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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 4
Abram and Joyce were standing in the corridor outside the visiting room, on the first floor.
Simon Bisley, a tall male nurse with dark, short hair, a thin moustache and eyeglasses, came out of the visiting room. He was holding a metal detector. He nodded at Abram, who stepped inside. The padded steel door closed behind him with a muffled click. Abram looked around the white room. It was about ten feet wide, fifteen feet long, windowless, and lit by fluorescent tubes -- on his side of the room only. The room was split halfway by a thick plexiglass wall with rows of air holes at the top. On the other side of the glass wall was another padded door; nothing else, not even a ventilator.
Abram sat down on a worn wooden chair and looked up at the surveillance cameras in the ceiling. From one of them, Joyce's voice called out from a small loudspeaker.
"We're sending him in now, Abram. Are you sure you want to do this?"
Abram's hands trembled barely visibly, and his reply was forced: "Of course. Turn off all equipment like I've told you."
The little red lamps on the cameras went out. A couple of seconds passed, while Abram sat with his hands tightly folded above his lap; several times he began to run a hand across his moustaches, but restrained himself. The door on the opposite side opened. A pale man in a T-shirt, jeans, and loafers stood dead still in the doorway, his gaze shifting around the room. He saw Abram, fixed him with an intense stare, and walked carefully into his half of he room. The door closed and all was quiet. Lemercier stood up and walked over to the glass wall, stopping two feet from it. The man on the other side stood silent, incessantly staring at his face and person.
The man was of medium height, thin in an unhealthy way, and had light-red, stubby crew-cut hair. Bloodshot eyes glowered from an aggressive, angular face. The skin under his eyes was purple, making little irregular twitches as he began walking sideways left-right, like an animal poised for a leap. His bony fists hung tightly clenched along his sides; now and then his sharp, straight nose widened in a nervous sniffing.
The two men came to stand about six feet apart from each other. When Abram stroked his moustaches, his hand became wet with sweat. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and decisively looked the other man in the eye.
"Hi, Patrick. I'm Abram Lemercier, a psychologist from Virginia." His voice was first unnaturally high, but quickly sank to a normal conversation level, as if unused to the acoustics of the room; it had a slight echo.
"What university?" Patrick's reply was hoarse and lightning-fast.
Abram backed a step, but kept his face level, his eyes steady.
"I'll be getting to that soon, Patrick. Right now I'd just like to talk a little, ask a few questions, and --"
"And to show your good will," Patrick cut off with hoarse scorn, "you've had the surveillance cameras shut off, right?"
He showed his teeth in a wide, wolfish grin. Abram hastily glanced up at the cameras in the ceiling. They were shut off. The staring man moved with more confidence, if still cautiously. Abram smiled with compressed lips as he turned to Patrick again; half angry, half amused.
"Okay, Dr. Rymowicz," he said grimly, "you're much too smart to let yourself be duped by formalities. Let me just fix one thing, and we can talk business."
He took off his tweed jacket and hung it over the optic surveillance camera, so that the microphone was covered. He turned to Patrick, who was now sneering at him.
"You might have microphones hidden in your clothes," he said, his voice somewhat less scornful.
Abram sighed, blinked twice, and started to take off his clothes. Half a minute later, his clothes and shoes lay crumpled together in a corner of the room, Abram standing as far away from them as possible. He folded his wiry arms over his paunch, looking at Patrick without fear. Patrick wasn't smiling any longer, but he glowered suspiciously at Abram's wrist.
"The watch," he hissed.
Abram gave Patrick a black look, took off his cheap plastic wristwatch, and smashed it under one of the chair's legs.
"Come closer to the glass," Patrick said shortly. They approached each other. When Abram pressed his ear to the glass, Patrick knocked at it, shaking his head in irritation.
He cupped a hand over his mouth, breathed at the glass, and wrote with his finger in the condensed droplets: GLASS CARRIES SOUND. The words faded almost as fast as they were written, but they were readable.
He erased the words with his forearm, breathed more "mist" onto the surface, and wrote: STAND IN THE WAY OF THE CAMERA
Patrick erased the text again, stared impatiently into Abram's resolute face, and waited. Abram frowned, looking down for a moment, then followed Patrick's example.