Chapter Seven 1999 George took a deep breath of anticipation as he concentrated on the scene unfolding on his computer monitor. Moments ago, he had observed the video feed from Section One as Madeline handed Paul the recording of her latest therapy session with �Corinne.� Now, alone in the Perch, Paul was about to watch. Over the past week, George and Madeline had clashed repeatedly over the therapy session scripts. George had inclined toward an aggressive approach, wanting to reinforce all of Paul�s old feelings of betrayal -- perhaps even including a reference to that brat child that �Corinne� had never wanted. Madeline, in contrast, had pressed for more subtlety, arguing that excessive antagonism might destabilize Paul to the point where he was beyond control. For a time, they went in circles, but in the end, George let Madeline have her way. After all, as he reminded himself, the whole point of the exercise was to keep Paul from having a meltdown and taking the entire Section with him. The lines written for Christine had thus minimized Paul�s importance in Corinne's life without being openly cruel -- and had omitted mention of Stephen entirely. But George hoped that they had made the right decision. If, God forbid, Paul started feeling sorry for Corinne, he might do something completely rash, like try to meet with her. George shuddered at the thought. What a mess that would create. In the Perch, Paul started the recording with a look of nervous apprehension, and George leaned forward for a better view. But just as the playback began, the video feed from Section One cut off, leaving a blank, blue screen. Angry, George tapped his keyboard to switch his view to cameras in other parts of the Section -- Systems; Comm; Michael's office; Madeline's office. As he suspected, they were all working perfectly -- only the surveillance from the Perch was unavailable. George scowled -- he had been watching Paul quite carefully and was certain that Paul hadn�t made a move to switch off his own cameras. Aside from Paul himself, there was only one person in Section One with the codes to disable those cameras: Madeline. Damn her. Now was not the time to be protecting Paul�s privacy. He glanced at his telephone, considering whether to call her, but then, watching her type serenely on the video feed from her office, decided against it. There was no point. He could hear her now, in that aggravatingly calm voice, denying responsibility and blaming technical problems. He knew her all too well. He stood up abruptly and began pacing back and forth, that familiar burning feeling starting to grow within his stomach. It flared more violently than usual as a disturbing question arose in his mind. I wonder what else has been happening over there when the surveillance �goes down�. Rushing back to his desk, he pushed a buzzer. Within moments, an operative stood in his office. �I want surveillance equipment installed in Section One as soon as possible.� �But they already have extensive surveillance, sir,� the operative replied with a confused frown. �No,� George snapped. �I mean surveillance that�s under my control. And I don�t want them to know anything about it.� He glared at the young man. �How quickly can this be arranged?� �I�ll look into it right away, sir.� 1980 With a slight grunt and one final yank on the rope, Paul pulled himself onto the snow-covered rooftop and then crouched down as low as he could. Tired from his exertions, he breathed in heavy puffs in the chilly night air. Slowly and quietly, he wriggled the backpack with its load of explosives off his back, set it down, and connected the wires of the detonator that rested in one of the pockets. He stepped back and looked at his handiwork -- now, it was live, only requiring a signal at the right frequency to blast a hole through the roof. The radio crackled in his ear as he heard Charles, leading the second team in Georgia, report in. �The explosives are in place and the team has returned to the rendezvous point. Ready to detonate on your mark.� �Good,� Adrian answered from her monitoring point within Section One. �Team One, report.� �Lisa, Patrick, and I have placed the charges,� Paul replied in a low voice. �We�re waiting for Richard to check in.� �I�m on my way in,� Richard�s voice sounded. �I�m clear to my target, one minute ETA.� �Team Two, detonate,� Adrian commanded. Several moments passed. Paul waited, peering over the roof to ensure that there was no activity on the ground below before he began to rappel down. �Detonation successful,� Charles announced. �Target destroyed.� Paul gripped the rope in his gloved hands and dangled his right leg over the edge of the roof. He stopped short when he heard a voice over his earphone. �I�ve got a problem,� Richard said breathlessly. �There are extra guards posted where they shouldn�t be. There�s no way I�m going to make it to the target area.� �You said you were clear less than a minute ago.� Paul said, frowning. �What�s going on?� �They came out of nowhere. I�ve got to wait until they leave. But they don�t look like they�re in a hurry.� �Stand by for ten minutes and report back,� Adrian ordered. �With all due respect, we can�t wait that long,� Paul countered. �The explosion in Georgia is going to raise an alarm. Someone�s probably calling this place with a warning right now. If we wait too long, we might not take out the target, and I�ll certainly lose my team trying to get out.� �But we can�t detonate without all of the explosives in place,� Adrian explained. �We studied the engineering of the building very carefully.� �If I get inside and go to the floor where the research labs are, we won�t need to take out the whole building.