by Jack Mars
“Of course,” said Guyer apologetically. “Essentially, I have spent the last thirteen months reverse-engineering the suppressor’s technology into a way to oppose the device; that is, to affect the limbic system in a manner that will, to use layman terms, ‘encourage’ memory.”
Reid frowned. “I’m not sure I follow. You built this for people that had a memory suppressor implanted?” As far as he was aware, there had been only one suppressor created—and only one person affected by it.
“Oh, it is much more than that,” said Guyer. “If it works the way I hope, this machine could potentially help patients who have suffered memory loss through trauma, long-term drug use, amnesia… all manner of afflictions.”
“If what you’re saying is true, then this could help thousands.” Reid was hopeful that he was right, that some good could come from the memory suppressor’s duplicitous intent.
“Yes,” said Guyer, his tone hushed. “Yet it is my deepest regret and my biggest shame to see this machine every day and do nothing with it. I fear going public because your agency might recognize the stolen technology. It might have traced back to you.”
Reid shook his head. “So you spent months designing and building this machine for nothing?”
The doctor looked away, and Reid suddenly understood.
“No… you built it because you believed I would come back.” He didn’t want to believe that, but the doctor’s expression told him it was true. Guyer was not just preoccupied with the suppressor and Reid’s head; he was obsessed. “This could help people. You have no obligation to me. You don’t owe me protection.”
Guyer frowned deeply. “But I do, Agent—I mean, Reid. Don’t you see? Your mind is the greatest achievement of my career. I understand that your life has been negatively impacted by what I did—”
“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Reid muttered.
“Even so, what we achieved together was impossible before you. Even to the modern world at large, it still is impossible. But…” Guyer’s eyes gleamed. “If we can restore your memory, then that will be an entirely new miracle of modern science. And if you agree to allow me to test my machine on you, and it works—well, then I will have no moral choice but to go public with it.”
Reid stroked his chin as he examined the machine before him. He had come here for answers, but he hadn’t actually expected a viable solution. Yet there it was, in the form of the large white cylinder before him.
“When?” he asked.
“Now.”
“Now?” Reid did a double-take. He glanced at his watch. He still had plenty of time to return to the girls—and he was keenly aware of how ridiculous it would sound to mention that he was on a schedule when they were talking about solving such a serious impact to his life and wellbeing.
“The entire procedure would take under an hour,” Guyer said calmly. “But I understand if you have trepidations. You can think about it, come back another day if you’d like.” It was clear by the doctor’s tone that he did not want Reid to leave.
“I…” If Reid was being honest, he was extremely nervous—not about the procedure, but about what it might mean to have his full memory reinstated. “Is there any recovery time involved?”
“No,” said Guyer. “It is noninvasive, completely safe.”
“Will there be any side effects?”
“I don’t know,” Guyer said honestly.
“Will it be instant? Will I remember right away?”
“I don’t know,” the doctor said again. “If it works properly, then it should be instant, much like the suppressor was. But this is completely new territory, even for me. I can only guess at answers to your questions, and I’m hesitant to even do that.”
Reid looked the doctor in the eye as he asked the most important question. “Can I trust you?”
Guyer smiled warmly. “I imagine that with your vocation and memory issues, distrust is instinctive. Even if I said yes, would you take me at my word?”
“No,” Reid agreed. “I wouldn’t.”
It was long past time for deliberation, he realized. He had told himself so many times that he needed to know, needed a solution—and now it was right in front of him. He was done making excuses.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER TEN
Deputy Director Ashleigh Riker kept her head high and her eyes straight as she strode across the third level of the parking garage in Langley, Virginia. She did not want to appear suspicious or attract any scrutiny as she made her way to the meeting place at the farthest end of the deck, a rare and narrow blind spot from cameras and prying eyes.
Director Mullen was already there, leaning against a black SUV and puffing on the last few inches of a cigar. As she approached, he dropped it and stomped it under a heel.
“Riker,” he nodded casually. Mullen was head of the entire Central Intelligence Agency, a man that answered only to the Director of National Intelligence and the president. Though fifty-six and thoroughly balding, Mullen was as much a spy as he was a statesman, as adept at reading people as he was at concealing his own disposition and nature. “These meetings of ours have been pleasantly infrequent lately.”
“Yes, sir. There hasn’t been much to report.” For the past several weeks, Agent Zero had been quiet and busy with his double life, teaching at the university and working for the National Resources Division. No pots had been stirred; no chatter had arisen. But now… “Zero is in Switzerland.”
Mullen’s eyebrow arched. “Switzerland? What for?”
“You didn’t know?” Riker tried to sound surprised, but she had suspected that the director had not been informed of Zero’s sudden departure a day earlier. “He requested an immediate leave of absence. Went right over the head of his director in the NRD and had Deputy Director Cartwright sign off on it.” Riker gave Mullen a moment to process that before innocently asking, “Did Cartwright not tell you?”
The director grunted by way of response, which meant no, Cartwright had not told Mullen about Zero’s “vacation.” How interesting, she thought. “Zero claims it’s a ski trip with his girls.”
