Chapter Nine 1999 Walter�s lips twitched in concentration as he filed down the edge of the jagged piece of metal. The whir of his equipment was loud enough so that it muffled the sound of Madeline�s shoes on the hard floor; standing unobserved, she watched him patiently for several minutes until he looked up. �Hello Walter,� she said pleasantly, smiling as he jumped in surprise upon seeing her. �My physician�s sample, please?� Walter switched off his machinery and casually reached for the bottle. He then stopped, hesitating before giving it to her. �The phenadryl chloride -- you�re really going to use it on her? It�ll destroy her mind -- permanently.� Madeline made no response; instead, she waited quietly, hands clasped in front of her, expressionless. Walter looked at her sharply. �She hasn�t done anything wrong,� he said, lowering his voice. �She�s just been doing her job, the same as the rest of us. This isn�t fair.� �Sometimes things are simply necessary. You know that, Walter,� she chided. He gave her a disgusted look and shook his head. �You don�t even feel guilty about this, do you?� He waited for a response, but when one was not forthcoming, he laughed sadly. �I suppose I shouldn�t be surprised,� he said. �You stopped having feelings a long time ago. Now, there�s nothing left inside but Section.� She took a deep breath, stunned that he would voice his thoughts so freely. She had long known what he thought of her, but, until now, he had never dared to say it to her face. But she knew. To him, not only was she part of that ninety-five percent, that community of lost souls, she was no doubt a charter member. And chief recruiter. She knew it, had grown to accept it -- and, as much as it would mortify him to learn it, had come to welcome it. Walter, without realizing it, served a useful function. In her mind, he and his five percent club provided a necessary outlet for Section One�s more sensitive operatives. Believing that they stood on a moral high ground made them feel better -- and when they felt better, they performed their jobs more effectively. She had no intention of interfering with that. But the idea of a moral high ground was an illusion. How could any of them really know what they would do in her place -- whether they would do better, or, as she suspected, far worse? It was easy for Walter set himself up as an ethical arbiter, to pass judgment from his comfortable hideaway in munitions. He had the luxury of being able to mock the rules even while he obeyed them -- she, in contrast, had the sad duty of enforcing them. And yet she had refrained from taking offense -- it was natural, she understood, for people to resent authority. If Walter provided a harmless means for them to express that resentment, she was happy to feign ignorance. As long as his condemnation remained unspoken, that is. Now, however, he had made a direct challenge. Even that she could have endured, had he chosen to confront her about another issue -- some harsh rule she had imposed, some offense she had committed against his precious �Sugar.� She would simply have smiled and walked off, allowing him to have his victory. But to accuse her of being unfeeling in this case was not simply a complaint fired at her as a hard-hearted second-in-command. It was an accusation aimed at her personally -- one that wounded, that drew blood. He, more than anyone, knew the bitter choices she had faced -- and he was telling her that she had made the wrong one. That she would not tolerate. Let him judge her professionally if he liked -- but he would not judge her life. She straightened her posture and leveled her coldest look at him. He was no more an innocent party here than she was, and she intended to remind him of that. �I wouldn�t cast stones, if I were you.� Her voice was low with an intense, controlled fury. After an excruciating silence, he handed her the bottle and looked away with an ashamed expression. Whether he was ashamed of himself or ashamed of her, she wasn�t quite sure. 1980 Paul watched Madeline�s expression shift from confusion to profound shock. �Fifteen days?� she asked, staring at him wide-eyed. �Yes, of course. What? My file said seven years?� He raised his eyebrows in surprise. �What else did it say?� �It doesn�t matter.� A deep frown creased her forehead. �It was translated from Vietnamese to Russian -- perhaps the names on two files got mixed up in the process.� She returned to the bench and sat down beside him. �What really happened to you?� she asked softly. He shrugged. �Well, it was nothing, really. Not compared to seven years, anyway.� He gave a dry laugh. �Whoever that happened to must have been one hell of a tough bastard.� �I want to hear about it anyway.