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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 59
PENTAGON
WASHINGTON, D.C.
OCTOBER 18
The room was windowless, very quiet, and very dark, except for the couch which Abram lay tied to; a small lamp was shining in his face.
There were several figures sitting in the shadows around him, and a man with a cart standing next to him. The cart contained an active tape recorder, and some medical equipment including syringes and tiny injection dosage bottles.
The man turned off the recorder, and there came a voice from the shadows: "How do you feel, Abram?"
Abram looked dazedly up above him, his eyes unfocused, and slurred: "Like shit, thank you. Your truth-serum is way better than the pot we used to smoke when I was young."
He giggled, then fell silent.
"So," the voice resumed, "you've told us a fascinating story; and the tape of that mad teacher's lectures you were carrying, makes your story credible. It seems you've helped us remove a problem in the administration.
"That secret intelligence ring was a very big potential threat, as they showed when they panicked and nuked American ground. We're happy to be rid of them, and our enemies too, of course. But you've given us a lot of trouble.
"We can't cover up this affair completely, since you went public with the name list... but luckily enough, most ordinary people won't understand its significance anyway. The conspirators have either killed themselves or vanished -- well, that makes it easier to cover up the whole truth. We can't even put you on trial for high treason, since that would alert our Arab allies to the reality of the 'Mecca Doctrine'.
"So what should we do about you, Abram? You're the only living witness who has a clue to this carnage -- we can let that woman go free, because she already half believes you to be a raving lunatic. She'll be easy to convince to keep quiet. But you, Abram, you're unreliable. We can't have CIA employees running around telling the public things they shouldn't hear.
Abram giggled again, saying in a thick voice: "Okay, mes amis, la comedie est fini. What'll it be? A bullet in the head, a false suicide note? A one-way ticket to a mental asylum, and a quick lobotomy?"
He began singing to himself like a drunken man: "They're coming t'take me away, ha-ha, They're coming t'take me away, ho-ho, hi-hi, ha-ha..."
"Shut up, you goddamn idiot," another voice from the shadows snapped. "I say we get rid of the traitor."
The man next to Abram cried hush: "He's still a bit drugged, please don't disturb his recovery."
The first voice responded: "You see, Abram? Even among my own, there are those who wish to eliminate you on the double. But I don't want that. Because your story impressed me. You have a special talent for dealing with people, gaining their trust -- they confide in you without being paid money. We can't allow such talent to be wasted."
The man behind the voice rose from his chair, went closer to Abram's couch -- keeping his face in the shadow.
"So this is what we do: we see that you forget what needs to be forgotten, get you fired from the CIA, and your university; we let you go. Take a long vacation. Visit your relatives in Canada. You need to relax.
"But we'll be keeping an eye on you all the time. If you break down, develop a drinking problem, destroy yourself -- then we won't lift a finger to help you. If you reveal the truth to anyone, we eliminate you. We let you live -- for later use. Whenever we may need your special talents, we'll fetch you. And you'd better be grateful, Abram. You'd better be."
Abram was silent for a long while.
Finally he replied, partly in French: "D'accord, okay, sale connes, I'm infinitely grateful. Now let me loose, before I piss myself."