‘You’re trying to distance yourself from it now?’ said Alex.
‘I’m trying to explain. My days in this field may be over, but yours aren’t. You could continue. I—’
‘Why children?’ Alex couldn’t help himself. ‘Orphans? What’s wrong with the normal test subjects? The military, adult volunteers, anything?’
‘Ah . . .’ His father waved a finger at him. ‘It didn’t work with adults. We tried, of course, but it didn’t take. The phenomenon we studied must be developed in the formative years of brain development – certainly before the prefrontal cortex matures, and the speech centres in the cerebral cortex. They are vital for the persuasive language development.’ His father cleared his throat. ‘The younger, the better.’
Alex observed his father’s excitement and passion, but the reality of Victor Lazar tempered his own mood. He calmed himself.
‘That doesn’t justify using foreign orphaned children,’ he said. ‘You say it was just one element of the programme. How did it come about? Why them?’
‘Ah, that’s where we can’t venture, I’m afraid.’
‘Can’t?’
‘We swore, and more than that, we signed. State secrets, so they say. We were just a group of like-minded scientists, above the petty tugs of politics. Science must maintain that, or we’re all doomed. The Romanians offered something the Russians couldn’t. The US was out because of its irreconcilable differences with the Kremlin. And of course the Warsaw Pact meant we couldn’t discuss it above board. All the politics was above us, or beneath us, depending on what you value.
‘The Romanian revolution changed all that, but we struggled to maintain contact and the Foreign Office thought it best we cut all ties and disappear until things had settled. It wasn’t good for the British to be associated with a regime that had just been terminated. Our government was very pleasant about the whole thing, but made clear the penalty if we ever spoke about it. Sorry. I can’t say any more. Not even to you, Alex.’
His dad stood, impassive, scratching his chin.
‘Why did you get me involved?’ said Alex. ‘Why did you recommend me for Victor’s case?’
‘I didn’t know it was connected. Not at first. As far as I knew, all of those subjects disappeared in the winter of ’89. The revolution left very few stones unturned. I didn’t know what happened to them . . . at first. That wasn’t my choice, I should add. Their military got worried, twitchy. They decided to eradicate some of the undesirable elements of their previous government. We had no way of stopping it.’
Alex watched as his father talked impassively about the disappearance of dozens of children. He knew his father was cold, but had never dreamed of the depths of his detachment.
‘I wondered though,’ his father continued. ‘There may be others in another project, elsewhere. If you got involved – it couldn’t be me, you see – we might salvage something from the old research. You might have learned something and we could have . . . perhaps together . . . pursued it again?’
His father looked wistful, his eyes glazed. Alex, with a horrific realisation, saw the signs he’d been trained to look for.
‘You’re obsessed,’ said Alex, standing up and stepping back towards the shelves, away from his father.
His father whirled on his feet. ‘It’s not obsession. It’s called dedication. Use your skills, Alex, for God’s sake. We could have had it, before the Russians. Before anyone.’
Alex shook his head. ‘If this was an arms race, you lost. I hope the Russians did too.’
His father’s stare was piercing. ‘It wasn’t a game, Alex. Not like your pathetic little practice, treating people who have no right to use talent like ours. We are destined for greater things, son.’
Alex turned and breathed out, counting to ten, then to twenty. He walked over to the sideboard and the tray his mum had left. He poured two glasses of iced water from a jug.
Facing his father, he tempered his anger and resisted the urge to tell Rupert exactly what he thought. It was typical of the man. The arrogance was always there. Inbuilt? Perhaps, although maybe his dad had no choice. Nurture is a powerful mould, and Alex’s grandfather had always been distant. But what did that say about Alex? Was he doomed to follow? Alex always thought he possessed the emotional intelligence his father so clearly lacked, a result of watching and caring for his mother during his early years. But he’d already managed to ruin his own family, albeit in a different way.
