“It’s not his fee I’m concerned about. We’ll have to run a background check on him first – for his sake, I hope there are no nasty surprises.”
“I doubt that – he’s consulted for the NSA before, so he must have some kind of clearance.”
“When can you get him here?”
“I’ll call him now. He’s got a store downtown, so it shouldn’t take long.”
“Great – give us a call when he arrives.” Beach extended his hand to shake Guthrie’s. “Again, I’m sorry about your uncle – he was a good man and a mentor to my wife.”
“Is she into neurohormones like Uncle Scott was?”
“She studied under your uncle for a couple of semesters as part of her psychology degree, but didn’t continue with the medical side. They became friends, and stayed in touch after she graduated.”
“Cool – maybe I can meet her someday.”
“I’m sure she’d like that.” Beach wanted to tell Guthrie that his uncle had been of great help to him during the Devlin Conspiracy case, but the details of the case were sealed by the federal government, and he didn’t know how the young man would react if he knew his uncle had been killed as a direct result of his assistance in the case..
After they left the lab together, Foxx stopped his partner. “Is there something you weren’t telling Mark about his uncle?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Maybe not to him, but I know you.”
“I can’t tell him the truth – and you can’t either. Hell, I’m not even supposed to tell you, and you’re an FBI agent.”
“Too late now – I gotta hear this.”
Alan sighed and led his partner to the elevator, then on to a vacant meeting room. He reluctantly opened up about Professor Scott Guthrie’s assistance during his investigation of the Devlin Conspiracy. As his explanation proceeded, Alan looked Foxx squarely in the eye. “What I’m about to tell you is sealed, as a matter of national security, so you need to understand the gravity of the situation and maintain absolute confidentiality. The only reason I’m telling you is because you’re my partner, and I trust you.”
Foxx said nothing, but nodded solemnly before Beach continued: “I’m sure you followed the case on television like everyone else. You know that Alex Devlin had built massive power and wealth – so much so, that he virtually controlled the entire oil, food, weapons, and healthcare industries. You also know that he bought off or discredited members of Congress, and even tried to extort the President himself.”
“Yeah, they say the guy was hell-bent on ruling the entire country like some kind of behind-the-scenes dictator.”
“That’s right – why bother trying to win the presidency when you can simply own it? Aside from his massive legitimate holdings, Devlin owned a huge number of companies illegally, allowing him to manipulate markets, control lobby groups, and influence everything from politics to the food we eat, the gas we use, the medicines we take – you name it.”
“But this is all a matter of public record. What’s your big secret?”
“Here’s the part that’s sealed. What they told the world was a smokescreen to hide the diabolical truth of Devlin’s plan. He didn’t try to extort the president – he tried literally to control his brain.” Beach stopped, waiting for his partner to react.
Foxx stared blankly for a moment, until a grin began to form on his lips. “Okay, you got me, partner. If you don’t want to tell me what really happened, that’s up to you. I suppose breaking a national security seal is a lot to ask.”
Beach smiled too. “That’s exactly the reaction I expected. This is going to take some explaining, and quite some time to sink in. When I first learned about it, I thought Rod Serling had come along to screw with my head, but I’m telling you what really happened. I’m no scientist, but I’ll explain it as well as I can.”
For the next half hour, Beach described, in as much detail as he could manage, how a genius named Professor Linus Gelling and his team at Blue Sky Biotech had developed technology that could control a person’s perception of reality – and their actions. The technology was based on a physiological phenomenon known as Peduncular Hallucinosis, wherein the sufferer experiences extremely realistic hallucinations due to a neurohormonal anomaly affecting the peduncle at the base of the pons near the brain stem.
Neurologists and psychiatrists had struggled for years to help sufferers of this incredibly rare, but very real and frightening brain-function abnormality. Recent breakthroughs in neuroscience, facilitated by dramatic advances in computer and imaging technology, had enabled scientists like Gelling, and the late Scott Guthrie and Helen Benson, to understand the disease mechanisms. But with Devlin’s billions backing Blue Sky Biotech, Gelling, Benson, and other scientists learned how to replicate the phenomenon in healthy subjects.
This was done using the engineering discovery of dendrimers, extremely complex man-made atomic structures able to contain neurohormones and transport them to the point in the brain responsible for the hallucinations. Cutting-edge computer imagery, borrowed from computer game design, was literally programmed into active neurohormones, loaded into the dendrimer structure and injected through the back of the neck into the brain stem by means of a specially designed delivery device. This small compressed-air-powered, gun-like device was capable of precisely placing the neurohormone implant so the subject, after a brief period of sleep, would experience any scenario the computer graphics programmer had designed, including sight, smell, sound, touch, emotion, and, most importantly, action and interaction. They called it Project Hallucineers.
“So you’re trying to tell me this Blue Sky Biotech had the technology to control people’s brains?” Foxx broke in. “How could they possibly justify that to the FDA?”
“Very good point – you obviously know a bit about how these things are approved.”
“Only what I read in the paper and see on the news. It seems to me this would be covered by them, wouldn’t it?”
