘Tell me what? What do you mean?’
Dr Petri shook his head. ‘You can’t pretend this was a coincidence,’ he said, ‘what we found. Then you turn up.’
‘What you found?’ said Alex.
Dr Petri held Alex’s eye for several moments, searching for the truth. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, I guess you’ve forced my decision. I wasn’t sure whether to call you or not. I wondered whether I needed to pass it up the chain. It’s rather serious stuff. You’re sure you don’t know? It would be unprofessional to hide that sort of thing.’
Alex glanced at Sophie. Her eyes gave nothing away, but his pulse jumped. ‘If it’s related to a clinical assessment of Victor Lazar,’ said Alex, choosing his words with care, ‘I’d appreciate a professional agreement to share it. I’m not the law. I’m merely charged with providing a psychological assessment. That’s in both our interests?’
Dr Petri examined Alex again. The doctor’s manner changed, his initial resistance softening, although he still appeared uneasy.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘although I don’t think you’ll like what we found. It doesn’t paint you in a very good light.’
‘Me?’ Alex was surprised.
‘You British.’ Dr Petri beckoned them to follow him as he made his way to the theatre exit. ‘Come. The project I talked about on the phone, at the orphanages – it was run by the British. Not us.’
Even after Sophie’s history lesson outside the university, this revelation came as a bit of a shock. It made sense: UK psychology departments had plenty of funding back then, and it wasn’t inconceivable to think that the ethically dubious projects would seek to carry out their experiments abroad in a politically unstable regime. It would be much easier – clearly – to cover their tracks afterwards.
They entered a large office with Dr Petri’s name inscribed on the door. The office was lined with bookshelves. They held neatly ordered textbooks in hardback and bundles of yellowing journals held together with thin string. A smudged bay window at the far end overlooked the street and the park opposite, while the wooden desk was positioned off-centre, with utilitarian-looking chairs to either side. An old Dell laptop, a couple of folders and an old brass desk lamp sat on the scratched surface.
‘Please, sit.’ Dr Petri indicated the chairs. He walked over to the folders on his desk and spread them out. They looked fragile and decaying, the thick paper stained with age and torn around the edges.
Dr Petri paused and turned to Alex and Sophie. ‘This doesn’t make for pleasant reading,’ he said, tapping one of the folders with his finger. ‘I have an appointment with the chancellor tomorrow morning.’
He passed a folder to Alex who glanced at the front of it, his eyes widening with surprise as he read the title.
‘It’s in English,’ he said, showing Sophie.
‘Some,’ said Dr Petri. ‘Our archivist found them. They should have been in the original information request, but they’d been incorrectly filed. The archivist noticed the irregularity and dug them up. She came to me yesterday, rather shocked.’
‘Project Trancework,’ said Sophie, reading the faded grey lettering. Her eyes moved to the lower edge of the cover and she traced a handwritten note. ‘Marionetă Masterat, Section . . .’ Sophie trailed off. She closed her eyes, her face flushed. When she opened them she looked distant, distracted.
‘You OK?’ said Alex.
Sophie nodded. ‘Fine.’
‘Puppet Master,’ said Dr Petri, eyeing them both with concern. ‘That’s the literal translation. No reason to suggest it wasn’t exactly what they meant, when you read the contents. This was one of two folders found. Nothing else.’
He let Alex open the folder and browse the contents.
‘What am I looking at?’ said Alex, staring at the text, some typed, some handwritten. There were twenty or so pages.
‘Clinical observations,’ said Dr Petri, pointing to the top of each page. There was a date, a reference of some kind, and the name of a clinician. ‘Some are incomplete. They aren’t following any sort of protocol, as far as I can make out. It is quite informal, rather opinionated.’
‘But what does it say?’
Dr Petri beckoned for one of the sheets, and he leaned against the desk. ‘Dr Marius Petrescu,’ he said, reading from the top. ‘Fifth August 1985. End of day obs. Lot 6. An initial source of conflict in the team is playing out as expected. There can be little doubt, from our latest trial, that the conditioning works. Some of my colleagues – Dr Brovak in particular – are reluctant to give up the traditional view that we should be using hypnotic suggestion, but our work at the orphanages is proving this approach to be flawed. The disagreements are becoming less intractable, and we are reaching consensus on the next phase.’
Alex glanced at Sophie, who looked increasingly uncomfortable. She stood and paced, taking a bottle of water from her bag. Dr Petri continued.