� The radio was silent. Paul walked back to where his backpack was sitting and strapped himself in it determinedly. As he crossed the roof to gather up his ropes, he heard the radio burst with static once more. �You�ll never make it out of there,� Lisa stated flatly. �We don�t have a choice,� Paul said, swinging the ropes to the other side of the building, preparing to rappel midway down and crash through one of the windows. �Team One, head back to the rendezvous point now. In five minutes, send the signal to detonate. If I�m not at the rendezvous point in ten minutes, leave without me.� The wind whipped the snow into billowing whirlwinds, driving the fine crystals beneath Madeline's tightly wrapped scarf and deep down into the recesses of her collar. Ohanian gripped her arm tightly, his other hand clutching his cane, as they gingerly mounted the steep, ice-thickened steps that led to the staff entrance of the prison. Arriving at the top without mishap, Madeline reached for the door handle and pulled. The door resisted at first, until she threw her weight backwards, trying to retain her balance even as Ohanian clung heavily to her. It finally opened and they hurried inside. With a grim echo, the door slammed shut behind them. Unwrapping her scarf and opening her coat, she shook out the snow and stamped her boots on the floor of the frigid vestibule. Her breath curled up in thin trails around her; she rebuttoned the coat, dug her gloved hands into her pockets, and shivered. The sharp sound of footsteps on the hard floor made her look up. �Doctor,� Petrosian said with a wide grin. �It�s truly a pleasure to see you after so many months.� �Thank you, Egran,� Ohanian answered, leaning on his cane unsteadily. �And welcome back to you, too.� Petrosian turned to Madeline and kissed her on the cheek, letting his lips linger for several moments. �You know I always look forward to your visits.� She smiled sweetly at him in return. �Come back to the office where it's warm,� he urged, moving toward a door. Madeline and Ohanian followed in his wake and entered the cramped -- but well heated -- room. Madeline gently helped the elderly man out of his overcoat and into a chair; afterwards, she removed her own coat and gloves and took a seat next to him. Petrosian handed them both steaming cups of tea and then, with an expression like an excited schoolboy, hopped up to sit on the desk. �And just what is this emergency that required us here so urgently?� Ohanian asked. �We had a terrible time getting here.� �Ah, we have a very interesting situation. A unique opportunity, in fact.� Petrosian glanced back and forth from Ohanian to Madeline with a delighted look on his face. �We have a captive from Section One.� �Section One?� Madeline froze, the cup raised halfway to her lips. Ohanian gave Petrosian a knowing look and then turned to Madeline. �Of course -- you probably haven�t heard of Section One before, have you?� �No,� she answered, hoping that neither man would notice that the blood had drained from her face. �Section One is a covert organization created by the Western powers to fight so-called terrorism,� Petrosian explained with a sarcastic curl of his lip. �It often meddles in our affairs, even though we're hardly terrorists. This time, some of its operatives destroyed two of our weapons research labs. We managed to capture one of them as he tried to escape.� �That is very interesting. I�ve never had the opportunity to interrogate a Section operative before,� Ohanian said, sitting up straight. A gleam of anticipation began to light his eyes. �But it�s even better than that,� Petrosian announced. �He�s a known operative.� �What do you mean?� Madeline asked, trying to sound casual. �We took his fingerprints and actually found a match. It turns out we have a file on him already, courtesy of our friends in Vietnam. I�ve made copies for each of you. I don�t know if it will help with the interrogation, but I thought you might like to see it.� Petrosian handed each of them a thick packet of papers. Clutching the tea in one hand, she took the packet with the other and looked down at the cover. The title was simple -- �Subject: Paul Wolfe.� Paul Wolfe. She was sorry that she had learned his name -- it would have been easier for her to do her duty had he remained anonymous. Knowing his name gave him an identity, made him a person to feel sympathy toward. However, of all the lessons she had learned in her training, one thing was clearest of all: no Section operative could ever be allowed to become a security risk. She would have to set any sympathy aside -- by Section�s rules, Paul Wolfe had to die. From his position in the corner chair, it was the cut flowers that drew George�s attention. A burst of color in a crystal vase, they looked as if they had been plucked from a country garden -- gazing at them, he felt like he had been transported through space and time to a brilliant summer day, complete with chirping birds and bees buzzing for nectar. The flowers matched his mood: joyous and buoyant. And all, ironically, because of a death. Or at least an impending death. A death that would solve a problem that had loomed over him for years. A death that would close -- and lock -- certain doors forever. But even sitting half-invisible in the corner, George had to mask his relief. This was, at least officially, a crisis -- and so he made certain to look appropriately concerned. Frowning with just the right look of worry, he shifted his attention from the flowers on the table back to the two women in the center of the room. Before the desk, Lisa stood at military attention, her long, light brown hair framing her face and accentuating its somber visage. Seated, equally somber, was Adrian -- tense, leaning forward, hands folded and resting on the desk. Her fingers clasped each other so tightly that George could see her knuckles whiten. �I want to know exactly what you saw.� Adrian leveled a piercing gaze directly into Lisa�s eyes. �I saw him run from the building moments before the explosion,� Lisa answered in a grim monotone. �He shot a few Russian soldiers on the way out, but he only made it about 500 meters before they had him surrounded.