‘It doesn’t make sense because that last vector doesn’t contain hyperproprioception at all,’ Denton said. ‘It’s a cover-up. McLoughlin injected some of her own DNA into Sophia. Sophia is the key.’
Benito scratched an armpit. ‘But they’re both dead, aren’t they?’
Denton smiled. ‘Are they?’
Chapter Ten
The smell of fresh bread and garlic lured Sophia into the small makeshift kitchen. Adamicz was standing in front of the oven. He opened the door and, with a dish towel wrapping one hand, removed a skillet from inside. She could see what looked like a thick, pie-shaped frittata, puffy and golden, with patches of dark green and white.
She had yet to figure out Adamicz’s motives. She’d checked her bedroom for surveillance devices. There were none. She’d checked the bed frame, her clothes, even her own body. Nothing. The situation seemed genuine. Everything added up. There were no alarm bells going off in her head about Adamicz. And that’s what disturbed her.
‘My family weren’t killed in a terrorist attack, were they?’ she said.
Adamicz jolted, surprised to see her. He frowned. ‘No.’
‘Denton told me they—’ She stopped herself. ‘The Fifth Column killed them.’
Adamicz nodded. ‘More or less.’ He cut the frittata in half, and half again. ‘You are hungry, yes?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
He served her a quarter on a plate. ‘You like frittata?’
‘It’s OK.’
Adamicz smiled, served himself a slice. ‘I make it with spinach, onion, garlic, Parmesan, goat’s cheese, sun-dried tomato.’
She picked it up from the pastry end. It was so hot it nearly burned her fingers. She dropped it back on her plate.
He handed her a knife and fork. ‘We can eat in Pacciani Room. There is table and my spare heater is there.’
Sophia reluctantly followed Adamicz down the hall, under a low archway and into another room. The ceiling wasn’t as high in here. Sure enough, his little portable heater was humming away quietly. Lining the far wall of the Pacciani Room were glass cabinets. Inside them were centuries-old parchments. In the center of the room was a magnificent antique dining table that catered for six. Adamicz sat at one end, so she sat at the other.
He asked if she wanted tea, then left her alone, returning a moment later with two mugs. He gave her one and began sipping from his own. She didn’t drink hers. It was unlikely to be poisonous, but old habits die hard.
She cut a piece of frittata and shoved it into her mouth. It was actually pretty good. She tried not to look like she was enjoying it too much, but couldn’t help chewing vigorously.
‘Why did you leave the Fifth Column?’
Bits of food flew from her mouth as she spoke. She covered it with one hand.
Adamicz sipped his tea and cleared his throat. ‘I learn how to make monsters out of children. Children like you. Children who were trained to kill people like my family.’
Sophia lowered her fork. ‘Who killed your family?’
She didn’t care how blunt the question sounded. Now was a good time to collect intel.
Adamicz put his mug down, but still held onto it. ‘I know of yours, you should know of mine. My father was put to work by Nazis. Our city, Breslau, was part of Germany. It was the favorite destination for war refugees. My father refused to work for Nazis, so they shoot him. When the Soviets attack, many of us were killed.’ He pronounced ‘killed’ as ‘keeld’. ‘By the time Nazis allow us to evacuate, most of city is on fire. And yet my mother froze to death trying to keep me warm.’
Sophia didn’t know where to look. She stared at the cracked edges of her mug.
‘You didn’t have to tell me that,’ she said.
Adamicz opened his mouth, then closed it again, deciding instead to sip his tea.
‘Why did you join the Fifth Column?’ Sophia said. ‘Did they force you to work for them?’
Adamicz shook his head. ‘No, of course not. It is sad. I wanted to work for them. Government grant was scarce in Prague, but Institute for Advanced Study in America had good prospect. No teacher, no student, no class. Just researchers. Funding was very good. All they needed was talent. Kurt Gödel, Hermann Weyl, John von Neumann, Albert Einstein.’
She only recognized Einstein’s name. ‘They wanted you?’