� He glanced away and then slowly began to recount his story. He spoke in a monotone and stared into space, trying to distance himself from the pain that threatened to drown him as he described it -- the fifteen days of hell, eased only by the fierce loyalty of his NCO, Willie; the bizarre forced recruitment by Section One upon his rescue; and, finally, the unforgivable betrayal by his wife that destroyed all hope of returning to his old life. Through it all, Madeline listened silently, taking his hand when his voice choked with emotion. When he finished, he was finally able to look at her -- her eyes had filled with a luminous mixture of affection and sadness. He wanted -- desperately -- to pull her tightly against him, to let her arms surround and comfort him -- but to initiate such a gesture would make him look weak. Instead, he cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. �So, what did my file say? It sounds like it made me out to be some hero, when in reality I was just an unlucky SOB, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.� �It�s not important,� she said, shaking her head. �Tell me, I want to know,� he insisted. �Why?� She looked sincerely puzzled. He searched the depths of her eyes, wondering whether he should tell her the truth. Should he confess to the relentless nightmares, the troubling gaps in his memory, the constant fear and depression that plagued him? Disclosing his problem to anyone in the Sections could lead to his cancellation as unfit for duty -- for that reason, he had spent years perfecting its concealment. But then she wasn�t just anyone. Far from it. He took a deep, shuddering breath. �I want to know because �because sometimes I wonder if I�m losing my mind.� Her look of concern turned sharper, alarmed. �Paul, what do you mean?� �I keep having nightmares,� he explained. �Nightmares where my wife accuses me of abandoning her instead of the other way around; where I�m being tortured in ways that I never experienced during those fifteen days; where I kill a man, and I don�t know why.� He frowned. �And then, somehow, the memories are wrong.� �Wrong? How?� �The fifteen days are vivid enough. But other things � my marriage, the years I spent in the service -- don�t seem right. I remember dates and things, but it�s almost as if I had them memorized from a book -- I can�t recall any actual experiences -- only dry facts.� He gave her a bitter smile. �I�m afraid that maybe some sort of battle-induced trauma is affecting my memory, if maybe I�m starting to have delusions.� He squeezed her hand tightly, swallowing a lump in his throat. He looked away before speaking again, not wanting her to see the moisture well up in his eyes. �I thought that if you told me what was in my file, maybe miraculously it would be true, I�d remember it, and everything would be all right again.� He laughed. �I suppose that was foolish.� She took his chin in her hand and turned his head to face her. �How long has this been happening to you?� �Ever since I was recruited.� She sat quietly for a few moments as he watched a multitude of emotions flicker across her face. Finally, she frowned. �It is possible you could be repressing genuine memories that only come to the surface in your dreams. But then again the nightmares might be completely symbolic. I�m afraid this isn�t an exact science.� �Of course not,� he sighed. �But,� he said thoughtfully, as an idea slowly crystallized, �you know how to do hypnosis. After all, that�s what you�re supposed to be doing to me in here.� He sat up, growing excited. �Can you put me under? Can you find out what�s real and what isn�t?� She shook her head. �It�s too dangerous. People imagine all sorts of things under hypnosis. It could make your problem even worse.� �But you�ve read my file. I haven�t. If my recollection under hypnosis matches what you read, then it has to be true, doesn�t it?� He allowed a hopeful tone to creep into his voice. She looked dubious. �Maybe.� �Look, if all I remember is the fifteen days, then at least it's settled.� He leaned in closer to her, his eyes pleading with her. �Please, Madeline, it would bring me peace of mind. Nothing else has.� His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. �The longer this goes on, the more it might affect my ability to work -- if anyone found out about it, well, God help me.� She closed her eyes and frowned sharply, rubbing her temples as if she were in pain. Finally, she opened her eyes again. �Alright,� she agreed reluctantly. �We�ll try. But I can�t promise you that it�s going to work.