� �And you�re certain that he was taken captive, not killed.� �Absolutely. They marched him off and forced him into a car.� Adrian glanced at George and then looked back at Lisa. �Thank you, Lisa,� she said politely, a distant look clouding her eyes. �That will be all.� Lisa nodded curtly and departed. Adrian turned back to George, her face filled with concern. �And you think you know where he is?� �Oh, I�m quite positive.� George nodded knowingly. �One of my Section Two operatives checked in with her handlers yesterday. She said she�d received an emergency summons to a prison in the Ukraine.� �Interesting. But how do you know it�s not a coincidence?� �Because it�s the operative who�s been working with Ardem Ohanian.� A wave of white washed across Adrian�s face. �Ohanian? My God,� she groaned, lowering her head into her hands. �They�re going to sic that monster on him?� �I wouldn�t worry,� George said reassuringly. �Madeline will cancel him before he gives up any intel.� In fact, George realized, Madeline was likely to cancel Paul before any interrogation even began, much less before he gave up actual intel. For this, George thanked God, or fate, or whatever supernatural entity might be responsible. He couldn�t have asked for a more reliable operative to be on the scene -- she had never failed to carry out an order, no matter how distasteful. George couldn�t have arranged a more convenient disposal of Paul if he had spent years trying. Which he had, of course. Adrian snapped her head back up angrily. �That's exactly what I�m worried about. He won�t break under torture, no matter what they do to him. But she might kill him before he has a chance to escape, or before we can get to him.� She leaned back in her chair, narrowing her eyes in thought. �Is there any way to get word to Madeline? To stop her from canceling him?� �No.� George shook his head. �Once inside the Soviet Union she�s completely incommunicado. It's too dangerous to allow our undercover operatives to carry communications equipment.� There�s nothing that can stop this, he thought. No way to contact her, no way to halt the inevitable. His body began to warm in triumph. All I have to do now is wait for confirmation. Adrian grimaced. �Then we have to send in a rescue team immediately.� George almost flinched upon hearing her words. Why couldn�t she simply give up on this man? And a rescue mission would be the height of insanity -- it couldn�t possibly succeed. Or could it? George frowned sharply in an effort at discouragement. �Into a high-security prison in the Soviet Union? That�s suicide.� She met his eyes and stared at him, unblinking, until he looked away. �Paul Wolfe is a resource I�m not prepared to lose,� she said icily. �I�ve put far too much time into finding and training him. We�ll do whatever it takes.� The staff residential room Madeline had been given was tiny, but acceptable. She�d certainly stayed in worse. It was clean, warm, and contained the necessities: a bed, desk, lamp, and chair. It even had a closet, where she hung her clothes neatly after the driver brought her suitcase in from the car. After unpacking, she changed into a dress she knew Petrosian was particularly fond of and reapplied her makeup, ready to be called to dinner. And then she waited. Sitting at the desk, she couldn�t avoid looking at it. While she was unpacking and changing, she had pretended it wasn�t there, busying herself with other thoughts. But now, with nothing else to do and the desk in front of her otherwise bare, the report claimed her full attention. She stared at the cover, unable to tear her eyes away. How do I kill him and make it look like an accident? she wondered. Should I tamper with the settings on the electroshock equipment? Or should I slip him some drugs and make it look like a suicide? She looked at the report as if it might answer her questions, but it offered no response. Unopened, it would remain mute. Whatever secrets it held were inside. Waiting. Slowly, reluctantly, half-unconsciously, she reached for the document, spread it open to a random page, and started reading. Date: 25-10-1970 Interrogator: Phan Van Nahn The prisoner refused to sign the statement condemning American atrocities. We left him tied up overnight as encouragement to cooperate. This morning, he held out his hand as if to accept the pen; just as the pen was offered to him he turned up his hand and flashed his middle finger. Solitary confinement is recommended until he becomes more agreeable. She turned, again at random, to another page. Date: 02-02-1971 Interrogator: Phan Van Nahn I mentioned that I knew that he had a wife and son at home. I did not tell him I learned this from another prisoner -- it is better if he thinks the interrogators omniscient. I told him that it was shameful that he could leave his wife and son behind and come here to kill the wives and sons of other men. He responded by saying: �I�ve never killed anyone�s wife. And the only sons I�ve killed were the sons of bitches who shot at me first.