The Siren Project (28 page)

“They use finely controlled particle beams,”
Gunter replied, “That intersect inside the brain, to manipulate neurological
connections. It is a physical process that requires a comprehensive mapping of
the brain in question, followed by a precise restructuring procedure involving millions
of connections being severed or stimulated.”

“They hard wire the brain, the way they
want it,” Mouse said. “Like a circuit board.”

“Sounds complicated,” Mitch said.

“The complexity is almost incomprehensible,”
Gunter added. “A similar process happens naturally inside our own brains every
day. Everything you see, every thought you have, triggers neurons to join and separate
inside the brain. What they have figured out, is how to synthesize the process.
When you think about it, it was inevitable someone would find a way to control
the process.”

“Imagine,” Mouse said, “If every baby born
gets some early programming. We could all be voting for the same political
party, buying the same car, choosing brand X over brand Y, and never realize it
wasn’t our own preference. Or we could mass produce super soldiers with no
moral dilemma about killing and no fear of death, and yet, with absolute, total
obedience.”

“Or eliminate crime, drug abuse, and mental
illness,” Gunter countered. “End suffering. With that kind of understanding, we
could unlock the true potential of the human brain, double the intelligence of
humanity in a single generation. It could be an evolutionary step for the
entire human race, the first evolutionary step designed by humanity, for
humanity.”

“It could unlock those psychic abilities
dormant in everyone, but functioning in just a few,” Christa said, thinking of
her own gifts and how someday they could be available to every human being.

Mitch looked doubtful. “Noble thoughts, but
whoever has his finger on this button, doesn’t have humanitarian intentions in
mind.”

There was silence, as they realized he was right.

“This world is so screwed up,” Mouse said
bitterly. “We turn everything into shit.”

“So, we know what it is,” Mitch said, “Is
there any defense against it?” He glanced sideways at Christa. “Apart from
implanting self-destruct devices in our brains, which I think we all agree, is a
really bad idea.”

Gunter looked pensive. “It is a form of
radiation . . . Radiation can be shielded against.”

“You want us to wear lead helmets?” Mitch
asked, only half joking.

Gunter allowed himself a smile. “Perhaps. It
is too early to tell.”

“So what do we do with all this
information?”

“We give it to Gus,” Christa said without
hesitation. “With the Vice President on our side, he can get a team of scientists
working on it.”

The other two nodded.

“So Knightly and the egg-heads get EB's
download,” Mitch said, “And take care of the hard science. We figure out what
the Louisiana rednecks are doing, and what's happening in Arizona. Christa, you'll
write Knightly a letter, setting up a meeting in New York. We won't risk the
phones, not with Echelon breathing down our necks. Mouse, you arrange for air
tickets, using fake ID's of course, and find a controllable location as our
base. Gunter, get me everything you can on this convention in New York.”

Gunter nodded, but looked troubled. When
Mitch gave him a questioning look, he said, “All it takes is a few key people
in key places to take control of the military, the intelligence community, even
the government. That must be how they got control of Echelon. If this goes on,
if it grows, they will control everything.”

“Not if we find out who the robots are
first.”

“Then what?” Christa asked.

“Then Knightly will have to eliminate them.
What choice does he have? This will never make it to trial.”

“Remember,” Mouse said, as he passed
the small cardboard box holding the twenty disks containing EB’s download to
Mitch, “We can receive your signal for both sound and pictures out to five
miles, providing you don’t put too much concrete between us.”

“It's New York. There's concrete
everywhere.”

“I know. Just stay in the open.”

Mitch slipped the box into his briefcase,
then gave Christa an enquiring look. “Ready?”

“Yes,” she said closing her hand bag.

Christa had mailed the letter to Knightly
as soon as the plane had touched down, requesting only a meeting, not revealing
the purpose. Once secure in the hotel, they lay low for several days while the
letter was delivered and Knightly had time to reach New York for the
rendezvous. On the street, Christa slid her hand under Mitch’s arm, completing
the illusion of a couple enjoying a walk together. A few blocks away in a
parked hire car, Mouse used the headphones to monitor their progress while Gunter
waited patiently behind the wheel.

When Mitch and Christa approached the entrance
to the Museum of Modern Art, Mitch surveyed both sides of the street warily. They'd
decided to meet at a public place because of the reduced risk of ambush, even
so, he still felt uncomfortably exposed. Pedestrians hurried about their
business, cars jostled for position, but no one paid them any special attention

“Looks clear,” he reported, speaking just
loud enough for the microphone pinned to his lapel.

Christa swiveled her shoulders slightly as
she walked, displaying the street to the broach camera.

“You sense anything?” Mitch said, giving a
slight nod to the people around them.

“What do you think I am? Radar? I have to
concentrate on the person. I can’t just sweep the street.”

Mitch smiled. “Damn. I thought you were a
walking AWACS. What about energy fields, anything making your hair stand on
end?”

She paused, as if listening. “Nope, not a
thing.”

“Good,” he whispered as they turned into
the Museum, paid the entry fee and made their way toward the book shop.

Gus Knightly stood alone a few feet from
the entrance to the book store, his back partially turned to them. He wore a
dark overcoat, his hands pushed deep into the pockets, standing very still as
if deep in thought. A smile flickered across Christa’s face as she saw him.

“Right on time,” Mitch observed.

“Told you he’d be here.”

They slipped through the scattered museum
patrons until they were only a dozen feet from Knightly, when Christa stopped. Her
fingers gripped Mitch’s arm so tight, her nails dug into his skin through his
coat.

“Oh no!” she gasped, shocked.

Mitch stopped uncertainly. “What is it?” He
slipped his hand inside his coat toward his gun.