Adamicz nodded. ‘For my expertise in hypnosis. It is there I was able to hypnotize someone to pull the trigger.’
‘Like me?’
‘Not at that stage. I hypnotized ordinary people. Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray, Arthur Bremer, Ramírez Sánchez—’
‘Carlos the Jackal,’ Sophia said.
‘Fifth Column teach you some history, yes?’ Adamicz paused to chew on another mouthful of frittata.
Sophia wrapped her fingers around her mug. ‘He was programmed?’
Adamicz nodded. ‘The Jackal caught the attention of Sidney Denton. He make me an offer and, foolishly, I accept. In early eighties, I begin working on project that owes its roots to Nazi research. A project that becomes… how do you say… precursor to Project GATE, which did not begin until 1991.’
‘Project GATE wasn’t — we weren’t the first?’
Adamicz shook his head.
‘And you had the technology to program people’s minds in 1991?’
He chuckled. ‘Technology has been around since 1930s. It only gets better, and easier, over time.’
‘What about the genetic stuff?’ she said. ‘The pseudogene technology?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, this is quite a bit later. In the seventies, I believe. Fifth Column geneticists insert into test subject a modified IGF-1—a gene we use to repair body. Subject’s muscles become thirty percent stronger.’
Sophia blinked. ‘The Fifth Column had this technology all this time? I had no idea.’
‘Fifth Column does not need funding; it owns almost every government in world. They can take from anywhere and put it where they want. By the time this breakthrough reaches public science forums, it will already be classified for decades. By the time average person is aware that someone like you exist, you will be my age.’
‘So what I thought is cutting edge—’
‘Is outdated by two, three, sometimes four decades,’ he said. ‘If you have seen the technology that exists in black world — and indeed you have seen some of it, which is in you — it comes from the shadows of military — industrial complex. The very crucible of Fifth Column.’
Sophia cut another slice of frittata. ‘Is the pseudogene tech public yet?’
Adamicz nodded. ‘Only in its infancy. In 2005, a university geneticist in America discovered a way to deliver gene through target’s bloodstream using adeno-associated virus serotype 8 as vector. He use it to treat muscular dystrophy in eight-year-old boy — twenty years after we use vector on someone without muscular dystrophy. You,’ Adamicz said. ‘You see what I am telling you, yes? Fifth Column can only let public science progress so far, and only in compartmentalized fragments that can be monitored closely. They cannot let their power over human race slip. Any science that could jeopardize this will be quashed. You see, best scientists will work for Fifth Column only if they are willing to sell their soul. Fifth Column uses dummy corporations to fund science they want and starve rest out.’
‘Can’t scientists get funding some other way?’
Adamicz’s fist hit the table. ‘No, because we do not know how to do anything except prostitute ourselves for funding and shout down opposing ideas.’ He relaxed his fist. ‘If people outside science know how we really work, they will be disgusted. We are pigs and whores.’
‘Surely you could find an angel investor or something who isn’t working for the Fifth Column?’ Sophia said.
Adamicz nodded. She thought he was agreeing with her at first.
‘That money is small change compared to what Fifth Column can offer,’ he said. ‘They consolidate and maintain their power, and have army of science drones �
�� people like me — to help them. The outsiders, they can be insulted, discredited and blacklisted so they never get funding again. While they want to use their gifts to benefit humanity, we use our gifts to deny them.’
‘How did they get in power — the Fifth Column?’ Sophia said. ‘How did it happen?’
‘That, my friend, is best left for Doctor McLoughlin,’ Adamicz said. ‘You will meet her soon enough. And she can tell you everything.’
‘Doctor, if—’
‘Please do not call me Doctor,’ Adamicz said. ‘It is much too formal. My American name is Leon.’
Sophia drank from her mug. If he wanted to poison her, he’d have done it long ago. As ridiculous as it seemed, the old man appeared to have no interest in harming her.
‘What’s your real name? In your language?’ she said.