� Madeline watched Paul�s chest rise and fall, more and more slowly, as he relinquished his hold on consciousness and drifted peacefully into a trance. Ohanian had been right -- Paul was indeed extremely suggestible, responding to her murmured commands almost instantaneously. Once she was certain that he was deeply relaxed, she began to question him. At first, she chose verifiable topics -- matters of common knowledge, his memories of the past few days. Next, she tested him by asking him for classified information -- Section One�s location, the identities of operatives. To her relief, he refused to answer -- again, as Ohanian had predicted, he remained a loyal operative even under hypnosis. Then, finally, with a sense of apprehension that made her pulse quicken, she moved to the matters that troubled him: his marriage, his military service, and his captivity. The implications of his answers were profoundly disturbing. The recollections brought out by her questions matched the account in his file in every detail, every nuance. As she proceeded, she was forced to a reluctant conclusion: the true version of his history was that described in his file, not that of his conscious memory. The details matched too well for there to be any doubt. But why was he repressing these memories? Why did he remember his wife, but not his son? Why had he collapsed seven years of torture into fifteen days? The lapses seemed arbitrary, defying her efforts to fit them into a logical pattern. And then, perhaps even more troubling, there was the anomaly -- an event found neither in his conscious memory nor in his file, but terrifyingly vivid in his mind now -- the memory of how he had killed a strange Westerner who was visiting the POW camp. Was it real? A fantasy? How could she even begin to determine the truth? It baffled her. It baffled her completely. Frustrated, she ran her hands over her face and exhaled sharply. There was no way to resolve her uncertainty. Perhaps she should move on to another topic and then return to these issues later; after a break, an explanation might emerge. For now, she would turn to a safer, non-controversial subject -- his training upon his recruitment to Section One, which he had previously described as a tedious but intensive course in Eastern European languages. Something tedious might do very nicely to buy some time. She shifted positions on the bench and turned back toward him. �After your recruitment to Section One, what do you remember next?� She kept her voice low to calm him -- the questions about the POW camp had agitated him excessively, threatening to break the trance state. �Mmmm,� he said softly, �they took me to a different camp.� �Camp?� This was not what she was expecting. �What do you mean?� �Another prison camp. Me and Willie Kane, my old NCO. Phan was there, too.� �No,� she corrected him. �You misheard me. I asked what happened after you joined Section One.� �They took me to a camp. Phan started torturing me again,� Paul answered, his voice growing more insistent. �But I don�t think it was a real camp � we were the only ones there.� Madeline felt as if the bottom of her stomach had fallen away, as a sickening feeling of fear began to wash over her. �How long were you there?� she asked, afraid to hear the answer, yet compelled to ask. �Fifteen days.� �And what happened after that?� �They took me to some sort of hospital. They gave me a lot of drugs, and they did what you�re doing -- hypnosis, I think. And they showed me a lot of pictures -- pictures of a woman, especially.� �Anyone you know?� �Well, no. Or yes. I don�t know. They kept telling me it was Corinne. It even looked like her a little, but it wasn�t her. They kept telling me that what happened wasn�t real, and that what wasn�t real had happened.� He sighed in frustration. �Oh, it hurts my head to think about it. Can we talk about something else?� �I just have one more question, Paul, and then it�ll be over,� she said, fighting to control the growing sense of dread that had set every nerve vibrating sharply. �Did they tell you anything about your son, about Stephen?� He wrinkled his forehead faintly. �They told me he didn�t exist -- that I didn�t have a son.� He paused, caught his breath, and then suddenly, savagely, he burst into tears. �Why did they say that? Why did they want me to forget him?� As his body started to shudder with deep, wrenching sobs, she reached out and gathered him into her arms, rocked him back and forth, and stroked his hair to soothe him. �They took my family away from me,� he gasped, burying his face into her shoulder. �They took my life away. My God, what have they done to me?