‘They are the most talented operatives under my command and consequently under the command of the Fifth Column,’ Denton said. ‘I have Al Jazeera ready to circulate a plausible suicide bombing scenario for the friendly forces, which we’ve tied in with your promotion of Al-Zawahiri as leader of the toilet,’ Denton said.
‘The leader of Al-Qaeda,’ the General corrected him.
‘The leader of the “foreign toilet”,’ Denton said, ‘if you translate into colloquial Arabic.’
The General cleared his throat. ‘Let’s not forget who came up with such nonsense.’
Denton scratched his trimmed beard. ‘And people say I don’t have a sense of humor.’
The General exhaled through his nostrils, making a slight whistling sound. It set Denton’s teeth on edge.
‘I would suggest you modify the story according to this brief,’ the General said, sliding a folder across his desk.
Denton didn’t look at it. ‘Change of plan?’
‘No, always part of the plan.’ The General flexed his hands, opening and closing them into fists. ‘The new terrorist will not wield an AK-47 or pray to Allah. The new terrorist will be the lily-white middle class taxpayer who has lost his job, his shares and his house. The new terrorist rallies for the easily swayed masses to occupy Wall Street. The new terrorist belongs to carefully selected groups with extremist views, which we need to manage and finance. Because if there’s a new terrorist in town that we didn’t create, I want control over him. The only terrorist attacks I want to see on the news are those I give you orders for.’
‘But a western terrorist,’ Denton said. ‘Will the west believe it?’
‘They believed in a mastermind hiding in a cave and nineteen box-cutting freedom haters,’ the General said. ‘If anything, this is more plausible.’
Denton frowned. ‘Your replacement boogie man for the western world is . . .
themselves
?’
‘In case it’s escaped your notice, Denton, people aren’t afraid any more. I’m running out of countries in the Middle East to set up. The west needs something new to fear.’
‘Understood,’ Denton said. ‘But making them fear the unknown is easy. This . . . will take some work.’
The General’s fingers interlocked a little too tightly. ‘Let me make this completely clear. We need terrorism to maintain public fear. We need terrorism to maintain support for our invasion and acquisition of the Middle East. If we have any intention of remaining in control, we need terrorism to lock down America. To lock down the west.’ He leaned forward and his voice dropped to a gravelly undertone. ‘I will have you invent as many terrorist groups, as many revolutions and wars and straw men, as I believe are necessary to keep us in control. We’ve come this far and I’m not about to stop now.’
‘I’ll make the required changes,’ Denton said. ‘I guarantee that we’re doing our best to contain the situation.’
‘Your best is clearly not good enough.’ The General ran his tongue between his lips to moisten them. ‘This sort of activity turns suspicion in our direction, which is cause for concern in itself because our direction doesn’t and shouldn’t exist.’
Denton ignored the criticism. He wasn’t taking the fall this time.
‘We tracked the operatives over the border and managed to recover the two who accompanied Sophia: Damien and Jay. They won’t be ready for our shocktrooper program, but as soon as they recover from their injuries, they’ll be redeployed.’
The General raised an eyebrow. ‘You intend to redeploy malfunctioning operatives into the field? Are you begging for a repeat of yesterday?’
‘Sir, operatives are programmed so they are unable to inflict self-harm, which includes removing their RFIDs. The fact that Sophia was able to remove hers and thereby remove the others’ strongly suggests it’s her programming that has malfunctioned. The rest of her team were simply following orders.’
Denton wouldn’t know for sure whether Sophia had removed Damien’s and Jay’s RFIDs as well as her own until he questioned them during reprogramming. But the General didn’t need to know that.
‘Like you said,’ he continued, ‘collateral damage. And at 200 million apiece, I know you wouldn’t want to waste them.’
The General might have smiled ever so slightly, but Denton couldn’t be sure. It was good enough. He lifted the small paper box from his lap and placed it on the desk.
‘I baked them this morning,’ he said, and opened the lid to reveal half a dozen red velvet mini-cupcakes piped with cream cheese.
The General glared at him, but reached over to inspect them. ‘Just one.’