He blinked, as though he hadn’t heard her. Then he finally said, ‘My Polish name is Leoncjusz.’ He pronounced it as Leon-chudge. ‘Only people I trust know this name and call me by it. You may use it.’
‘Leon, if they find you here, they’ll kill you,’ Sophia said.
‘I am least of their concerns. And I have spent enough time being scared.’
Sophia lowered her mug. ‘Me too.’
* * *
Sophia had decided she’d play along with Leoncjusz’s deprogramming, at least until she had her first opportunity to escape. She couldn’t trust anyone; she was better off by herself.
He had forbidden her from venturing outside. He said it wasn’t that she couldn’t take care of herself; he knew she most certainly could. But her existence had to remain a secret. For all Denton knew, she was dead. And that was exactly how Leoncjusz wanted it.
It was almost five weeks before he trusted her enough to leave her by herself in the library. He needed to restock their supplies from the local market, and said he wouldn’t be gone for more than an hour.
Sophia waited fifteen minutes before approaching the grand oak door. Did he really think she’d just wait around for him to return? She gripped the door handle and found herself unable to turn it. She’d built up her strength and stamina over the last few weeks, despite the library’s confined spaces. Her body was definitely up to the task. The door wasn’t locked. The handle wasn’t jammed. That wasn’t the problem. The problem, she realized, was her mind.
The cunning bastard.
She tried again. Her hand refused to turn the handle. It was impossible for her to leave.
She yelled, kicked the door. Smashed a chair into it. She tried again. Still, she couldn’t. Somehow, he’d switched something on inside her mind that kept her here. He didn’t need to tie her up with anything. She was holding herself prisoner.
Pulling her hand away in disgust, she listened to the silence around her. She felt pathetic. He’d stripped her of everything. There was nothing left. No purpose, no friends, no family, no certainty, no life. She had nothing left to believe in. There was Adamicz, of course, but that was it. Really, there was no one here for her but herself.
She collapsed on a dusty tribal rug, her gaze glued to the oak door. She let it taunt her for a while. She felt like she was falling endlessly. Adamicz had peeled away at her like the rind of an orange and the only thing left inside her was a lie.
She allowed herself to stretch out on the rug. Spreading her hands out at her sides, she looked up, watched dust particles float lazily above her. Tears escaped, ran down her temples. She ignored them and closed her eyes. She couldn’t feel anything. All this time she thought she was being virtuous. Now it was just a gaping black hole of nothing. And she had been feeding it all this time.
But there was something. Like a single particle of dust. Tiny and almost non-existent. It might very well have been her imagination, but whatever it was, it caught her attention. It wasn’t dark and it wasn’t feeding and it wasn’t a lie like everything else. Before she knew it, she was riveted to it. She didn’t know what it was, but the more attention she gave it, the more it grew.
She sat up and touched her right eyebrow, where her stitches had been. Opening her eyes, she realized what she had found. Her will.
She marched into Adamicz’s office and began with his desk. It was covered in mountains of papers and books. She rifled through them, one stack at a time, tossing them aside when she was done. Whatever was lying on top would be cover documents, of course, placed there on purpose, possibly to influence her. She glanced over them for only a moment before casting them aside.
Once she was through the layers of distraction, she began searching his desk drawers, his bookcases. She found a stash of euro banknotes in one of the drawers, twenties and fifties. There had to be at least a thousand euros in there. She ignored the money, and checked for hidden papers and books. Anything he was concealing from her.
She only found one book. She opened it at the bookmark just shy from its center, revealing half a page of handwritten text, black ink with a hint of blue. The words were Polish, tightly packed and skewed a fraction to the right. She recognized it as Leoncjusz’s handwriting. She could read Czech, but wasn’t sure how well she could decipher his Polish. She skimmed through the entry. He seemed to use W instead of V and G instead of H, but other than that she could understand it quite well.
The entry was dated in German; she recognized the month as August.