� She winced as his fingers dug into her back -- he seemed to be contorting in pain, worse than when Ohanian had been shocking him with electric currents. He groaned, deep in his throat, with an otherworldly, inhuman sound that echoed off the bare, concrete walls like the wretched lament of a wandering ghost. Panting for air, he lifted his head to look her in the face and gripped her tightly by the shoulders. He could barely form words; his eyes searched her face frantically. �Help me find my family, Madeline,� he begged, nearly choking on his sobs. �They're out there somewhere. Please, help me find them again. Promise me you�ll help.� As he looked up at her with an expression of utter despair, of agony and desolation of the cruelest degree, she found it impossible to hold back her own tears. �I promise,� she whispered. �I promise I�ll find them.� As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back. His faith in her willingness -- in her ability, even -- to help him seemed absolute. If only she had that much faith in herself. But she knew better. She had just made a promise she couldn't possibly keep. That she didn't know how to begin to fulfill. Giving her a look of hope and gratitude that rent her heart into shreds, he then collapsed back in her arms. She held him until he no longer had the energy to cry, devastated to see the man whose strength she had so admired, who had refused to break no matter what, completely shattered and destroyed. Lost. Reduced to childlike helplessness. And not due to any torment inflicted by Ohanian, but because of her own foolish interference. The sight of him in this state both appalled and terrified her; when he began to whimper, she could bear it no longer. Blinking back her tears, she brought him back to consciousness, instructing him to forget everything that had just taken place. He looked around slowly with a disoriented expression. �I feel like hell. What happened?� Clenching her stomach to control herself, she wiped all traces of emotion from her face. �The session was inconclusive. I'm sorry.� Adrian set down the telephone receiver and looked across her desk at George. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to speak. �We�ve lost the rescue team in the Ukraine,� she sighed. �They started receiving hostile fire, and then communications cut off.� He twisted his mouth tightly, looking as if he were trying to stop himself from saying something he might regret. Unfortunately, she knew all too well what he must be thinking. The least she could do was acknowledge it. She smiled sadly. �You were right. It was foolish to send them.� He returned her sad look, then reached across the desk to take her hand. �Adrian, he was a good operative. But it�s a dangerous business we�re in. Lives are lost every day.� She shook her head, pulled her hand from his, and stood up from her chair. Pacing back and forth, she sighed distractedly. �George, I think you misunderstand me. It�s not about Paul Wolfe, the operative, or even Paul Wolfe, the person. It�s about our legacy.� She saw by his faint frown that he didn�t understand. She stopped pacing and turned to look him directly in the eyes. �We�ve worked so hard to build this place. I want it to mean something, to continue on the way we created it, even after we�re gone.� �And why is Wolfe so important for that?� His voice filled with frustration. �He was just a single operative, when we have thousands.� �We need a strong individual to leave this to. I don�t want it taken over by some faceless bureaucracy. If that happens, the Sections will be no better than the CIA or MI6 or any of those other impotent organizations, and all of our work will have been for nothing. That�s why I went to so much trouble to find the right person -- and insisted that we go to whatever lengths were necessary to recruit him. I wanted to make sure that we had someone who shared our vision -- and who was bold enough to carry it out.� They held a look, and George stood up to walk to where Adrian was standing. He faced her, his expression grave. �I understand that, Adrian,� he said softly. �Do you think I don�t care about our legacy, too?� For once, she was uncertain what he would say next. This was a side of him she hadn�t seen in many years, not since the early days, when they had worked hand in hand to build the Sections, when he was truly a partner instead of a subordinate. He sighed. �You want to hand things over to some sort of superstar -- a hero, one of the best and the brightest. But that�s exactly what will destroy this place.� �How so?� �The best and the brightest tend to have matching egos,� he explained. �Paul Wolfe certainly did. Someone like that wouldn�t serve the Sections -- he would make the Sections serve him. They would become a tool for his personal ambition. Do you really want that?� �But--� �What we need,� he continued firmly, �are loyalists. People whose ambition is for the organization, not for themselves. Not cowboys or would-be emperors.