‘Our new methods, with the narcotic boosters applied to the master, are showing rejection of control stoppable, or at least delayed. It is too simplistic at this stage to claim this applies in all scenarios, or with all patients, but Lot 6 – the youngest ones in particular – are showing promise. This is not full control yet, but we’d be foolish to ignore its potential applications.
‘Now we have proven the principle, our focus should be on delayed interpretation of suggestion. Dr Brovak believes that planting suggestions upon which they will later act – perhaps hours or days after the control session has finished – is too dangerous, but he was out-voted, and our sponsors agree with me.
‘We have tested this so far with three children, using the older ones – sometimes siblings – as subjects. After the
unfortunate incident with young Emilia we must review the dosage of LSD-25, but I am loath to return to nitrous and more primitive substances. Such progress will require difficult decisions. We are lucky to have the support of the university, even if at arm’s length.
‘The ethical challenge is ever-present in my mind, but the price of progress has been agreed. The project will continue.’
Dr Petri paused and put the sheet on his desk.
‘There are several others like this,’ he said, ‘plus several cover sheets detailing the orphanages involved – four in total – and the dates.’
‘Puppet masters,’ said Alex. ‘A sick joke?’
‘Not a joke,’ said Dr Petri, ‘but perhaps it doesn’t translate well. I think that’s what the psychologists called the children.’
Alex considered the callousness of the term. These were children, for Christ’s sake. He thought of Katie, her innocence and goodness, and the sheer delight she brought to the world. When Katie laughed, he laughed. When Katie hurt herself, even a minor graze on the knee or bruise on the arm, Alex felt the pain too. Seeing his daughter’s distress triggered a primal response in him, as it should in all people. To imagine Katie suffering what these children suffered sent chills down Alex’s spine and he felt physically sick.
‘Do any of the accounts say exactly what they were doing?’ said Alex. ‘What were the lots? What were the drugs? You say it mentions LSD. This is gross child abuse.’
‘Which is why I’m meeting with the chancellor,’ said Dr Petri. He cleared his throat. ‘And there are a couple more things. First, this.’
He handed over a handwritten sheet containing a list of names, thirty or so, on the left-hand side. On the right were references to Lots – most of the names had Lot 5 or Lot 6 next to them. Alex ran his finger down the list.
‘Victor Lazar,’ he said, pointing with his finger. Sophie nodded. Her jaw was clenched. ‘Number thirteen,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Number thirteen. Victor’s number.’
Alex frowned. He suggested Sophie photograph it all. She took her phone out of her pocket and switched on the camera.
‘Do you mind?’ said Alex.
Dr Petri shrugged. ‘Depends.’
‘I either take a photo or take notes.’
Dr Petri stood back so that Sophie could photograph the page. ‘So there we have your man. He was nine years old at this point.’
‘Comăneşti Orphanage,’ read Alex from the top of the sheet.
‘Yes. It’s in Bacău County. The orphanage doesn’t exist now, of course. These places were from darker days.’
‘But he’s listed as being part of . . . whatever this was.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘He was experimented on by these doctors, or whatever the hell they thought they were.’
‘Yes.’
‘So where are they now?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The children,’ said Alex. ‘You won’t give me their details, but I assume you know.’
Dr Petri cleared his throat. ‘We don’t. It’s not uncommon for orphans to change their names and identity once they come of age. I’m embarrassed to say there was, and still is, a certain stigma attached. I doubt anybody knows where they all are now.’
Sophie walked away, facing out of the window. She held her bottle of water and took a swig.
‘You said this paints the British in a bad light,’ she said. ‘Why?’
Dr Petri pulled out the second folder and sifted through the contents.
‘There are a couple of reasons why,’ he said. He handed Alex a crumpled sheet of what looked like a bank statement. On closer inspection it appeared to be a bank transfer agreement, detailing six separate amounts ranging from £3,000 to £12,000. It was stamped at the top with the Barclays logo – a UK bank.
‘This doesn’t mean anything,’ said Alex, although he was puzzled at the stamp at the bottom – originally in red ink, now faded to pink. It said CONFIDENTIAL – DO NOT FILE.
‘It shows funding from a UK bank into a department here in Bucharest. This next item is rather more damning.’
Dr Petri handed Alex another sheet, thicker and glossy. It was a photo. The black-and-white image had faded over time, but the people in it were clear enough. A group of ten men and women in white clinical coats, standing together for a group photo. One of the men, in the foreground, had a logo emblazoned on his coat. It had been circled in red biro. It was the name and crest of one of the most famous universities in the world.
