Night Chills (21 page)

Much farther on, faster and faster:

Eventually, there was less time given to the motivating images and more to the direct commands:

“That pace is maintained straight through to the end of the film,” Salsbury said. “During the last fifteen minutes, while all of this sex and death input continues, the concept of the key-lock code phrases is also introduced and implanted permanently in the viewer’s deep subconscious mind. ”

“That’s all there is to it?”

“Thanks to the drug that primes them for the subliminals—yes, that’s all there is to it.”

“And they don’t realize they’ve seen any of it.”

“If they did know, the program would have no effect on them. It has to speak solely to the subconscious in order to pass the natural reasoning ability of the conscious mind.”

Klinger pulled the command chair away from the console and sat down. His left hand was curled in his lap. It was so matted with black hair that it reminded Salsbury of a sewer rat. The general petted it with his other hand while he considered the print-outs he had just seen. At last he said, “Our three mercenaries. When did they complete the third stage of the program?”

“Thirty days ago. I’ve been observing them and testing their submissiveness for the past few weeks.”

“Any of them react at all as Kingman did?” “They all had bad dreams,” Salsbury said. “Probably about what they had seen on the rheostatic screen. None of them could recall. Furthermore, they all had severe night chills and mild nausea. But they lived.”

“Encountered any other problems?”

“None.”

“No weak spots in the program? No moments when they refused to obey you?”

“None at all, so far. In a few minutes, after we’ve put them to the ultimate test, we’ll know whether or not we have absolute control of them. If not, I’ll start over. If we do—champagne.”

Klinger sighed. “I suppose this is something we have to know. I suppose this last test is entirely necessary.”

“Entirely.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Weren’t you an officer in Vietnam?”

“What’s that got to do with
this?”

“You’ve sent men to die before.”

Grimacing, Klinger said, “But always with honor. Always with honor. And there’s sure as hell no honor in what’s going to happen here.”

Honor, Salsbury thought acidly. You’re as big an idiot as Leonard. There isn’t any heaven, and there’s no such thing as honor. All that counts is getting what you want. You know that and I know that and even Leonard, when he’s humbled over his fruit cup at a White House prayer breakfast with Billy Graham and the President, knows that—but I’m the only one of us who will admit it to himself.

Getting to his feet, Klinger said, “Okay. Let’s finish this. Where are they?”

“In the next room. Waiting.”

“They know what they’re going to do?”

“No.” Salsbury went to his desk, thumbed a button on the intercom, and spoke into the wire grid. “Rossner, Holbrook, and Picard. Come in now. We’re ready for you. ”

A few seconds later the door opened, and three men filed inside.

“Go to the center of the room,” Salsbury said.

They did as he directed.

“You’ve already opened them with the code phrase?” Klinger asked.

“Before you came.”

The first of them, in spite of the fact that he was in his late thirties or early forties, looked like a dangerous street-corner punk. Slim but hard and wiry. Five feet ten. Dark complexion. Dark brown hair combed straight back and graying at the temples. A way of standing with his feet apart and most of his weight on his toes so that he was always prepared to move and move quickly. His face was pinched, his eyes a bit too close together, his lips thin and a grayish-pink above a pointed chin.

“This is Rossner,” Salsbury told Klinger. “Glenn Rossner. American. He’s been a free-lance soldier for sixteen years.”

“Hello,” Rossner said.

“None of you is to speak unless spoken to,” Salsbury said. “Is that understood?”

Three voices: “Yes.”

The second man was approximately the same age as the first; otherwise, he could not have been less like Rossner. Six feet two. Husky. Fair complexion. Reddish-blond hair cropped close to his head. A broad face. Heavy jowls. His stem expression had been held for so many years that it seemed graven in his flesh. He looked like the sort of father who made arbitrary rules, used corporal punishment with a child at least twice a week, talked tough, acted bullheaded, and turned sons like Glenn Rossner into street-corner punks.

Salsbury said, “This is Peter Holbrook. He’s British. He’s been a mercenary for twenty years, ever since he was twenty-two. ”

The last man was no older than thirty, and he was the only one of the three who could be called handsome. Six feet. Lean and muscular. Thick brown hair. A broad brow. Peculiar green-gray eyes with long lashes that any woman would have been proud to have for her own. Very rectangular features and an especially strong jawline and chin. He somewhat resembled the young Rex Harrison.

“Michel Picard,” Salsbury said. “French. Speaks fluent English. He’s been a mercenary for four years.”