� She stared at him for several moments, saddened that he could be so mistaken. But that was why she was in charge instead of him -- so skilled at handling the details, he always missed the bigger picture. �No, George, you�re wrong,� she said gently. �You see, an emperor, if he becomes a tyrant, can always be toppled. Why, if that happened here, I�d come back myself and see to it. But when the people here care only about the Sections, this organization will start to serve itself. And the day that happens is the day this place becomes a thing of evil.� Entering her room, Madeline locked the door and leaned back against it, exhausted, confused, and terrified. She covered her face with her hands and stood, breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The slow breaths failed to relax her at all, but she was incapable of concentrating on anything else. Her mind didn�t seem to be working -- or rather it was working too fast, the thoughts spinning by so rapidly that she couldn�t grasp any of them. But her lungs still seemed to be under her command, so she drew the air in, and pushed it out. She breathed so deeply that she began to grow dizzy -- when the room turned an odd shade of purple and began to tilt, she staggered over to the bed and collapsed, closing her eyes. Eventually, the room stopped spinning, and her thoughts slowed to a pace that was at least coherent, if not controlled. But that's when the panic began. She didn�t have all of the pieces to the puzzle, but the picture was clear enough -- Section One had tampered with Paul�s mind, replacing real memories with false ones. And the real memories were slowly returning. Now only nightmares, it was just a matter of time before they pushed farther into his consciousness. What would happen then, she didn�t want to contemplate. Except that she must. By uncovering the truth, she had placed herself in the middle of whatever was happening. And now she had to decide what to do about it. If only the memories hadn't started to return, if only they hadn't started seeping back, she wouldn't be in this position. Paul would be free of nightmares, strong and invulnerable, and she would remain in happy ignorance. It wouldn't have made what was done to him any less horrible, any less of a crime, but at least neither of them would have to know. But instead, whoever had performed the memory modification process had done a sloppy job, an inexcusable job -- and for that, she silently cursed them. I would never have let this happen, she thought. If I removed someone's memories, they'd be gone forever. That thought echoed in her mind slowly, until its reverberation summoned other thoughts, other recollections: memories of her debriefs with George, of the intense curiosity he always showed about the details of Ohanian's research. At the time, she had assumed -- or at least hoped -- that the information she provided was being used to develop countermeasures to Ohanian's techniques. It hadn't occurred to her that the Sections were doing the same kind of work themselves. That she was helping them do so. That, in fact, she was well on her way toward becoming Section's expert in the field -- their very own Ohanian. But now it was all too clear, so terribly obvious: her mission wasn't about intel gathering at all -- it was training. Training for what she was to become. She grew very, very cold. And intensely tired. As she shivered, she noticed the walls and ceiling start to ripple and move. They crept menacingly, inexorably, toward her -- first slow, then gaining speed, then so fast they seemed to blur, collapsing violently inwards. She flinched, expecting to be crushed, but they slammed to a stop, hovering inches away. Trapped, she reached out, needing to feel the barriers of her new prison, hoping they would vanish into the nothingness of the dream she knew she must be having. Just as she was about to touch the wall, she was plunged into blackness. And instead of rough paint, her fingers met smooth coolness, a satiny padding that surrounded her -- to the sides, above, and below. It cushioned her luxuriously, but engulfed her completely, like a well-appointed casket. Which is what it was. Panicked, she pushed upwards, shoving desperately, but moved nothing. Her hands searched the interior, seeking a latch, a handle, a crack, any means of escape. But there was nothing but soft padding, frilly ruffles, and silent suffocation. Then, she heard it. A thump, and then another, in a steady rhythm -- a rhythm of shovels and falling clumps of dirt. She began to beat on the lid above her with her fists; if her lungs could have found any air, she would have cried for help. But the thumps continued, merciless and unrelenting, sealing her in her darkened grave. Strangely, instead of growing fainter as the dirt piled higher, the sound became louder, harder, faster. Then it grew sharp -- like knocks. With a jerk, she opened her eyes, awakening, and found herself still lying on her bed, the walls safely where they should be -- and the door shaking with someone's pounding. She jumped from the bed and leapt for the door. Flinging it open, she saw Petrosian, standing outside with a peculiar, perturbed expression. �What is it?