After a week of intense deprogramming, I am able to bring Sophia out of her slave state for the first time to archeopsyche — the real Sophia. She is calm and composed, but is suspicious still. I make a point not to prove any more to her; I only ask of her health, of her emotion and of her memory. I take notes of this. She tells me she cannot remember her true childhood. I do not know if the memories will come back in time or will be lost forever.
Her behavior is erratic. On some occasions, she is composed, others she is enraged, others she is silent and does not respond to conversation. Nothing I say appears to comfort or soothe her. I do not know what to do so I leave her alone when she behaves this way.
I am in regular contact with Cecilia McLoughlin now. She is with the Akhana. After all this time of hoping, now I know they are real. She says once I have successfully deprogrammed Sophia I must send the deprogramming procedure in case my copy is lost or stolen. I tell her this could take many weeks to achieve. She agrees with me and points out that I cannot risk traveling to the Akhana until Sophia has fully recovered. This is very important; we are too vulnerable and will be safer in hiding for now. I am hesitant to give Cecilia the deprogramming procedure; I will think on this further before making a decision.
I bring vegetable soup to Sophia’s room. She is asleep so I leave the soup with her and do not return for the day. The following morning we continue deprogramming. Portion by portion, I dismantle the subpsyches and parapsyches inside Sophia’s neopsyche. It is a long and arduous process that exhausts both of us.
When I visit her again, she tells me to stop doing this or she will kill herself. I still have some of the trigger phrases in place to protect myself, but I do not think I will have to use them. I tell her I will stop for now and tomorrow we can talk over lunch. She can ask me as many questions as she likes.
I make us some gnocchi from the market and tea. She asks many questions. About her life. About how she was recruited. About the real world. About families. About love. About vengeance. Sometimes, her hands shake as she listens to me speak. Other times, she is silent and does not ask anything. Once, she even smiles. It is the most amazing thing I have seen this year.
If one good thing comes of my dark existence, it will be Sophia.
She turned to the next page. It was blank. She flipped back to the previous entry, only to find it written in German. Was he trying to conceal something? She rushed to the shelf of dictionaries and picked out an Italian — German dictionary. It would be nice if there was an English — German one, but she was in Tuscany after all. Instead, she found an Italian — English dictionary. It would have to do.
Sitting at the desk she�
��d moved into the Pacciani Room, she scanned the German entries for anything that might catch her attention. She didn’t know what she was looking for, so she decided to just pick a paragraph with her name in it and work through it with the dictionary, translating from German to Italian and — if her basic Italian wasn’t sufficient — Italian to English. It was painfully slow, but she moved as quickly as she could, scribbling her translations on a loose sheet of paper.
Sophia has stitches… right eye and bruises… arms and face… unharmed. I… injuries but… to see her. I have the Schlüssel.
She checked the Italian — German dictionary for the word Schlüssel. The Italian equivalent was chiave. She checked the Italian — English dictionary: it meant key. Leoncjusz had the key.
This was going to take some time. She’d give anything for Google Translate right now. She skimmed through the rest of the page. Its contents seemed mundane. She turned to the previous page and found a word right after her name that she didn’t recognize: defekt. Did it mean to defect, to work for the other side? She checked the Italian — German dictionary. It meant difettoso. She checked for the English translation. Defective.
She continued with the rest of the paragraph. On her sheet of paper, the meaning was beginning to take shape.
Another operative became defective… field… night and… killed. Denton dismisses me… service. Just as we planned. I am relieved, but I do not show it.
She turned to the previous page. If Adamicz had mentioned his true intentions anywhere, it might be in an earlier entry. With both dictionaries open, she got to work translating.
Sophia… operation… routine assessment. Precise changes. Sophia’s behavior… normal… tampered… neopsyche… under stress Sophia… shift to archeopsyche… performance… and I… held responsible. Cecilia McLoughlin stages… death. And… part of our plan.
Sophia checked her watch. She had another thirty minutes. It wasn’t enough time to translate the whole journal. And it would be a while before she would get another chance. She had to translate what she needed now. She flipped to the previous page.
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