“Skiing? In April?” Mullen shook his head. “Seems a bit suspicious, doesn’t it? What’s in Switzerland that we don’t know about?”
“Well, yesterday it would seem they were actually skiing,” Riker admitted. “Today they’re in Zurich.” She had a tech tracking the whereabouts of Zero’s daughters at all times; the subcutaneous implants had become quite handy. “Currently his daughters are at the Swiss National Museum.”
“And you’re sure he’s with them?”
Riker nodded. “I’m quite sure. By all accounts, he’s hardly let them out of his sight since last month. He certainly isn’t about to do so in a foreign nation. Not after what happened.”
Mullen stroked his chin contemplatively. “It feels like there’s more to this. Zero is keen. He hasn’t made a move in weeks; I’d bet he’s been biding his time. Keep an eye on them. I want to be aware the moment there’s a step out of line.”
“Should we have a failsafe, sir?” Riker asked. “A specialist, perhaps?”
“Probably a good idea,” Mullen agreed. “Put someone in Zurich on standby.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about this mess with the embassy in Iraq?” Mullen asked.
“They’re still clearing the debris,” Riker told him. “The explosives used were quite extensive; the entire building collapsed on top of the blast zone. A few survivors have been found, but…”
“The delegation?” Mullen asked.
Riker shook her head. “No. Senator Conroy and four other representatives are presumed dead.” Conroy and his people were an attaché from New York—specifically Manhattan. The city would soon be mourning the loss of its leaders.
“Who’s on it?”
“Agent Strickland is en route,” Riker answered, “with an attachment of Rangers. Johansson is due back at regional HQ in Zurich, and then she’ll be sen
t to rendezvous—”
“Wait, wait,” Mullen waved a hand. “Johansson is in Zurich while Zero is in Zurich? Don’t those two have a history?”
“Yes,” Riker admitted, “but…” She paused, considering the notion. “You don’t think he would try to sway her in some way, do you?”
“I know there’s no such thing as coincidence in our line of work,” Mullen said, “and we know that she defied CIA orders to help him before.”
Riker scolded herself for not seeing that herself. It was true that Maria Johansson had caused trouble for the agency alongside Zero in Eastern Europe, but she had been pardoned with him and Agent Watson in the aftermath—a move that was intended solely to keep Zero close to them so that they might keep tabs on him.
“I have an idea,” said the director. “Let’s interrupt Zero’s ‘vacation.’”
“How so?” Riker asked.
“I want you to reinstate him in the field. Put him on this Brotherhood nonsense with Strickland and Johansson.”
“That might be troublesome,” Riker said. “Apparently Agent Strickland and Zero have developed a strange sort of friendship these past weeks.”
“So they’re all pals. Jesus, is there anyone he won’t sink his teeth into?” Mullen scoffed. “That won’t do. We’d have the makings of collusion. It’s difficult enough just dealing with him alongside everything else going on…” He trailed off, deep in thought.
“Sir?”
“Pull the Rangers off,” Mullen instructed. “I’m going to put someone else on it, a private organization. Someone who can keep an eye on Zero and his friends—and act if necessary. But let’s tread carefully. Zero is cunning, and apparently he’s got Cartwright in his corner.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Does Cartwright…?”
“No,” Mullen confirmed. “Cartwright doesn’t know anything about this, so play nice with him. He’ll agree to reinstate Zero if he gets the chance.”
“And if Zero refuses to return?”
“He won’t,” Mullen said confidently. “Not if he’s given the right reasons. Is there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Alright then,” said Mullen. “I want a full briefing as soon as anyone knows anything about what happened in Iraq. Get going. I’ll take the elevator back down.”
Riker nodded and started away.
“Ashleigh.” She turned back and met the director’s sober gaze. “I know you. I know you want to sit in my chair someday. I know you want the office. And if that’s ever meant to be, then this cannot get out. I don’t think I need to remind you of the severity of the situation. We’re talking about a tower crumbling, and it goes all the way to the top.”
“Of course, sir. I understand.”
“Good girl.”
Riker cringed and gritted her teeth, but refrained from saying anything further. Instead she spun on a heel and hastily clacked across the parking deck.
“Good girl.” What an ass.
Mullen was right about one thing, though. She did want his chair. It was her goal to become the first female director of the Central Intelligence Agency—and she was on the fast track for it. But it wasn’t her work ethic or record that put her there.
Only two years earlier, as an intelligence officer, she had discovered something, the very same something that Agent Zero had discovered too: the makings of a plot, the very whisperings of which could be grounds for treason against no fewer than nineteen Congressmen, three governors, and a handful of other politicians—including the American president himself. And that wasn’t including key members of the EPA, NSA, and of course, the CIA.
Zero had acted like an agent. He kept his mouth shut and tried to build a case. But he never had the full picture of what it meant, and he didn’t get the chance to share it. Intelligence Officer Ashleigh Riker did the exact opposite. She took what she knew straight to the top, to CIA Director Mullen. She had her suspicions that Mullen was clued into what was going on, and she was right.