� she asked, grateful that he had pulled her from her nightmare burial, but apprehensive about what he might want. �I was about to go to sleep.� �I need you right away.� His voice was low and urgent. �Oh, Egran, I�m exhausted, really.� �We have another prisoner from Section One,� he said gravely. Her attention captured, she stepped closer to him, eyes wide. �What?� �It seems they sent in a team to try to rescue our prisoner. Unfortunately for them, they didn�t get very far. They�re all dead, except for one. But he�s in a cell waiting to be interviewed.� �I see. Have you told the professor?� �No, he�s asleep. I didn�t want to wake him -- after all, I know how concerned you are about his health.� Petrosian�s tone seemed oddly sarcastic, as if he were mocking her. She frowned, faintly puzzled by his attitude, but too concerned about this new complication to dwell on it. What was she going to do with another fellow operative? Was this one more likely to break under interrogation? Thanks to Petrosian�s decision not to wake Ohanian, at least she would get to talk to the prisoner alone first. Snatching a notebook and pen from a nearby table, she stepped out into the hallway. �Alright. I'm ready.� Madeline walked into the cell slowly, her expression as cold and threatening as she could make it. The best way to assess the security risk posed by the new prisoner would be to engage in a genuine interrogation -- after that, she would have a better idea how to fit this man into her plans. She could only hope that he was as good as Paul at refusing to break. Otherwise...well, she would think about that later. First things first. The prisoner, a slight, dark-haired man with a black eye and swollen lip from a recent beating, no doubt at the hands of the guards, stood leaning against a wall. To her surprise, he smiled broadly when he saw her and crossed the room to extend his hand in greeting. �Thank God, it�s you!� he exclaimed. �George showed me your picture so I would be able to recognize you.� Confused, she shook his hand weakly. �You know who I am?� �Yeah. George told me that Section Two had an undercover op here, and that I should find you if I could. He wanted me to give you a message.� �What message is that?� The man grinned. �That other prisoner from Section One? Paul Wolfe? Well, he�s a liability. George wants you to cancel him.� �Cancel him?� she asked, barely able to find her voice. �But that�s not necessary. I�ve figured out a way to help him escape.� �No, you don�t get it,� the man laughed. �George doesn�t want him to escape. And a good thing, too -- he�s a real pain in the ass. It�ll be nice to be rid of him.� �I see,� she said, her words coming out slowly, as she grew almost dizzy with shock. Cancel him. Direct orders. Dear God. �Oh, one minor detail.� His expression grew slightly worried. �You didn�t hear this from me.� �What?� �Uh, this isn�t an official order, you see. It�s a personal request from George. No one else -- especially not Adrian -- is supposed to know about it. Your story should be that he was starting to give up intel, so you had no choice but to cancel him.� Madeline frowned. �Are you telling me that you and George are the only ones who know about this order?� �Yeah. But believe me, there'll be hell to pay if we don�t carry it out. He made that real clear.� She blinked several times as the meaning of his words sank in. Hell to pay? George had already sent her to hell. What more could he do? Especially if he never found out that his message had been delivered. Her decision made, she casually shifted the pen in her hand until her thumb braced the flat end. She looked him in the eyes, her expression completely benign, as she thought back to the words of one of her trainers, uttered so many years before. �When you strike, you mustn�t hesitate or hold back. You must be vicious, bloodthirsty, and willing to maim and kill. But above all, you must never let them see it coming.� Smiling, she leaned in closer to him and whispered, �Don't worry. I'll make sure George doesn't give you any trouble.� As he smiled in relief, she dropped her notebook, seized the back of his neck with her free hand, and plunged the pen with all her strength into the front of his throat.