The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) (22 page)

Chapter 38

November 30, 6:36 a.m.

Gallo House

Vivian gave up on sleep. She’d dozed a little in Tesla’s bedroom, after insisting on sleeping on his bed, but too shy to do more than lie down on top of the quilt. She didn’t know exactly where his bolt-hole was, but it was up here somewhere. She’d prowled around, but one or the other of the cops had shadowed her every move, and she didn’t want them around when she found the secret door.

Eventually, she’d told them that she was going to bed, and they’d reluctantly left her alone. When the men had done their hourly patrols, she’d searched the house for Tesla’s bolt-hole, but she hadn’t found it. She’d also found no evidence that Tesla had come back into the house, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he had. He needed food. He needed Wi-Fi. And she’d noticed that the cops left the house together every hour for about five minutes. If she were Tesla, she’d sneak in during that time and gather whatever she needed from inside.

She looked up at the plastered ceiling above Tesla’s bed. The plasterer had done an excellent job—the ceiling was perfectly smooth, coved at the edges. A hairline crack ran along one corner, probably from the house shifting when the trains went by. All in all, the house was solid, the kind she’d only read about in books.

She fingered the antique quilt. Her mother would have loved it—tiny stitches formed intricate patterns. The seamstress had spent a long time getting it just right. The quilt and sheets smelled like lilac. Where had Tesla found a lilac-scented detergent? It fit the room perfectly.

The agents downstairs, and they were agents, not police, closed the front door. Time for another circuit of the tunnels. She didn’t think that Joe would come in that way. He’d come in through the entrance he’d escaped out of, wherever it was.

She’d lied when she told them that Joe had slipped down the right-hand tunnel when he’d seen that the elevator was coming down, leaving her behind to answer questions. He had been under her protection at the time, so she’d felt obligated. If they caught him and charged him, her deceit might come to light.

If they caught him? When they caught him. She’d heard that today they were going to start searching the tunnels in a grid pattern with trained bloodhounds. Even with hundreds of miles of tunnels to hide in, Tesla wouldn’t be able to avoid them forever.

She sat up in bed, ran her fingers through her hair. She might as well look for him again. She’d do a round of the station, especially the restaurants, looking for the dog. She wished that she had the easy, and illegal, access to the surveillance footage that Tesla so obviously enjoyed. She’d have been able to monitor him from the comfort of her own home—or his.

As much as she’d been taken aback by the house when she first saw it, it had started to grow on her. She could see why he liked living in the sumptuous antique quarters completely isolated from the noise and bustle of the city above. His bedroom was bigger than her whole apartment and, she hated to admit it, it smelled better, too.

First stop, coffee. Then breakfast and a quick pass of the Wi-Fi stations in Grand Central. After that, she’d see if she could talk her way into searching the tunnels around Platform 36 on her own. She hadn’t managed to last night, but there would be a new officer on duty, and that would give her a second chance. If not, she’d come back here and poke around. He was close. She knew he was.

She’d use the syringe first and ask questions later. Joe might hate her for knocking him out, but if she could get him out of these tunnels safely, she’d take the heat.

Chapter 39

November 30, 7:02 a.m.

Tunnel near Platform 36

Joe leaned back against the cold steel pillar and made himself a blanket tent. It smelled like dog. In the yellow dog’s absence, he found it comforting. He’d dodged patrols for the past few hours. After he’d almost been caught near the brick room, he’d tried heading for home where he could have examined the contents of the briefcase in peace, but there were too many people in his way. Men with dogs.

He didn’t know if he’d ever make it back.

Trying not to think about it, he turned on his flashlight and finally unbelted the old briefcase. Slowly, he lifted off the top to reveal yellowed papers, some handwritten, some typewritten.

Gently, he lifted out the first sheaf of pages. The handwritten ones were impossible to decipher. He tried to read the unusual script, but it appeared not to be English to begin with. Maybe German, but he couldn’t be sure of that. He wasn’t even sure about the individual letters.

Anchoring the blanket tent under his feet, he made space to sort the contents. He set aside the handwritten pages, finding beneath them a slender typewritten report, in English, dated November 1949. That made it almost sixty-five years old.