� His reaction would suggest that he is unresponsive to this tactic, but I am convinced that his family is his weakness. I recommend further attempts with this method, emphasizing his cowardice in leaving them behind alone. With a frown, Madeline turned to the beginning of the report and began to read in earnest, absorbing the grisly details. The account was extraordinarily complete, setting forth not only a record of the almost-daily interrogations but also a description of the logic behind every technique employed. The unusual, first-person style rendered what would have been a dry, bureaucratic document strangely gripping. Compelling. And familiar. Sitting back suddenly, Madeline dropped the report as if it scalded her, recoiling with the force of a horrible realization. I am Phan, she thought. This is what I do. Reading someone else�s notes had transformed her into an outsider, someone who could be shocked and disgusted at acts that she herself had performed. The extent of the shock surprised her -- she had thought that she was beyond such reactions, that she could distance herself from anything. But instead, she found herself suffering along with the prisoner -- hating his tormentors, admiring his courage. Incredulous at the thought that he had resisted for seven full years. Seven years. The two words turned over in her mind several times before the significance sank in. When it finally did, she exhaled in startled relief. This man was no security risk. There was nothing they could do, no conceivable torture they could try, that could possibly make him break. He would die first, she was certain. Which meant one thing. I don�t have to cancel him. Thank God. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, almost dizzy with gratitude at her reprieve. In her career as a Section operative, she had watched many people die -- too many even to remember -- but had not yet been required to perform the act herself. The thought that she might have to start with a colleague had repulsed her. But now, thankfully, it wasn�t necessary. Indeed, another possibility had opened. An intriguing, daring possibility. If Paul Wolfe could only resist for a few days of interrogation -- something she no longer had any doubt he could do -- it would buy her enough time to devise a way to help him escape. Thanks to her privileged position as Ohanian�s assistant -- and her special relationship with Petrosian � she had complete freedom to roam wherever she liked, whenever she wanted. No one would dare challenge her or even wonder what she was doing. Arranging his escape from the prison grounds might even be easy. After that -- well, she had hard currency she could give him, as well as knowledge of officials who were willing to be bribed. She ran through the layout of the building and grounds in her mind, pondering possible escape routes and inventing diversions. As she analyzed each option, she felt her heart begin to race with a burst of adrenaline -- a feeling of excitement that she found surprisingly enjoyable. Gathering intel -- gruesome though the subject matter might be � had not proven particularly dangerous. So long as no one ever caught her passing information to her handlers, her life was, in fact, quite secure. But helping a Western prisoner escape the Soviet Union -- that was bold, risky, even exhilarating. It was the sort of thing a covert operative should be doing -- the sort of thing she had looked forward to, long ago, when she was first recruited. Her life as an undercover operative had become so routine, so cautious, she had almost forgotten what being bold felt like. Now, she remembered -- it felt like being alive. �Are you ready?� Madeline caught her breath as she looked up to see Petrosian calmly watching her. Lost in concentration, she hadn't heard him open the door. �Ready for what?� she asked, trying to shake off her nervousness. �The doctor wants to start with the prisoner now. A brief appetizer before we stop for dinner,� Petrosian answered with a short laugh. �I see.� Madeline stood hastily and followed him from the room. She knew she had to calm down, to appear normal, but her heart was still pounding, her mind distracted. Once in the corridor, Petrosian slipped his arm though hers and winked. �You know, the appetizer doesn�t sound much to my liking, but I can think of a dessert I might enjoy.� Paul twisted his wrists in frustration, shifting impatiently in his seat. He knew there was no way to slip his hands free from the handcuffs that fastened him to the chair, but the effort gave him something to do, somewhere to place his pent-up energy. His rattling broke the muffled silence of the cold, gray room; his jerks were the only motion. When he could take the slicing pain in his wrists no more, he began to kick at the desk in front of him, rhythmically and angrily. He had been waiting in the tiny interrogation room -- set up police-station style, with a desk, chairs, and two-way mirror -- for hours, and he was growing increasingly edgy. At first, it had been a welcome diversion from his cell. But as time dragged on, and he was forced to sit still, he started to grow bored. At least in the cell he had been able to pace, and the guards occasionally gave him cigarettes. Just get on with it, for God�s sake, he thought. Don�t keep me waiting here forever. As if in response to his unspoken words, the door swung open. He blinked in surprise and watched as a very unusual pair walked inside. The first was a frail-looking elderly man, who hunched over a cane as he walked. The second, almost more surprising than the first, was a very young, dark-haired woman, supporting the old man with one hand and clutching a notebook in the other. Both of them wore very fashionable civilian clothes -- the man, a black, tailored suit with a monogrammed handkerchief, diamond-studded cufflinks and an expensive gold wristwatch; the woman, a blue dress similar in design to ones Paul had seen in Paris, a silver necklace, and several rings. Paul raised his eyebrows. Well, these aren't exactly your run-of-the-mill Soviet civil servants. With the young woman�s assistance, the man slowly eased into a chair and placed his cane on the floor. She sat down next to him, crossed her legs, and flipped open the notebook. Clicking her pen, she poised her hand above the paper, ready to write; the glint of the metal was what drew Paul�s eyes, but then his gaze traveled down, almost unbidden, following the smooth curve of her leg toward the shining black surface of a high-heeled shoe. Clenching his teeth with the effort, he wrenched his eyes back up. Hang on now, Paul, he told himself. You don�t need that kind of distraction. Keep focused. The man cleared his throat and smiled gently. �I