He didn’t eat it, but placed it in his topmost desk drawer—a drawer already populated with cupcakes Denton had brought on previous visits.
‘Is there anything else?’ Denton asked.
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ the General said. ‘Your failure in this matter has earned you a temporary demotion to lieutenant colonel. Nothing personal, just politics. You know how it is.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll no longer be facility coordinator at Desecheo Island, and your special access clearance has been reduced to level two.’
Denton tried to contain his rage. A demotion? He’d just given the man a fucking cupcake. ‘Who will be the coordinator then?’
‘Doctor Komarov,’ the General said. ‘She is more than qualified and remarkably efficient.’
Denton almost choked. ‘Komarov from Black Mesa? She hasn’t been sober since the Cold War.’
‘You will still be responsible for your existing operatives, of course,’ the General said. ‘One of your responsibilities is to ensure a thorough reassessment of all operatives under your command. I want to be convinced there will be no further malfunctions. And I also want to know why there was a malfunction in the first place. It seems to me that your latest programming technique isn’t as flawless as you’ve had me believe. You will also be required to meet the ambitious monthly shocktrooper quota you have just assigned yourself. With all bugs ironed out.’
Denton stood. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why are you interested in the progress of my operatives? You’ve never shown this level of interest before.’
‘You’ve never made a mistake before.’
Chapter 6
The light burned. Sophia’s brain felt two sizes too big for her skull. She could make out muted sounds and light and dark blurs. Did she get to the river? She couldn’t even remember hitting the water. What happened to Damien and Jay?
‘Sophia.’ The accent . . . was it Russian? ‘Can you hear me?’
He spoke softly, sounded middle-aged. His head and shoulders came into focus. He was standing about five meters before her. Unarmed. She could take him down. Clear the room. Find Damien and Jay.
‘Why am I . . .’ Her voice cracked through dry lips. Her throat felt coated in sand. She was sitting down. She tried to move. Only her hands twitched.
‘My name is Doctor Adamicz.’ He watched her with faded blue eyes through wire-rimmed glasses.
She could see him in full clarity now. He looked old enough to be her grandfather. He was dressed in slacks, a navy blue vest over a pinstriped shirt, cuffs rolled up past his elbows and damp patches under his arms. He had a thin, aquiline nose and a puff of white hair atop his head. He looked dimly familiar.
Sophia realized how rapid her breathing was. She tried to calm herself with slower, deeper breaths. She stood, but dizziness corrupted her balance.
‘I think it best if you remain seated.’ He gestured to the chair she’d been sitting on. ‘What I am to tell you may come as shock.’
‘I’d rather stand.’
Her legs gave way beneath her, kicking up dust from the tribal rug underfoot.
She heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Two armed men stood over her. Adamicz gestured for them to retreat. She stumbled to one knee and tried to stand. The room spun around her, making her eyes ache.
She couldn’t quite place Adamicz. Was he the target? Was he an informant? She couldn’t even remember what operation she was on.
‘How did I get here?’ she said.
Adamicz smiled. ‘With great deal of money, planning and some luck. The bus sliding across bridge was not part of plan, but we adapt.’
The dull pain in her head began to recede. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The former Blue Berets you see here are responsible for your capture.’
Her vision found an anchor. Men dressed in jeans and dark T-shirts, carrying M4 carbines, flanked Adamicz. The rifles looked heavily customized with suppressors and square-shaped holographic display sights. Sophia’s gaze locked onto the balcony overhead. Four other men with M4 carbines. She checked her flanks. Just dark-stained bookshelves. She was in a library.
‘You’re holding me hostage?’ she said.
‘Actually, I hope to set you free.’
Great. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
Back on her feet, steadier this time, she turned around. A heavy door twice her height was blocking her exit.
She wanted desperately to escape.
She wanted to listen to what he had to say.
She wanted to kill him.
She needed to regain her senses, observe her surroundings and, above all, think. If she couldn’t think, she couldn’t escape.
She sat back on the chair. ‘I need some water.’
Adamicz gestured to one of the men beside him, who disappeared from her line of sight. He returned a moment later with a dusty glass of water. He placed it a meter before her, then retreated, rifle aimed. His behavior seemed odd. Why was he scared of her?