Alex closed his eyes and drew several large breaths. It was time to change tack. He’d achieve nothing if they fought. He needed to be the bigger person – prove he had the skills to do that.
‘I need to know what he’s capable of,’ said Alex, handing his father one of the glasses. ‘Background aside. I can’t change that. But what can he do now?’
Rupert put his hand to his mouth. He took a quick sip of his water, his hand trembling. Alex had never seen his father shaking like this before.
‘I accept you don’t approve,’ he said, deep in thought. ‘There are limits. There are cracks – I think. You might be able to . . .’
‘What?’
‘Catch him in the weak hours. Afterwards.’ His father screwed his mouth up. ‘We found many of the children suffered after using their ability – after a difficult session. They’d complain of headaches, nausea. Some of them vomited immediately. A handful were bedridden for days with fever. We could never pinpoint exactly what caused it. Tests revealed severe serotonin imbalance; it fluctuated for days. Temporary, but quite debilitating. Akin to severe anxiety or panic disorder.’
‘Which would explain his capture and stay at prison?’
‘It might.’
‘But even if it does, what is it he can do now? What damage can he inflict before we catch him again?’
His father put his glass on a shelf. He nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘He may be able to control people, physically and mentally,’ he said. ‘But it’s not absolute.’ Rupert frowned, looking for the right words. ‘He can’t read people. They can’t read thoughts, or conjure up memories, or persuade people to give up information they don’t want to. That was out of reach. We never figured out where to look . . .’ Rupert’s voice faltered. ‘But physically . . . that was where the real power was. We got them to a point where they could grasp another mind and treat them like a puppet.’
‘Hence the name in the files,’ said Alex.
His father just stared.
‘But Victor can do more than that,’ said Alex. ‘He walked right out of HMP Whitemoor. Nobody remembers him leaving. What did he do to the guards?’
His father’s face hardened. ‘Hard to say. The persuasive technique leaves little footprint in the target’s mind. Sometimes the subject would remember, sometimes not. It’s possible, if Victor has had decades of practice, he knows how to remove the traces.’
Alex thought back to his own encounter in Victor’s cell. The memory was clear as could be.
‘That’s not reassuring,’ said Alex. ‘How can we know who he’s spoken to, who he’s controlled?’
‘I don’t think you can,’ said his father. His eyes narrowed. ‘Although I think he would need to be close to the person to control them. The experiments confirmed that early on. It’s not all verbal, you know. His facial expressions, body language – it all contributes. He can’t do it remotely, on the phone or suchlike. At least . . .’
‘At least what?’
‘I don’t know, of course. The experiments were out of our control by that point, but—’
‘For God’s sake, spit it out,’ said Alex. He was losing his temper again.
‘There were a few cases. Not many, but a few. The results went beyond our wildest expectations. We saw things we didn’t understand – results that defied logic, not to mention science. There was one particular child . . . He had an inexplicable ability. Something altogether different. He . . . It was intriguing, but I don’t know what happened to him.’
‘What could he do?’
Rupert frowned, and again his hands shook. Alex didn’t know whether it was nerves or excitement at recalling his precious experiment.
‘That’s the thing,’ said his father. ‘He couldn’t do what the others could, but he knew when they were doing it.’
‘Explain.’
‘I can’t. One of the youngest subjects, a boy, had a sixth sense, although we’d never categorise it as such – we’d have been laughed out of the faculty and our careers. But he gave us all the creeps. He was able to sense when the other children were being tested. I read the reports. He’d cry out from his dorm – the other side of the orphanage from where the trials were taking place. There was something . . . I don’t know. It went wrong. We stopped his treatment early.’
His father turned away.
‘There were others. Identical twins. Girls. The mirror sisters, the staff called them. They could cause hallucinations, forcing daydreams and extreme paranoia. One would start and the other would finish. They seemed to enjoy it. They were . . . not evil, but uncontrollable. They had to be . . .’ His father cleared his throat and shuffled away.