He began to read:

Prepared for CIA Project Bluebird: Mind Control Through Parasitic Infection

By Dr. Paul Berger

A chill ran down his spine. A doctor, maybe the one in the car, had carried out deliberate mind-control experiments just after World War II. After having lost control of part of his mind, the idea horrified Joe in a way that he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. A person’s mind was his most fundamental possession. It was not meant to be toyed with, or experimented on.

Yet it had happened. If this report was accurate, the CIA had sponsored mind-control experiments right after World War II. Using parasites. He immediately thought of the toxoplasmosis that had infected Rebar. That was the link.

Blotches of dark mold obscured most of the first paragraph. He read the second.

Primate trials have been most encouraging—with the toxoplasmosis parasite taking hold easily and well. After a week-long period of illness, the rhesus monkeys seem to subdue the physical symptoms. Their behavior, however, is radically altered.

There it was in black and white. This scientist had been injecting monkeys with toxoplasmosis experimentally to control their behavior.

Formerly docile specimens can become quite aggressive, even reckless, and seem to have no recollection of actions that they commit during their aggressive bouts (See Chart 15.6).

The practical application of this kind of treatment to soldiers in wartime is clear—soldiers can perform dangerous and reckless missions and then have no recollection of them afterward, thereby making it impossible for them to reveal mission details even under the most extreme duress.

Joe read it again. This was an attempt to make supersoldiers who did what they were told and didn’t remember it afterward. No vulnerability to interrogation. Or the debilitation of conscience.

Once we have the volunteer soldiers in place, we can begin human inoculations. I propose three groups—Group 1 knows they are being exposed to the parasite. Group 2, a control group, believes they are exposed but are not. Group 3 is exposed but without their knowledge or consent. We will measure the following:

Suggestibility: How far can we control what these soldiers do.

Recklessness: How far can we push the soldiers in stressful situations.

Selective amnesia: What will and won’t the soldiers remember.

I suggest one hundred soldiers for each group, initially. As per established protocols, we need not receive explicit informed consent as these are active-duty soldiers who have volunteered for this program knowing that there might be certain risks involved.

Joe stopped reading. They had planned to inject soldiers without their knowledge or consent. All that he had suffered since his agoraphobia seemed trivial in comparison.

He fired up his laptop, hid the IP address, and searched for Project Bluebird, growing more horrified with every word that he read. Project Bluebird had actually existed. It had been a large-scale project initiated after World War II, sometimes using Nazi scientists, to research mind-control techniques.

Joe studied the antique, typewritten pages. They provided evidence that a scientist had planned to infect soldiers against their will with a parasite to control their behavior, but compared with the horrors already well documented online and in books, it wasn’t a revelation. Why had it mattered to Rebar?

The next layer of papers explained that. They weren’t typewritten. They were laser-printed—modern day.

They described a recent trial in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, also using the toxoplasmosis parasite. Initially used as an aid for interrogations of hostiles, infections had been introduced to volunteer troops in order to study their reactions.

Initially, the trials had gone well—the subjects had shown no reluctance to take on the most dangerous missions, they had not been troubled by post-traumatic stress disorder, and they had acted with cunning and ruthlessness under stress. In short, they had become better soldiers. But something had gone wrong with the soldiers who’d taken part in the 500 series of trials. That must have included Subject 523—Ronald Raines, aka Rebar. Those soldiers had become very aggressive and mentally unstable. The report said the project scientist, Dr. Francis Dubois, had managed to destroy the parasite in the 500 series subjects. They had suffered no long-term effects.

Except for Rebar, who had been murdered not far from where Joe sat. And who knew how many others? This part of t
he report, at least, was a lie.

With an uneasy feeling, Joe remembered the boat that had sunk in Cuba the day after Rebar had gone AWOL. The press had reported that it had contained one hundred and three people. One of them was a doctor. A few minutes of research produced the name of a doctor who had died in Cuba at around that time—Janet Johansson—and a curriculum vitae. She’d reported directly to Dr. Dubois as a research assistant.

Joe kept reading. Dr. Dubois explained that the trials had gone well, making soldiers braver, more biddable, and less prone to post-traumatic stress. He’d even infected soldiers and sent them to war zones to document their reactions.

Because of this, Dr. Dubois felt that the project was ready for widespread trials, with over fifty thousand men, using the standard double-time structure with no consent issues. Fifty thousand men? That was the population of a small city. All of them infected by a mind-altering parasite without their knowledge.