“Absolutely. In fact, not only did they have the FDA on board, but the ethical committees of various prestigious universities approved their scientific study designs, too.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Alan. Why would they accept a technology that would give someone the power to make people do whatever they want? I mean, what benefit would there be for the general public?”
“That’s the interesting part. This technology wasn’t developed for mind control per se. In fact, Professor Gelling and his team had altruistic goals. Imagine patients with psychiatric disorders suddenly able to function normally, or crippled patients able to enjoy a jog in the park – at least in their own minds. Gelling’s team planned to use the technology to at least temporarily ease the suffering for victims of an amazing variety of illnesses, from paralysis to impotence. From there, they hoped to expand on the technology to develop permanent treatments, if not cures, for various psychological and physical ailments. That was the reason the FDA and ethical committees were so enthusiastic – the massive health benefit potential.”
“Wow, I didn’t think of the medical possibilities for such a thing. Guess that’s why I’m not a scientist or an entrepreneur.”
“It goes way beyond that. Imagine a working couple with small children and very little money – people who would struggle to afford the time and money for a decent holiday. With the Hallucineers technology, they could have what they perceive as a week of five-star luxury in Bora Bora, for a mere pittance. People could experience racing a Formula One car, sky-diving, deep sea diving, space travel and weightlessness, you name it. Imagine quadriplegics able to make virtual love, people with severe phobias able to face their fears – the possibilities are almost limitless. Unfortunately, in their naiveté, Gelling and the FDA thought they would be able to control the use of the technology. Devlin had different ideas, and since he owned the company, he had unfettered access – and used it.”
“What about Gelling? Surely he wouldn’t have allowed that?”
“As it turns out, he had no idea what Devlin was up to until I told him. Devlin was paying the famous computer game designer, Eric Rothstein, to covertly program hallucination scenarios to achieve his goals. Rothstein designed the implanted hallucinations that killed Helen Benson, Scott Guthrie, Congressman Taylor, a Capitol policeman, and who knows how many others. He was in the middle of designing a scenario to make the President authorize executive orders, which would have advanced Devlin’s strategy, when we burnt the whole thing to the ground. If we hadn’t stopped him, the Executive Orders, combined with extorted and bribed congressional approvals, would have given him legal authority to do practically anything he wanted. It could have been a seriously frightening future.”
“And my partner is the one who stopped it.” Foxx slapped Alan on the shoulder.
“Believe me – if it hadn’t been for the incredible skills of Jake Riley and the hacker, Equilibrium, Devlin would have succeeded. They’re the silent heroes in this, but as much as I would like to acknowledge their actions, they want to maintain anonymity. I must respect their wishes, so I hope you understand that I’ll leave their roles out of this. It’s not that I don’t trust you – just that you don’t need those details to understand the case.”
“I can respect that. I’d love to meet this Jake Riley guy though – sounds like he would have made one hell of a Marine.”
“And then some!”
Foxx scratched at his facial stubble for a moment. “I gotta be honest, partner – this is a heck of a lot to swallow. Not saying I don’t believe you, but if it all went down like you say it did, what happened to the technology? More importantly, isn’t it possible that our suspect is some poor sap who had one of those implant things shoved into his neck? And if that’s the case, he’d have no idea what he did, right?”
“The thought briefly crossed my mind while we were at the crime scene, but I immediately dismissed it. Project Hallucineers, including all research notes, equipment, and any other relevant materials, was seized by the Attorney General’s Office as soon as the case broke. It’s as though the discovery was never made. There are rumors that Blue Sky Biotech was financially compensated through tax credits or something like that, but from what I’ve heard, the technology itself will never see the light of day again. And I’m sure you can see why.”
“I can see exactly why, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t. You really think they would lock up something this big and throw away the key?”
“I’m not that naïve, but it seems to me it would be controlled by some highly secret department – maybe the military – so how would it get out? And even if it had, why would they use it to kill some random carpenter and his wife in Poughkeepsie? No, it doesn’t fit. If a secret government department is still messing with the technology, you can bet they’ve got far loftier goals than imitating a psychotic murderer.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But I’d still like to know what’s going on with that Hallucineers stuff.”
“You and me, both…” Beach stopped as his phone began to vibrate. There was no caller ID, and he didn’t recognize the number. He gave Foxx a puzzled look as he answered the call. “Agent Beach.”
Alan listened for a moment before speaking. “Can’t you just tell me on the phone? Okay, we’ll be there tomorrow – I have to check flight times but I think we can make it by late morning. All right, lunch it is, Dr. Tinsley.”
Foxx raised a questioning eyebrow.
“We’re going to see the head of the Sherbourne Institute in West Virginia.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It’s where Bryan Adler was incarcerated – and where he died.”
Chapter 8
Jake’s lingering frustration slowly abated as the thick blades of the Royal Thai Army Black Hawk slashed the air in thunderous loops. It was far from a cost-effective means of travel, but that evening’s last flight to Phnom Penh had already left Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport, and Jake was in no mood to wait for the next afternoon’s flight from Utapao. Mike Lee had called in a favor from an army general, who’d accepted a mere ten-thousand Baht bribe to organize the chopper to take the team to the Cambodian border. A further twenty-thousand Baht was required to cover the jet fuel for the two-hundred-and-ten-mile trip then return the machine to base. Then there was a thousand Baht each to keep the two man crew quiet, but it was all chump change for a man of Jake’s means and resolve.