Christa's face was white, her eyes riveted
on Knightly. “Radar!” she whispered.

Mitch followed her gaze to Knightly, who
turned absently toward them. The left side of his face appeared normal, but
then the right side came slowly into view, marked by an erratic, uncontrolled
twitching. His right shoulder hung lower than his left and his right leg took
on an odd angle at the knee as he turned, indicating no control over the leg’s
movement. Knightly's eyes caused the greatest shock, once sharp and alert, they
were now glazed and vacant, completing the picture of a man who’d suffered a
massive stroke down his right side. Mitch knew instantly, he was brain dead,
alive but mindless, able to stand, but do little else. He realized Knightly had
been positioned so his right side was concealed from them as they approached.

“Abort,” he said, spinning on his heels,
dragging Christa with him, then coming to a sudden stop.

Standing immediately before them, blocking
their escape, was Richard McNamara, the ex-NSA officer Mitch had first seen
when the helicopter had landed at the Newton Institute. Beside him was Alan Bradick
and two other men Mitch hadn’t seen before, but were undoubtedly military types.
The two unknown men slipped around beside them, one taking Christa’s arm, the
other taking Mitch’s.

McNamara warned in a low voice, “We'll
shoot you here if you try to run, but innocent people will die if we do. Your
choice.”

Mitch’s hand was on the gun inside his coat.
He could get off one, maybe two shots, but that was all. He knew without
looking, the men flanking them had guns drawn inside their coats. Mitch nodded
slightly, easing his hand off his gun. McNamara stepped close until they were
almost chest to chest, reached inside Mitch’s coat, removed the gun, then
quickly dropped it into his own coat pocket.

“Very sensible, Mitchell.” McNamara said,
before turning to Christa. “You too. I hear you're quite a shot.” Reluctantly,
she handed her purse to him. He quickly retrieved her gun and returned the
purse. “Now that the formalities are over, come this way.”

McNamara turned and led them toward the
exit. Bradick fell in behind as his two men guided them after McNamara. A long
black limousine waited for them outside the Museum entrance with its engine
humming. McNamara opened the rear door, then Mitch and Christa were hustled
inside. The two guards took positions either side of them, while Bradick and
McNamara sat opposite, on the backward facing seats. As soon as the doors were
locked, the limo drove slowly away from the Museum.

Bradick picked up the metal detector
waiting on the seat and scanned Mitch. When it beeped, he ripped open Mitch's
shirt and tore off the microphone taped to his chest. Mitch winced as his hairs
were ripped out, giving Bradick cause to smile before passing the device to
McNamara.

The ex-NSA officer cast a practiced eye
over the microphone, with an amused look. “I didn’t know they were still making
these.” He lowered the power window and tossed it out onto the street.

Bradick continued scanning Mitch, finding
his second smaller gun strapped to the inside of his lower left leg. Bradick
retrieved it, held it up to McNamara with an assured grin.

“Really, Mitchell,” McNamara scolded. “A
woman’s gun?”

Bradick pocketed the small pistol and
finished his scan. In the cramped confines of the limousine, Bradick did not
properly angle the metal detector at the heel of Mitch’s shoe and missed the
homing device hidden there. Bradick scanned Mitch’s briefcase, then opened it
and recovered the box of CDs, which he passed to McNamara, who flipped open the
lid and let some compact disks slide partly out.

“Now, what have we here?” he said curiously.
“Is this why you were in such a hurry to meet Knightly?”

Mitch stared impassively, without replying.

“I’ll have these analyzed of course. It
won’t take long to find out what they are, and who you got them from.”

“Good luck,” Mitch said. “They’re encoded.”

“Of course they are. I don’t suppose you
want to save me some time, and give me the key?”

“I don’t know the key. We were going to
mail the decryption algorithm once we were sure the drop was safe.”

“If you think this piss ant little code of
yours is any protection, you’re sadly mistaken.” He slipped the box of disks
into his pocket. “So what’s on them?”

“Pictures of your wife. You’ll enjoy them.”

“What you don’t tell me today, I’ll know
tomorrow.”

“I could beat the fucking key out of him,”
Bradick said menacingly.

McNamara looked thoughtfully at Mitch. “That
won’t be necessary, Mr Bradick. He probably doesn’t know it, and even if he
did, I doubt he'd tell you.”

The limousine had gone half a dozen blocks
from the Museum when the driver took a right turn. Ahead, cars started banking
up as the traffic lights turned red, causing the limousine to slow, then come
to a halt. Mitch gauged the chance of escape, but with the two enforcers either
side of them, there was little hope of making a break for it.

Bradick turned to Christa and began
scanning her with the metal detector. It beeped as it passed over her broach. He
removed the ornament, taking plenty of time feeling her breast as he did. Christa
simply stared at him, looking bored. The two heavies grinned at the groping,
then Bradick handed the broach to McNamara, who held it up to examine in the
light from the window.

“Now this is clever. Custom made? At least
we know your two accomplices are close by. It’s obviously short range. Although
without you and the lovely lady, I doubt they’ll be much of a threat to us now.”
He tossed the broach camera out the window.

Bradick continued sweeping Christa for
electronic devices, pushing the metal detector up under her dress between her
legs. He stared into her eyes with a leering grin, while the two muscle men
chuckled. Christa glared back at him icily. McNamara watched the scene aloofly.
These kind of games were of no interest to him. Bradick blew a kiss to Christa,
then sat down satisfied she was debugged.

“So much for the pleasantries,” McNamara
said. “Now we can enjoy the view. It'll be a short drive, less than an hour.”

“What’s going to happen to Knightly?” Mitch
asked. “Is he going to stand there like a cigar store Indian collecting dust forever?”