hope you haven�t been too uncomfortable waiting for us, Mr. Wolfe,� he said, with a strange accent to his English that Paul couldn�t quite place. Jesus Christ, they know who I am. Paul breathed in sharply, wondering how much else they knew. The strategy he had decided upon for dealing with enemy interrogators was to engage in insulting banter to prove his lack of fear. But their knowledge of his identity made him nervous -- it would be too easy to be led into giving something away if he spoke, even about something meaningless. So he sat quietly, looking back and forth at his two visitors. The man folded his hands in his lap and waited, continuing to smile, the paragon of patience. He watched Paul with a detached but attentive expression. His eyes, glowing darkly from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, seemed to have their own gravitational pull -- Paul felt himself falling into their orbit, helpless to escape. But then with a desperate surge of energy he managed to pull away, shifting his attention back to the young woman. She looked away quickly, avoiding Paul�s eyes. She seemed ill at ease, nervous -- noticing this, Paul smiled to himself, deciding it was probably her first time meeting an enemy prisoner. But God only knew what she was doing as an interrogator�s stenographer in the first place -- she was far too beautiful to be in such a hellhole, witnessing the sort of acts that no doubt went on in Russian prisons. No, beautiful wasn�t an adequate word. Breathtaking? Closer, but no. Exquisite. That was it. The sort of word used for rare wines, priceless works of art, sublime musical compositions, polished gemstones. She was like all of those things -- something to be coveted, appreciated, and savored by a connoisseur. The ugliness of the setting only accentuated the effect of her presence. �I see you�re quite interested in my assistant,� the man said dryly, drawing back Paul's attention. �I usually take the first crack at the prisoners, however. But you might have the pleasure of working with her if I get tired.� He smiled again. �She�s almost as good as I am. Quite ruthless, in her own way.� She was an interrogator herself? He looked back over at her, disgusted, and this time she didn�t look away. Instead, he met a pair of cool, dark eyes, watching him confidently. But as he looked at her more carefully, he saw something strange in her expression -- it wasn�t clinical, like the old man�s, or hostile, like that of other interrogators he had met -- it almost seemed like she was trying to tell him something, to communicate a message. He frowned, unsure how to react. �Now,� said the old man, �let�s begin our questions.� Ohanian swallowed a forkful of chicken and then waved the utensil in the air dismissively. �He won�t break,� he announced. �It�s pointless even to try.� Turning away from Petrosian, whose conversation had been monopolizing her attention, Madeline set down her knife and fork and looked across the table at Ohanian. She grew concerned, but was not surprised. He had read the same document she had, and the conclusion was obvious. Petrosian scowled, knocking Madeline�s elbow abruptly as he reached for a slice of bread. �How can you be sure?� he asked. �You only questioned him briefly. We haven�t even so much as given him a beating yet.� He tore off a piece of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing loudly. �He�ll break,� he said smugly, leaning back in his chair. �Americans always do. They�re not used to discomfort.� Ignoring Petrosian�s statement, Ohanian returned to his meal, his knife and fork making a dull scraping sound against his plate. After a moment, he looked back up, his face full of disdain. �Do you think I�m an amateur, that I need to waste hours or days before I get a sense of a man�s character?� His voice was caustic. Petrosian stopped chewing and stared at the other man. Ohanian regarded Petrosian with a look of repugnance, the way one might examine a soiled piece of clothing, until Petrosian appeared to shrink visibly under his gaze. Seemingly satisfied, the elderly man�s expression then lightened to that of mildly patronizing tolerance. �The man spent seven years in a POW camp under the most primitive conditions, and never gave up even the slightest piece of information.� Ohanian enunciated his words carefully, as if he were explaining himself to a slow-witted child. �There�s nothing we can do to him that would make any difference. His reactions when I questioned him this evening only confirmed what I already suspected.� Petrosian made a face, took a long drink of his imported German beer, and set the glass down with a thump. �Then we should kill him now.� He pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. �I�m sorry that I made you go to the trouble of coming here.� Madeline struggled to conceal her apprehension as she watched Petrosian walk to the door, open it, and call out to one of the guards. �Go dispose of the prisoner from Section One,� he ordered sullenly. Sickened, Madeline looked at the floor. �Wait, stop!� Ohanian called out, his voice sharp. Madeline turned toward Ohanian in relieved bewilderment as Petrosian called back the guard. �I said that he wouldn�t break, not that we couldn�t use him,� Ohanian said, sounding annoyed. Petrosian returned to his seat. �What do you mean?� he asked, frowning. Ohanian took another bite of his chicken. He chewed it with relish, and then took yet another, watching Petrosian�s growing impatience with obvious amusement. Finally, he answered. �In order to resist torture so effectively, it�s likely that he has a very strong ability to dissociate -- to separate different parts of his mind from one another. He might, for example, be able to segregate the part of his mind that feels physical pain from the rest of his mental processes.