Alex decided not to press the matter. Of all the monsters his father might have created, and the atrocities he’d been party to, Alex only cared about one right now.
‘So there’s no telling exactly what Victor Lazar can do?’ said Alex. ‘Is that what you’re telling me?’
His father scanned his bookshelves and huffed. ‘You’re familiar with the method of loci?’
‘Memory palace,’ said Alex. ‘Yes. A technique for improving memory. The creation of a spatial framework – mentally storing items in rooms, then walking through the palace to remember them.’
His father frowned and pulled out a thin journal. It had a plain blue cover. ‘The trance – if that’s what we call it – can be at different levels, from waking dream to deep torpor. You know this. We were experimenting with ways to walk oneself out of a deep trance using a similar loci technique.’
Alex recalled his own trance at the hands of Victor. He had been physically handicapped, yet his mind had remained clear. ‘Victor’s victims weren’t all in deep. Some of them knew exactly what they were doing. You could see it.’ He shivered as he remembered the prison CCTV. An inmate, terrified, as he slit his own throat.
His father shrugged, handing Alex the journal at an opened page. ‘Same technique. Read it. I’m not saying we made much progress.’
Alex glanced at the page. It was untitled, with his father’s name printed at the top.
‘Try it though.’ His father frowned again. ‘I could never master it myself, and I left before I had to.’
He walked over to his safe in the corner of the room. He crouched and spun the combination lock back and forth until it clicked open.
‘I have something else,’ he said. ‘Blunter. Classified. But I suppose it doesn’t matter now.’ He rummaged through several folders until he found what he was looking for.
‘The staff working with the children were at risk, obviously. In the early days we relied on obedience, but as the children’s abilities grew, we realised obedience wasn’t enough. We had a separate research strand focusing on drug resistance. It was partially successful.’
‘Drug resistance to being controlled?’ said Alex.
‘Yes. It requires a specific combination. Benzos and two others. They act to inhibit the precuneus – the area of the brain that can be captured and controlled. We found it successful around sixty per cent of the time.’
‘Sixty? That leaves a lot of room for error.’
His father didn’t respond, but scribbled the name of the drugs on a sheet of paper.
‘You might have a hard time getting hold of this last one,’ he said. ‘It’s not in vogue at the moment.’
Alex took the list. His face flushed as he read the first item: ‘Alprazolam or similar fast-onset benzodiazepine’. Xanax was the brand name for alprazolam. On its own it didn’t help matters. He read the other two drug names: sumatriptan and clozapine. He thought the first was a painkiller. The second was an antipsychotic, hardly used these days.
He tucked the list away and studied his father, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable, sweat beading on his brow.
‘You didn’t think to give me this when you recommended me for the case? When you first heard why Victor had been arrested? You didn’t think to tell anyone?’ Alex was aware his voice was raised again.
‘It would have raised too many questions. Why would I approach the CPS with this? What do you think they would do?’
‘What they’ll do now anyway,’ said Alex. ‘The story is out. You can’t hide this.’
His father turned abruptly and paced. He reached for his water glass and clenched it in his hands, draining it in one gulp.
Both men stood with their thoughts. Alex thought his father looked old. Whatever greatness he thought he’d achieved was coming back to haunt him. He still couldn’t see it. He still believed his work could continue.
‘He’s going after you,’ said Alex. ‘All of you.’
Alex’s father shook his head. ‘He doesn’t know about us. He couldn’t.’
‘He’s found four already,’ said Alex. ‘If I could find this information, so could he. I’ve met him. You must have guessed this might happen?’
Alex’s father frowned and looked again at the faded photo of his colleagues. ‘It was never meant to leave King’s. I don’t . . .’
‘The orphanage journals and trial data,’ said Alex. ‘It was discovered in the university archives. How do you know he hasn’t got your names?’ Alex frowned at his father’s lack of concern. Rupert’s face was still one of superiority, of denial.