She stood, scooped the glass from the antique rug, but decided not to drink from it.
‘I don’t remember what happened.’
‘Memory shall return. In time,’ Adamicz said.
She tried to think of what she was doing before she was captured. It felt as though her mind was wrapped in a heavy fog.
‘Where’s my team? What have you done with them?’
‘They were recovered by Fifth Column.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘No one. But I used to work for Fifth Column.’
‘Do you really think I’d believe that?’ she said. ‘How do you know about the Fifth Column?’
He frowned. ‘I was there when they abduct you from family and begin training you. I know in great detail every operation you take part in. Your first operation as team leader was a false flag in November, three years ago. That was when your career went off with bang. Three bangs, actually. How do you say . . . simultaneous suicide bombings.’
She had a faint recollection of the operation. But she remembered it differently this time. The terrorists no longer existed; just civilians. A little girl offered her an arrangement of flowers, said they would make her smile. The girl even had her name, Sophia. But a very different life. A normal life. Then Jay cut the lights. Sophia’s team, one of three inter-reliant teams, had the explosives ready in the ceiling. Sophia gave them the green light. The wedding guests never saw it coming. Little Sophia never saw it coming.
Adamicz moved to a bookcase. He rolled a ladder aside to reveal a wind-up gramophone and an old wood-paneled television with a late-1970s videocassette recorder. He turned on the television and recorder, then hit the play button. He stepped back, allowing Sophia to see the dusty screen.
At first, she figured the footage was from a security camera, only it was placed in an unusual position. It could have been a pinhole camera. Disguised in a fire sprinkler or smoke alarm. Onscreen, she saw a middle-aged man lying on a bed, his business shirt undone to reveal a pallid chest. A young woman sat astride him, dark hair and ivory skin. She unraveled his tie and passed him a glass of caramel-tinted liquid. He gulped thirstily, emptied the glass, then let the woman place it on the nightstand for him. Sophia caught a glimpse of the woman’s face.
It was her.
Adamicz hit the fast-forward button. The onscreen Sophia stroked the man’s chest, let the tips of her hair drape across his skin. When Adamicz stopped fast-forwarding, the man had passed out. Onscreen, Sophia stripped the man of his clothes. Two men and two women entered the room. She recognized the men as Damien and Jay. They flipped the man onto his side and slowly inserted a tube between his buttocks. One of the women unscrewed a bottle, removed several tablets and slid them down the tube.
Adamicz fast-forwarded again. This time it was a different camera, different room. The bathroom. The bath was filled with water and ice. Damien and Jay carried the sleeping man—now tubeless—to the bath and placed him inside. His face and body were slicked with sweat, his cheeks flushed red.
‘That’s not what happened.’ She looked at Adamicz. ‘I remember that man, and we did not do that.’
Adamicz hit the stop button. ‘The tablets placed in man’s anus raise his body temperature to dangerous level. By placing him in bath of cold water, you quickly and efficiently induce heart attack.’
Sophia’s skin felt like it was burning. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
She half expected the man standing behind Adamicz to start laughing, but his face was drawn, gaze fixed.
Adamicz switched off the television. ‘All of your work as operative for Fifth Column, like what you see here, was not done of your own free will. Your programming involves artificially splitting your personality into dissociated alters, as is case with multiple personality disorder. This is accomplished using combination of hypnosis and infliction of extreme trauma, which in turn splinters mind into dissociated compartments.’
She licked her cracked lips; held the glass of water tightly, but did not drink. ‘Are you suggesting I’ve been hypnotized?’
‘Your mind was split in two: one half was your real personality—your archeopsyche. The other half was your programmed personality, the neopsyche, splintered into little parapsyches. Used for assassination, espionage, even suicide if required. All this while your real personality sees something quite different. You exist in real personality right now, so have no clue that your parapsyches even exist. But while in the employ of Fifth Column, you are always operating in one of your parapsyches. Everything happens through veil. Operationally, you have no idea your archeopsyche exists.’
‘But I remember everything,’ Sophia said. ‘Don’t I?’