� He glanced over at Madeline pointedly before turning back to Petrosian. �It�s a skill that we were trying to develop in our subjects by using biofeedback techniques, until we had to suspend that research.� Petrosian sat still for a few moments as his brows knit faintly. �How is this useful to me? I want intelligence about Section One, not some sort of torture-resistant lab rat.� Ohanian chuckled. �Individuals with highly-developed dissociative abilities tend to be highly suggestible. While he would never give up information during interrogation, we could -- possibly -- plant instructions in his mind that he would follow upon his return to Section One.� Petrosian�s face lit up as he grasped Ohanian�s point. �Brainwashing, you mean?� �Such a crude term.� Ohanian shook his head disapprovingly. �You make it sound like a bad American movie. But essentially, yes. I believe that with the right combination of pharmaceuticals and hypnotherapy, we might be able to turn him into a sleeper double-agent, without him even knowing it.� The relief Madeline had felt when Ohanian stopped the execution vanished, replaced by a staggering sense of dread. She should have anticipated this, should have known how Ohanian�s mind worked. But she hadn�t. Now, unprepared, she crossed the threshold into a waking nightmare, where the door to every escape route slammed violently shut. It was all inevitable. Ohanian would start the process the next morning, and Wolfe would be irredeemably compromised. There would be no time for her to devise a plan or make arrangements; there would be no heroics or daring escape. Instead, she would become the cold executioner, forced to cancel her fellow operative for the good of the Section. It was foolish to have ever hoped otherwise. Perhaps it was even hubris for her to have aspired to a nobler role in life. She drew a deep breath of resignation and grew calm, accepting her destiny. Next to her, Petrosian took another deep drink of his beer, emptying the glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then leaned forward intently. �If we can turn him into a double-agent,� he asked Ohanian, a look of excitement filling his eyes, �can�t we also brainwash him into telling us everything he knows about Section One?� �Finally, an intelligent question. I see you�re learning.� Ohanian smiled mildly in approval. �But the answer is no, at least not in this case.� He pursed his lips briefly in thought before continuing. �The perfect candidate for this process would not only have the ability to dissociate, but would also have a weak sense of self -- someone without strong morals or principles, someone easily swayed by others. Such a person could be conditioned to do almost anything, including providing the intelligence you desire. Unfortunately, this particular prisoner lacks that second characteristic. Even with extreme levels of conditioning, he�ll resist performing acts that contradict his sense of right and wrong.� �Well then, what will we be able to make him do?� �Things that on the surface seem innocuous. I can create a whole range of signal behaviors -- all of them perfectly innocent in and of themselves � that will tell us when and where upcoming missions will take place. All we�ll have to do is have someone observe him, and we�ll have advance intel on everything. And he won�t have the slightest idea what he�s doing -- he�ll just have an unexplained urge to wear a red shirt, or go get a haircut at a certain time of day, or buy a particular magazine at a bookstore across town.� �This is incredible!� Petrosian exclaimed, slamming his palm on the table in excitement. The water sloshed out of Madeline�s glass; grinning apologetically, he began to mop it up with his napkin. �Why, if this works,� he laughed, �I�m going to get a big, huge promotion! And for you two, let�s just say I�ll make sure you�re both amply rewarded.� He beamed in delight and shook his head. �Professor, you are a genius. But what do we need to do?� �During the day, we�ll punish and interrogate him like any other captive -- perhaps even more severely than usual, given his history. That way, his conscious memories will be of how he resisted and refused to break. When he returns to Section One, it�s important that they be convinced he isn�t a traitor.� Petrosian nodded seriously. �But at night, the real training process will take place,� Ohanian continued. �That, we�ll make sure he has no memory of. When we�re done, we�ll allow him to �escape� and make his way back to Section One.� As Madeline listened to Ohanian�s last statement, the vague beginnings of an idea seeped through the gloom that held her in its clammy grip. Suddenly energized, she sat up attentively and spoke for the first time during the conversation. �Professor, you aren�t well enough to work both night and day,� she said, making sure her voice reflected the proper tone of concern. �I insist that you let me take care of the hypnotherapy sessions by myself so that you can get enough rest. I�ve watched you enough that I�m certain I can handle it by now.� Ohanian looked both surprised and grateful. He nodded. �Yes, that�s probably best. I have been so tired lately. And since I�m quite sure Section One monitors my whereabouts, they�d be suspicious if he didn�t remember me performing the daily interrogations.� He turned to Petrosian and smiled proudly. �I�m so lucky to have her, you know. When I retire I know my work will be in good hands.� �You�re going to be working day and night?� Petrosian looked at Madeline, his disappointment obvious. Madeline raised her eyebrows knowingly. �You want that promotion, don�t you?� �Are you sure you don�t need him restrained?� The guard looked at Madeline skeptically, his round face full of concern. �I don�t think that�s necessary.� Madeline shook her head and then smiled politely. �Even if he attacked me, where could he go afterwards? I doubt he�s that foolish.