“Which will it be?” Klinger asked.

“Picard, I think.”

“Let’s get on with it, then.”

Salsbury turned to Rossner and said, “Glenn, there’s a folded canvas dropcloth on my desk. Bring it here.”

Rossner went to the desk, came back with the cloth.

“Peter, you help him unfold it on the floor.”

A minute later the nine-foot-square canvas sheet was spread out in the middle of the room.

“Michel, stand in the middle of the cloth.”

The Frenchman obeyed.

“Michel, what am I?”

“You are the key.”

“And what are you?”

“I am the lock.”

“You will do what I tell you to do.”

“Yes. Of course,” Picard said.

“Relax, Michel. You are very relaxed.”

“Yes. I feel fine.”

“You are very happy.”

Picard smiled.

“You will remain happy, regardless of what happens to you in the next few minutes. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“You will not attempt to stop Peter and Glenn from carrying out the orders I give them, regardless of what those orders are. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

Taking a three-foot length of heavy nylon cord from a pocket of his white laboratory smock, Salsbury said, “Peter, take this. Slip it about Michel’s neck as if you were going to strangle him—but proceed no further than that.”

Holbrook stepped behind the Frenchman and looped the cord around his throat.

“Michel, are you relaxed?”

“Oh, yes. Quite relaxed.”

“Your hands are at your sides now. You will keep them at your sides until I tell you to move them.”

Still smiling, Picard said, “All right.”

“You will smile as long as you are able to smile.”

“Yes.”

“And even when you are no longer able to smile, you’ll know this is for the best.”

Picard smiled.

“Glenn, you will observe. You will not become involved in the little drama these two are about to act out. ”

“I won’t become involved,” Rossner said.

“Peter, you will do what I tell you.”

The big man nodded.

“Without hesitation.”

“Without hesitation.”

“Strangle Michel.”

If the Frenchman’s smile slipped, it was only by the slightest fraction.

Then Holbrook jerked on both ends of the cord.

Picard’s mouth flew open. He seemed to be trying to scream, but he had no voice. He began to gag.

Although Holbrook was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, Salsbury could see the muscles bunching and straining in his thick arms.

Each desperate breath that Picard drew produced a thin, rattling wheeze. His eyes bulged. His face was flushed.

“Pull tighter,” Salsbury told Holbrook.

The Englishman obliged. A fierce grin, not of humor but of effort, seemed to transform his face into a death’s head.

Picard fell against Holbrook.

Holbrook stepped back.

Picard went to his knees.

His hands were still at his sides. He was making no effort to save himself.

“Jesus jump to hell,” Klinger said, amazed, numbed, unable to speak above a whisper.

Shuddering, convulsing, Picard lost control of his bladder and bowels.

Salsbury was pleased that he had thought to provide the canvas dropcloth.

Seconds later Holbrook stepped away from Picard, his task completed. The garrote had made deep, angry red impressions in the palms of his hands.

Salsbury took another length of cord from another pocket in his smock and gave it to Rossner. “Do you know what that is, Glenn?”

“Yes.” He had watched impassively as Holbrook murdered the Frenchman.

“Glenn, I want you to give the cord to Peter.” Without even pausing to think about it, Rossner placed the second garrote in the Englishman’s hands.

“Now turn your back to Peter.”

Rossner turned.

“Are you relaxed, Glenn?”

“No.”

“Relax. Be calm. Don’t worry about anything at all. That’s an order.”

The lines in Rossner’s face softened.

“How do you feel, Glenn?”

“Relaxed.”

“Good. You won’t try to keep Peter from obeying the orders I give him, regardless of what those orders are.”

“I won’t interfere,” Rossner said.

Salsbury turned to the Englishman. “Loop that cord around Glenn’s neck as you did with Michel.”

With an expert flip and twist of the garrote, Holbrook was in position. He waited for orders.

“Glenn,” Salsbury said, “are you tense?”

“No. I’m relaxed.”

“That’s fine. Just fine. You will continue to be relaxed. Now, I’m going to tell Peter to kill you—and you are going to permit him to do that. Is that clear?”

“Yes. I understand.” His placid expression didn’t waver.

“Don’t you want to live?”

“Yes. Yes, I want to live.”

“Then why are you willing to die?”

“I—I—” He looked confused.

“You are willing to die because refusal to obey the key means pain and death anyway. Isn’t that right, Glenn?”

“That’s right.”

Salsbury watched the two men closely for signs of panic. There were none. Nor even any of stress.