To avoid potential difficulties between the constantly squabbling neighbors, the chopper would land just over a half mile from the southernmost border separating Thailand and Cambodia. The team would walk the rest of the way to the Cham Yeam Border checkpoint, where the Australian brothers had arranged for one of their contacts to meet the group with a minivan. They would continue south for about seventy miles, then east for another seventy to the capital, Phnom Penh. Given Cambodian road and traffic conditions, the drive would take over five hours, but they would still arrive at their destination at least half a day before the next flight from Utapao airport south of Pattaya.
The Black Hawk cut through the air at a hundred fifty knots, making the trip just over an hour and a quarter long – a far cry from the five hours plus it would have taken to drive. As the machine descended to land, Jake checked his watch. His mood cooled by the speed of the trip, he gave Dozer a slap on the shoulder and called out through the flight comms, “I hope your guy is on time.”
“No worries, mate – he’s staying just down the road from the checkpoint. His girl ferries gamblers between the border and the casinos for a living. She wants a baby, so he’s been there on an extended shag-fest for almost three months. I reckon he’ll thank us for giving him a rest.” The big man gave Jake an exaggerated wink as he pulled his headset off and grabbed his pack.
The chopper touched down, and the group quickly made their exit. Tik tarried a moment to thank and pay the crew, but soon caught up with the others. They quick marched to the border crossing and on to the checkpoint to buy tourist visas and check their passports. Ten minutes later, as they were striding through the car park, a lanky, weary-looking character loped toward them with a raucous and purposely drawn-out greeting of, “Mate!”
Both Phillips brothers put up their right hands to high-five their friend, simultaneously answering his greeting with their own exaggerated, “Mate!”
Jake and Mike Lee looked at each other, shaking their heads. Now they had three Aussies to contend with. Tik watched on, confounded by the vernacular. She’d had her share of trouble trying to figure out the nuances of American slang, and now she was faced with an entirely new lexicon of confusingly misused words. “Crazy Aussies,” she mumbled, assuming an impatient stance.
The Aussies exchanged vulgar, playful familiarities – Priest inquiring as to the hanging status of their friend’s testicles, and Dozer asking if he had any bark left on his nudger. There was obviously a long history of friendship among the three, so the others let them alone a few moments until Priest sensed the awkward silence behind them. “Sorry, guys. This is Erik – Erik the Viking.”
“That’ll be enough of the Viking twaddle, mate. Just plain Erik will do, thanks.”
Erik held his hand out to shake with Mike and Jake, then turned to Tik, put his hands together in front of his face and bowed politely. She waied back, and they made their introductions.
“So what the hell you doing mixed up with these wankers?” Erik motioned toward the brothers.
“I often ask myself the very same question,” Mike said.
Erik ignored the quip. “Just shitting you, mate. The lads have already filled me in.” Catching the stern glance Mike Lee shot at Dozer and Priest, Erik added quickly, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Super Spy. They just said you’re on a bit of a mission and need a lift to Phnom Penh. You bloody Seppos can be so testy.”
Lee held his tongue. Without any available contacts in the immediate vicinity, he’d had little choice but to go along with Priest’s su
ggestion they use their man. It also bothered him that, while he suspected it was a derogatory Oz term for Americans, he didn’t know exactly what Seppo meant.
As if sensing Lee’s resentment, Erik said, “Lighten up, mate. ‘Super Spy’ is what we call all you CIA blokes where I’m from.” He turned to the others and motioned toward the van. “Righto, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
The three-way Aussie banter continued nonstop as Erik guided the van along what Cambodia classified as a highway, but was, in fact, not much more than a poorly maintained dirt road. The right-of-way was constantly overrun by wandering bovine creatures, crazy taxi drivers, even crazier motorcycle riders, seemingly aimless pedestrians, and meandering poultry – all accompanied by a constant cacophony of unnecessary and unheeded car horns. Jake watched in amusement while Mike Lee’s knuckles went white from gripping the grab-handle above him. Erik the Viking was obviously familiar with the chaotic conditions, but his driving style gave Lee no confidence whatsoever in their safety. Meanwhile, oblivious to the madness and in typical Laotian style, Tik fell fast asleep.
Almost five hours later, they entered the outskirts of the capital. The mixture of closely huddled, ugly concrete sheds with modern low-rise apartments, small office buildings, and rickety wooden structures painted a grim picture of a nation still struggling to rebuild from the ashes of the Khmer Rouge regime. The demise of industry, wealth, culture, and education for which Pol Pot was responsible had been catastrophic to the country’s place in a rapidly modernizing Southeast Asia. Cambodia was still crippled by its overwhelming loss of doctors, teachers, architects, engineers, and free-thinkers. The vast majority of intellectuals had been murdered in the death camps or had narrowly escaped to neighboring countries. Predominantly through imported capital, intellect, and skills, the country was gradually emerging from the mire in which the vicious dictator had left it.
The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 7