� The guard shrugged, unlocked the door to the cell, and pushed it open with a squeal. Madeline thanked him and stepped inside, pausing momentarily as she listened to the solid metal door close soundly and lock behind her. It had been easy enough to convince the guards to let her see the prisoner -- after all, as she had explained, she needed to assess the man before the next day�s interrogation session. But they wouldn�t have challenged her even if she had offered no excuse -- the guards were simply too afraid of her to deny a request. She wasn�t quite certain where the fear came from -- as someone outside the prison hierarchy, she posed no threat to them. Nor had she sought to frighten them in any way. In truth, she hardly even paid attention to them except for polite greetings and thank yous. Yet they rarely dared to look her in the eye. Maybe it was the nature of her work, or maybe it was her association with Petrosian, a man who terrorized his subordinates. It didn�t matter. If it meant her actions tonight would escape scrutiny, she was glad for it. Indeed, if inducing fear in others gave her greater freedom, perhaps it was a trait she ought to consider cultivating. Taking a deep breath, she looked around the room in curiosity. Despite her frequent trips to these institutions, she never visited individual cells -- her time was spent solely in interrogation rooms and staff or medical areas. This cell was more comfortable than she would have expected -- it was small and cramped, but almost civilized. A long metal bench bolted to the wall served as the bed; several feet away were a toilet and sink. The floor was plain cement, the walls an institutional green. It looked � oddly familiar. After a split second of confusion, she smiled wryly, remembering why. The room was a virtual replica of several jail cells she�d had the misfortune of staying in so many years ago. Another lifetime ago. Who would have thought I�d become one of the jailers? she thought in sad bemusement. Certainly not me. Shaking off that thought, she turned her attention to the object of her visit. Paul Wolfe was lying on a beaten-looking mattress atop the bench, covered with the thin blanket issued to all prisoners. At first, his back was to her -- she saw only a shape huddled under the blanket and a few tufts of brown hair poking out. But as she moved farther into the room, he rolled over to look at her, and his eyes -- so shockingly blue -- met hers. She blinked instinctively in self-defense, but it was too late. The power of his gaze -- and the contempt it held -- momentarily stunned her. It seemed as if the floor had weakened and cracked open beneath her, plunging her into the depths of an arctic sea. As she felt the blood color her face and her breathing become shallow, she realized that she would never, ever want to be this man�s enemy. Unfortunately for her, in his mind, she was the enemy. The sooner she remedied that impression, the better. Regaining her composure, she began to walk toward him, stepping carefully around the cigarette butts ground into the floor. He threw off the blanket and sat up, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her intently. He said nothing, but his body language conveyed a bold arrogance, an almost insulting confidence. Leaning back against the wall, still clad in commando black from his mission, he looked at her as if he were a warlord receiving tribute from a vassal instead of a prisoner being inspected by his captor. His air of casual amusement was disconcerting -- she was accustomed to prisoners being intimidated by her approach, and he was anything but. When she stopped, less than a foot away from him, he gave a short laugh. �I see they sent in the second string. Well, your boss wasn�t able to get anything out of me, so I don�t see why you think you can.� He then smirked, looking her up and down possessively. �Although you are nicer to look at.� She felt a sharp wave of anger mixed with�well, something else. Something she didn�t want to think about at the moment. You�re lucky I�m your ally, she thought, or I�d wipe that look right off your face. �I�m not here to interrogate you,� she said. Hearing her speak in flawless English, he narrowed his eyes and looked at her with disgust. �You�re an American, aren�t you? What the hell are you doing working for them?� �I don�t work for them,� she said, keeping her expression grave. �I work for Section Two. And I�m here to help you.� She saw his eyes widen slightly in shock, but he quickly recovered. �Nice try,� he hissed. �Now leave me alone. I�d like to get some sleep.� �I�m sorry, but I can�t do that. You�re either going to let me help you, or I�m going to cancel you.� She watched him calmly, letting this sink in. He no longer looked quite so arrogant. In fact, she could almost see a trace of doubt growing in the back of his eyes. �Now, I understand that you might not trust me,� she continued. �That�s to be expected. But you really have very little choice. Once I explain what they have planned for you here, I think you�ll agree.� He eyed her warily. She waited patiently, hands clasped in front of her. Finally, he shrugged. �You�re right,� he said. �I don�t trust you. But say whatever you have to say and get it over with.� They stared at each other for several moments. �May I sit down?� she asked. He moved to one end of the bench, gesturing for her to sit next to him. She sat, fought back her nervousness, and began. �My name is Madeline. I�ve been on an undercover assignment for Section Two for the past seven years �.