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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 7
WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE
SEPTEMBER 9
A few days had passed.
The special room was located in the basement. Like the visiting room, it had a plexiglass wall; there were no cameras. It was almost the same size. But the sound-absorbing plates which covered walls, doors, and ceiling made it sound as if Abram and Parry were standing in a tiny wardrobe. A mattress dominated Parry's half of the room; otherwise it was empty. Abram was sitting on a stool with a briefcase in his lap, his eyes attentively fixed on Parry. Parry stood leaning against the glass wall in the middle of the room, looking back in distrust. Abram glanced down at his wrist -- where there was no wristwatch -- drew his hand over his beard, and opened his mouth.
"Right," Abram began. "We can hold our interviews here, and it's quite safe. Of course I have to talk to people outside, but I decide what they'll hear -- so it's all boils down to your trust in me. Okay?"
Parry blinked once.
"What I'm now about to say," Abram explained, "is our, unofficial version. There are two official versions of my work here. To Dr. Oregon, I've said that I'm nothing but a doctor of psychology, who's got a special permit from several authorities, to study a severe case of paranoid schizophrenia. I told her I use a technique of creating a false solidarity with the patient by suggesting to be a secret agent."
The purple skin under Parry's red eyes twitched at the phrase 'paranoid schizophrenia', but he stood tense and motionless.
"To my CIA superior, Ned Wilson, with whom I regularly communicate by a scrambled phone, I have said that I'm doing my official job as a psychologist, at the same time as I'm working on an important report. I'm continuously sending parts of the report to him by courier -- never by mail or FedEx."
Parry's pale eyebrows crowded restlessly over the root of his sharp nose. He listened.
"Here comes the real, unofficial version. Listen carefully."
Abram rose to his feet, holding his briefcase in one hand, shifting position as he talked.
"Parallel with my psychological case study of Patrick Rymowicz, which everyone knows of..."
He stopped momentarily, throwing a sideglance in Parry's direction.
"... I am also writing a continuing report for the CIA department for futurological studies. It contains different suggestions, for strategies to deal with the new political, military, and global threats which we might face after the end of the Cold War."
He walked up to the glass wall, the floor plates swallowing the sound of his shoes, so that his feet almost appeared to hover an inch above the floor.
"Do you realize the enormous difficulties we're having, rearranging the activity of the Company, rearranging our brains?" He made an impatient gesture at Parry. "Look at me! All the Company's chiefs grew up with the Cold War, and our accustomed habits of thinking make the Company slow in reacting to the new world order. We couldn't predict the failed Three Day Coup in the Soviet Union. And when the Soviet Union then suddenly ceased to exist, we stood there with our pants down.
"Saddam Hussein surprised us completely when he went into Kuwait! What saved us from World War Three was that he too was stuck in old habits. He intended to play off the U.S. against the Soviet Union in the U.N., and paralyze all intervention; but there was no Soviet Union anymore!"
Abram rested on the glass wall with his free hand and looked down upon his dark leather shoes, then up at Parry's concentrated, bony face. They were both sweating.
"When the next big crisis comes, the enemy -- be it China, the Arabs, secessionists within the nation, or someone else -- will have learned. We won't get a second lucky break. That's why I need the imagination of a younger person. Someone with a special talent for seeing patterns, where others just see chaos. Who may speculate freely without fear of losing his job. Someone who's got nothing to lose. Someone I could help back to freedom."
He paused for a breath. The air had grown palpably hot in the hermetically isolated room. Abram eased his collar and bow tie. Parry's T-shirt was dark with sweat, but he was yet standing still against the glass wall.
A few seconds passed, before he spoke in his hoarse voice: "This was most interesting... but there's a snag." Now completely serious, his wolf grin was gone. "Why," he said very slowly, very calmly, "should I risk trusting you? This special room was arranged pretty damn quickly. I've been here for years. I'm no longer allowed to read newspapers, order the books I want, watch TV or surf the Web. They're only letting me out for exercise once a week, drugging me to sleep every night; so I wake up every morning without having had any dreams, then I'll sit half-sleeping, waiting for being allowed to visit the bathroom while the wardens watch.
"The food is transported here from the town, and when it reaches my cell it has lost taste and smell. If I bribe the nurse with ten bucks he'll buy me a chocolate bar, but first I'll let him eat half of it and wait a week to see how he reacts, before tasting it myself. Then I'll get sure it was poisoned, and I throw it up immediately. Dr. Oregon hates me more than all the other five lunatics, serial killers and cannibals in this place; I've heard her say that I and the others should be lobotomized. Ask her. But you know what, Doctor Lemercier?"
Parry's voice was less hoarse now, but the more excited; his face redder.
"I want to stay here, because I know the outside world will explode under your feet any day! Give me one single reason for leaving my comparatively safe cell, to be hunted, found, and murdered in the normal world!!"
His voice rose to a rage. His clenched fists left sweat stains on the glass, which also showed spitmarks. Abram wiped his brow with his sleeve, lowered his eyebrows, looked at Parry's feet, crossed his arms.
After a minute he said: "To begin with..." He groped for the right words. "To begin with: nobody will ever know of your assistance, but of course that alone isn't enough to motivate anyone. Let's say that I'll arrange for you to stay in the special room for an unlimited time. I can give you access to television, newspapers, and all the books you ask for. You might even -- you might even study part of the classified material I'm using for my CIA report."
Abram ceased, and wiped his brow with a pained expression.
"Please let me open the air intake now," he gasped.
Parry wiped beads of sweat off the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He was swaying a little despite his sneer.
"Okay, if you won't speak. Oregon could be bugging us."
"Wait. I'll be right back."
Abram fumbled along the wall, found an air vent hidden by a piece of loose insulation material, opened it, went out into the basement and closed the door. There was a similar vent on Parry's side, but he ignored it.
When Abram came back into the special room a short while later, he was dumbstruck for a moment: Parry seemed to have disappeared. Then he saw the figure behind the curled-up mattress in the far corner of the room, and choked a laugh. He locked the room, shut the air vent, and held up the suitcase he had left there.
"In this briefcase there are no bombs, I assure you. Where was I? Yes. Apart from anonymity, the special room, and free access to information, I can easily find up excuses for increasing your personal security. Make a list of the improvements you want, and I'll defend your demands with promises of increased donations. And if I haven't said it already, my official study of your case may lead to an eventual release, or at least better treatment. What've you got to lose?"
Abram threw out his arms, then let them hang along his sides, looking at the figure hiding behind the mattress. Parry slowly raised his head.
His bloodshot eyes were more nervous than angry, and he made a muted reply: "Okay... I'm prepared to play along -- but I'll retreat to my old cell whenever it becomes necessary!"
Abram sighed with relief and stepped toward the glass barrier.
"One more thing, Doc." Parry pushed away the mattress and stood up, remaining in the corner of the soundproof, echo-free room.
"Yes?"
"Do you think I'm crazy too?" Parry's voice almost trembled. Abram frowned as he was lost in his thoughts for a moment.
"Officially, yes. Unofficially... it doesn't really matter what I think, as long as the cooperation goes smoothly and discreetly. Do you trust me?"
Parry's response was calm, his eyes relaxed somewhat.
"No. But that doesn't really matter either -- does it?" Some of the defiant scorn returned. "See ya, Doc."
They did not say goodbye to each other.