‘He is going to kill you if he finds you,’ said Alex, raising his voice, the impatience creeping through, reinforced by an increasing sense of urgency. ‘Do you realise? You’re not safe. Mum’s not safe. I—’
There was a knock at the study door and his mum popped her head around. ‘Are you two OK in here?’ she asked, her voice trembling, as it often did when Alex’s dad was around. ‘I could hear raised voices. Talking about work? Do you want some drinks? Food? You might be more comfortable in the living room.’
His father turned away and stared at the window. Alex shook his head, his anxiety bubbling up. ‘We’re OK, Mum.’
She slipped out, backing away.
‘You must leave,’ said Alex. ‘Both of you. And you need to help the police identify the others – anybody else involved in this.’
‘They won’t . . .’ His father eased himself into a hardwood chair tucked against the bookshelves.
‘Won’t what?’
‘Admit any of it.’ He studied his fingernails. ‘Even if I did tell the police their names. They’ll deny everything. They won’t come with you.’
‘They will if they think they’re being hunted. Or do their egos prevent them from admitting they could be in danger?’
‘These were great men and women, Alex. Thinkers ahead of their time. They were—’
‘Child abusers,’ said Alex. He shook his head as his father tried to protest. ‘Save it. They made a breakthrough – astonishing. But it doesn’t change what they did, and what they were party to. Perhaps it might be better to let Victor have them, but I have a conscience, even if you don’t.’
It felt good, lecturing his father like this, even if he didn’t believe in his own conviction. He wanted to stop Victor, no doubt about that, but he wasn’t sure he could have cared less about his dad’s precious colleagues. His father though . . . Well, they were still related, and his mother needed him.
Alex was distracted as his phone buzzed. ‘We need to get you and Mum safe,’ he said to his dad, before answering. It was Hartley on the phone. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you have anything for me?’
Alex paused. His father’s eyes met his. ‘I might,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Hartley. ‘Because things are getting messier.’
‘How?�
�
‘We found Damian Reed, the prison guard. He’s dead. Overdose.’
Alex hadn’t anticipated any other outcome for the poor guard. It was shocking nonetheless.
‘The bodies are stacking up, Alex,’ said Hartley. ‘And we don’t know who’s next. The information you gathered in Bucharest isn’t enough. We’re coming up with blanks. If you know anything, we need to talk.’
Alex agreed to come in. He hung up and told his father to start packing. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he said, over Rupert’s objections. ‘If you don’t care about yourself, please do it for Mum.’
He left with a promise to be back again as soon as he was able. He suspected Hartley might want to talk to his father.
Alex wasn’t done with him yet either.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Victor watched from across the road, several houses down. He hid himself behind a large Transit van as he watched the young man speed away in his Porsche.
He was confused. The man walking away, he’d seen him at the prison. Dr Carter? Why was he here? Victor felt his control slipping. Like fragile china, his plan was cracking. What did the doctor know? What had he been told?
‘Can I help you?’ A voice in his ear. A young man appeared by the van. He wore a brown uniform and held a parcel under his arm. He looked suspicious of Victor, who was inches from the driver’s door, peering through the windows at the Madisons’ house.
Distractions, all the time. Why couldn’t people leave him alone? His concentration was being ruined. Victor examined the list etched into his head. He saw the stained paper and the faded serif print, detailing the names of staff and their places of work. He saw the soldiers, laughing at him, their laughter tinged with fear. He remembered the promise he’d made to himself.
His head thumped. He forced himself to look at the house, the normal, modest brick that held the devil.
The man who lived here was top of the list. He was the fiend who played the fiddle and made his minions dance. There were others but this man was evil, and Victor reserved a special hatred for him. He was not here today to take this man’s life and forgive him. He was merely passing, ensuring that when the time came, he would strike with the same wickedness he’d been shown as a child.
Trance Page 21