Injections were due to start on December first. Joe checked his online calendar.

Tomorrow.

Where was Dr. Dubois now? Joe checked online. The doctor lived in Tuckahoe, a city on the Metro North line, about forty minutes from Grand Central by train. He worked at a lab not far from his house.

But where was he right now? Joe went to the list of hacked phones he’d used for his seagull prank, hoping he’d get lucky. He did. It didn’t take long for him to locate the doctor’s phone from there. The little blue dot that represented the phone’s location was heading south. He waited a few minutes to make sure: Dr. Dubois’s blue dot was following the rail line. He was on a train heading to New York, which meant that he would arrive at Grand Central.

Joe ran over the schedule in his head. Based on his current location, Dr. Dubois had boarded the Harlem line train (color coded as blue) in Tuckahoe at 8:24 (purple, blue, green), which meant that he would arrive at Grand Central Terminal at 9:07 (scarlet, black, slate), probably on Platform 112 (cyan, cyan, blue).

Every platform would be crawling with policemen. Joe would never get a chance to get near him there. He could try to send the information that he had out to Torres, but so far as he could tell she wasn’t passing that information along. He didn’t want to involve Celeste or Leandro—it was too dangerous. He could try to leak it to the press himself, but he’d have to persuade a reporter to meet him underground, after the media had painted him as a crazy murderer.

He needed more proof.

Maybe he could intercept the doctor before his train arrived at Grand Central. Maybe he’d get lucky and the doctor would be carrying incriminating files, or even the serum itself. After all, how else would he get such a dangerous biological specimen to New York City? If he found either files or the serum, that would give him enough proof to back up his assertions. He could convince people.

So, to get to the doctor before his train arrived, he had to figure out how to hack the train, stop it just before it arrived at the station, and get aboard. And he had thirty minutes to figure it out.

He bundled the files back in the briefcase, slipped it into his backpack, threw off the blanket, and began to run.

Chapter 40

November 30, 8:39 a.m.

Starbucks, Grand Central Terminal

Ozan watched the commuters rush in through the Lexington Avenue entrance. They left wet footprints on the stone floor. A slipping hazard, an easy way to disguise an accidental death. Not that he needed one right now, but he was always on alert to add to his repertoire.

He sipped his hot black coffee. He was due to meet Rash Connelly at nine sharp by the clock in the concourse. They were going down to Tesla’s lair to see if they could find another way that Tesla could have gotten out of his house. Ozan bet that Tesla had a back door. He was too smart not to.

He took a long sip of his strong coffee. He felt better today than he had in a long time—stronger, more clear-headed. A good night’s sleep on Erol’s floor was all he’d needed.

His cell phone rang.

“Saddiq.” He smiled at a blonde ordering a ridiculously complicated coffee that seemed to consist more of things being left out than added.

“Verifying that you have not located the papers.”

“I have not.” It was Dubois. Ozan recognized his voice and his impatient air. “But we’re closing in on Tesla, and I understand that it is imperative that he not speak to the police.”

“I doubt that he knows anything. But the orders stand.” A familiar clattering in the background gave Ozan pause.

“Are you on a train?” Ozan asked.

“Yes. I have an important meeting in the city today.”

“When do you arrive?”

“How is that relevant?” Dr. Dubois’s voice sharpened with suspicion.

“If Tesla knows something, he might come after you.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Probably.” Ozan smiled at the blonde, and she gave him an insulted look. He faced away from her. “What would it hurt if I were to meet your train and escort you safely to your destination?”

He’d have to call Connelly and reschedule their meeting.

“How would Tesla know where I am?” Dubois sounded impatient.

“I don’t know,” Ozan admitted. “He’s smart. I don’t think we should underestimate him.”

Dr. Dubois didn’t say anything. Ozan listened to the sounds of the train.

“He’s a software engineer,” Dubois said finally. “Not an assassin.”

Ozan did not tell him that the software engineer had bested him, a sought-after assassin, at every encounter so far.

“Stick with your original duties.” Dubois hung up.

Ozan dropped the empty cup in the garbage can and joined the throng heading toward the trains. He checked the arrivals board for Dubois’s train. The board said that the train was due in at 9:07 on Platform 112.

He’d meet it. If Tesla didn’t show up, no harm was done. If he did, Ozan would be ready for him. Today was a good day, and he would not fail.