� For over an hour, Paul sat quietly and listened to the woman who claimed to be an undercover Section Two operative. As she recounted her story, he grew increasingly mesmerized -- not just by the recitation of the details of her mission, which made for a spellbinding tale in itself, but also by the manner in which she told it. Her voice -- a smooth blend of sensuality and logical precision -- unsettled him even as it drew him in; once captured, he found himself sinking into the shimmering pools of intensity that were her eyes. His initial suspicion was overcome by fascination, and then, when she began to tell him what the KGB planned to do with him, by apprehension. When she was done, he looked at her in astonished silence. Drugs. Hypnosis. Mind control. The matter-of-fact dryness of her description only heightened the science-fiction surrealism of the scenario. �Will this process work?� he asked, finally finding his voice. �It�s never been tried on a fully resistant subject before. We don�t know what the outcome might be.� �So it might fail.� �If Ohanian thinks it�s failed, he�ll have you killed. Of course, if I think it�s worked, I�ll kill you myself.� Her tone was soft and unthreatening, but as she looked at him evenly with those dark, brown eyes, he knew, instinctively, that she was telling the truth: she could -- and would -- kill him, if it came to that. The realization gave him an abrupt chill. �I don�t think I like those options,� he said with a quick, sarcastic laugh. �Which is why you�ll do what I say.� She sharpened her voice with more than a hint of authority. �Which is?� �To pretend that the process has succeeded,� she answered calmly. He raised his eyebrows in worried surprise. He had expected a straightforward escape plan -- this sounded overly complicated, excessively risky. �You�ve got to be kidding. Why can�t you just help me get out of this place?� �Security here is extremely high. It would take several days to set up a feasible escape plan -- and even then the risk is extreme. And in the meantime, you�d have to pretend to undergo the procedure anyway. Why not just finish it out and be allowed to escape without any interference? It�s considerably safer that way.� �Not if I really get brainwashed somehow,� he protested. �I won�t let that happen.� They held a long, uncomfortable look. His real question -- whether he could place his trust in her -- remained unspoken, but he could see from her expression that she recognized his doubt. Finally, she sighed and broke the silence. �It�s really very straightforward,� she explained. �First, I�ll substitute the drugs with something harmless. Then, when I visit each night to do your �hypnotherapy�, I�ll give you instructions on how you should behave the following day to convince Ohanian that the process is working. Once he�s convinced that the procedure has been successfully completed, you�ll be set free.� She smiled briefly, reassuringly, but then hesitated as a faint cloud of concern shadowed her face. �The only difficult part will be the interrogations themselves,� she continued, shifting slightly on the bench and glancing away with a frown. �Ohanian plans on making them realistic. He�ll take you to the brink of death -- but stop just short.� Leaning forward, she looked back at him sharply, her eyes cutting deep into his. �You�re going to have to be strong. If you can�t, then I can�t help you.� �Oh, I can be strong, alright,� he replied. �But what if your mad professor misjudges where that brink is?� �He won�t.� She spoke with cold, unhesitating confidence. �He never does.� He inhaled deeply and frowned. Her plan was actually starting to make sense. But there was one problem. �What about when the KGB figures out that I�m not sending them intel? Won�t you fall under suspicion? It could blow your cover.� She smiled serenely. �There�s a way around that.� �How?� �When you return to Section One, tell them to allow you to give up minor, non-critical intel for several weeks. Then taper off. It�s an experimental procedure -- Ohanian will assume that the effects simply wore off. It happens with our subjects all the time. He -- and the KGB -- will be pleased with the partial success, and no one will be the wiser.� He laughed. �You seem to have all of this figured out,� he said admiringly. �Yes,� she said, arching an eyebrow with a slight look of pride. �I have.� He closed his eyes in thought. Did he trust this woman? It was possible, of course, that she had told him an elaborate lie in an effort to dissuade him from trying to escape. But no, she knew too much about the Sections -- she knew all about Adrian and George, and even spoke in Section jargon. Her story simply rang true -- not just in the details, but in the way she told it. Ultimately, however, it was something more than just a compelling story that persuaded him -- it was her manner, the way she looked at him. It felt familiar, as if they had known each other all their lives -- or, perhaps more accurately, as if they had spent their lives preparing to meet each other. He knew his reaction wasn�t logical, but he couldn�t shake it. He trusted her -- deep, in his gut -- in a way that he hadn�t trusted anyone since he joined the Section. He trusted her enough to put his life in her hands and follow her advice -- wherever it might lead. He opened his eyes and sighed. �Well, as crazy as this story is, you�re right. I don�t really have many choices. I guess we�ll work together.� He grinned, trying to cover up his trepidation about her plan. She smiled warmly and held out her hand to him. �Then I guess we have a deal.� He shook her hand and then released it slowly. As he did so, and the delicate softness of her palm and fingers brushed across his, he found himself growing acutely aware of their physical closeness -- of the sound of her breathing, a scent of perfume. She stood up quickly, looking a little disconcerted. �The process will begin tomorrow morning,� she announced, her manner suddenly cold. �You�ll be tortured and interrogated all day. I cannot interfere. At the end of the day, you�ll be given food that is supposed to be laced with the drug. I�ll make sure that it isn�t. I�ll visit you again tomorrow night to let you know how you should act the next day.� With that, she turned and walked to the door, knocked to summon the guard, and then exited the room.