But she wasn’t after hush money. She simply wanted a promotion to assistant director. And after nearly two years she had now made another leap up, this time to deputy director. She would be only one step removed from being able to succeed Mullen as director, and with the combination of her intelligence, cunning, and knowledge, she was certain she could do it.
Two years ago, Zero didn’t have the whole picture, but if Riker understood his memory issues accurately, even the simplest combination of the right words could jog something in his mind.
And as both she and he knew all too well, tragic accidents befell people every day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alina Guyer carefully secured a metal band over Reid’s cranium, some sort of expensive-looking halo outfitted with more than a dozen sensors. She leaned over him as she carefully fit the device on his head. “Comfortable?” she asked.
“Yeah, fine. What does it do?”
“This is just to read brainwave activity during the procedure,” she said. “Everything you’re about to experience is sensory.”
Reid frowned. “But the suppressor was an implant.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Guyer. He was across the white laboratory, fiddling with a touch-screen computer array. “But the way in which it works is by transmitting signals to your limbic system. A constant barrage of waves specifically intended to suppress certain functions in your brain. This machine is, of course, much larger, but it operates in much the same way, utilizing waves and signals. Imagine your brain is a lock, and this machine—”
“Is a giant key,” Reid finished. “Got it.”
Guyer nodded as his expression turned somber. “But I should forewarn you. If this works, some of the things that you recall may be subconscious: fantasies, wishes, suspicions from your past life. All of those non-memory aspects were removed with your actual memories.”
Reid frowned. “So you’re saying that if I remember things, some of the things I remember may not actually be real?”
“They’ll be real to you.” Guyer gestured to his wife. “Alina, the chamber.”
She unclasped the lid of the white cylinder and lifted it to reveal the narrow cot inside. “You’re not claustrophobic, are you Reid?” she asked with a smirk.
He shook his head and climbed quickly onto the cot. Doubt was rapidly setting in; the notion of having things return to him that may not be real was frightening to him, but he had come too far to back out now. Better to just get it over with, he thought.
Before they had begun, Reid had composed an email on his phone, set on a delayed send two hours from then. If anything went wrong, he couldn’t risk having his girls stranded in a foreign country with no idea what happened to him. If he didn’t delete it inside of two hours, the email would send to both Strickland and Watson’s personal accounts, detailing where he was, what he had done, and how to contact the girls.
He thought about them once more as he lay his head on the cushion of the cylindrical cot.
“Ah! One moment.” Dr. Guyer hurried over with a horseshoe-shaped piece of plastic. “Here. You might need this.”
Reid turned it over in his hands. “A mouth guard?”
“To protect your teeth and tongue,” the doctor said simply.
Reid sat up quickly. “What? Wait, just what the hell is about to happen—?”
“Lie back,” Alina instructed. She pushed gently on his shoulder and he complied, lying flat onto the cot. “Good luck.” Then she lowered the lid of the cylinder and Reid was thrust into complete silence and darkness.
For a moment, there was nothing. It reminded him of the aftermath of his fight with Rais on the walls of Dubrovnik, when he and the assassin had tumbled over the edge of a tower and Reid had lost consciousness for a few minutes. At the time he thought he had died; all he saw was black, and he heard absolutely nothing until Maria’s voice floated to him.
A voice floated to him now, but it was not Maria. It was Dr. Guyer’s.
“Can you hear me?” the doctor
asked. His voice was tinny and distant, coming through a small speaker inside the cylinder.
“Um… yes.”
“Good. I want to warn you that some of what you are about to experience may disturb you,” the doctor told him.
“It would help if you told me what I was about to—”
“Please keep in mind,” the doctor interrupted, “that nothing in the chamber can harm you. You are perfectly safe in our hands.”
“Great,” Reid muttered. “Then what’s the mouthpiece for?”
“Ah, yes. Please insert that now.”
“Why?” Reid insisted.
“In case we induce a seizure.”
Reid reminded himself to have a closer look at Dr. Guyer’s medical degrees when all this was over as he put the plastic mouth guard over his teeth.
“We will now begin,” said Guyer. “Please remember what I said, and try to relax.”
Sure, Reid thought. I’m locked in a tube with no idea what’s about to happen to me. Relax.
Suddenly a white light shined right before his eyes, as if a camera flash went off in his face. He winced at the sudden blaze and spots danced in his vision. The light was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, but the colorful spots remained.
Then another light flashed, slightly to the left of the first. A third, to the right.
The lights flashed intermittently, with no discernible sequence or timing. A high-pitched whine rang in his ears, growing in timbre. Is that in my head? he thought. No, it’s coming from somewhere. Then, a scent wafted into the chamber. It was neither pleasant nor pungent, but rather bland. Was it the smell of dirt? Close, but not quite it. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
The lights continued to hammer his vision, the whining noise rising in pitch, the scent becoming stronger. Then, a tingling sensation on his scalp, his forehead.
Alina had lied to him. The halo was not just an array of sensors.
He realized what this was, at least partially; a sensory barrage, an assault on all of his primary methods of perception. As he thought it, he bit down on the plastic mouthpiece and tasted something bitter.