‘Didn’t you go to Cambridge?’ said Sophie, squinting at the blurred but unmistakable writing.
‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘King’s College. And my father before me, and his before him. Something of a family tradition. It wasn’t a choice,’ he added.
Dr Petri snorted. ‘Then you won’t pretend this isn’t a British project.’
Alex stared at the photo. Three women and seven men. One of the men at the back had thick, bushy hair and round glasses. He looked familiar. Alex racked his brain but couldn’t place him.
‘Only one has the Cambridge logo,’ he observed. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ he said to Sophie.
Sophie studied the face for a few long moments. She shook her head and turned away.
‘No names?’ Alex glanced at Dr Petri.
‘Some are in the reports,’ he said. ‘But they are Romanian names. So perhaps not this group. I don’t know.’ He shrugged.
At Alex’s request, Sophie took more pictures. ‘We can take a look’ he said. ‘The British police will help.’
Dr Petri frowned. ‘I should clear this with the chancellor. We need to investigate this further.’
‘We wouldn’t dream of stopping you,’ said Alex, ‘but if these are British people in the photo then we need to find out who they are.’
‘You think they’re in danger?’
Alex nodded slowly. ‘If that’s who Victor means by “them”, then yes, any who are still alive and connected to this work are in great danger.’
The trio took a few moments to consider the significance of what they’d discovered. Hartley needed to see this, but Alex wanted to be there when she planned her response.
‘Do you object to us taking copies back to the UK with us now?’ said Alex. ‘We need to talk to the police. The Romanian handwriting – could you translate it for us? It’ll speed things up.’
Dr Petri looked troubled but didn’t object. Alex thought he looked worried enough about his own meeting with the university chancellor the following morning. This no doubt had the potential to seriously damage the reputation of the university, as well as international academic relations. The reverberations would be felt for many years to come as the history of the university’s operations was examined in detail, and the orphanage records were resurrected from the archives.
Alex and Sophie left Dr Petri with the agreement they’d come back in the morning, after Dr Petri had spoken to his superiors. Sophie was studying the student building guide, printed on a wall in the foyer.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘The archives,’ said Sophie. ‘I think we should poke around. There’s a good chance once their university chancellor gets wind of this we’ll be cut out.’
‘You don’t think he showed us everything?’ said Alex. ‘He seemed pretty shocked.’
‘Maybe,’ said Sophie. ‘It doesn’t hurt to ask.’ She shuffled her feet and gave him a small shrug.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Alex.
‘No,’ she said. ‘The archivist is male.’ She pointed to the department and the name of the contact. She smiled and tilted her head.
‘I see,’ said Alex. ‘You’ll have more chance without me.’
They agreed to meet back in the foyer in forty-five minutes. Alex decided to head outside. He needed some air. Once in the fresh air he paused and looked back at the building. His phone vibrated and a glance at the screen tarnished his otherwise good mood.
‘Jane.’
‘When are you getting back?’ Her voice was firm but laden with hurt.
‘When I’ve finished,’ he said.
‘You didn’t even tell me you were going. I had to find out from the police administrator.’
Alex bit his tongue. He’d been avoiding Jane over the last few days, it was true, putting off the inevitable break-up. He should have told her.
‘I wanted to talk about Katie’s visit,’ she said.
‘What’s to talk about?’
‘Do I still have to cancel our trip?’
‘We never had a trip, Jane. I told you I was busy.’ He paused, and then in a softer tone said, ‘You should go.’
Alex knew it would upset her, but it was for the best. Before she could respond he said goodbye and hung up.
Alex stared at his phone for a few seconds, half-expecting Jane to call back or text. She did neither. The nausea returned and he put it down to the flight and the excitement. He sat on a public bench and closed his eyes, enjoying the warm air on his face. He’d wait until the nausea passed then he’d go for a stroll.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Dr Petri stood behind his desk, staring at the city through the window, the grubby panes still streaky after yesterday’s rain. It was unlike him to feel anxious – his position was remarkably stress-free and he enjoyed lecturing. This current situation with the British prying into their history was unfortunate and he considered himself unlucky to be caught in such a scenario. He intended to get out of it as soon as possible.
He glanced at the two folders on his desk. He’d gathered the papers together and arranged them for the chancellor. It could go one of two ways. If the chancellor wanted to unveil the truth, there would be a scandal, no doubt. The university’s name would be dragged through the mud. Most of the mud would be made to stick on the psychology faculty and its overseas sponsor, although it could backfire. He doubted his own university carried much weight against the University of Cambridge.
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