Deep Six

“Yes, Mr. Brogan has filled me in.”

“And how does the situation strike you? Can the President be mentally forced to become an involuntary traitor?”

“I grant the President’s actions demonstrate a dramatic personality change, but unless we can put him through a series of tests, there is no way of being certain of brain alteration or exterior domination.”

“He will never consent to an examination,” said Brogan.

“That presents a problem,” Edgely said.

“Suppose you tell us, Doctor,” Oates asked, “how the President’s mind transfer was performed?”

“If that is indeed what we are faced with,” replied Edgely, “the first step is to isolate the subject in a womblike chamber for a given length of time, removed from all sensorial influences. During this sequence his brain patterns are studied, analyzed and deciphered into a language that can be programmed and translated by computer. The next step is to design an implant, in this instance a microchip, with the desired data and then insert it by psychosurgery into the subject’s brain.”

“You make it sound as elementary as a tonsillectomy,” said Oates.

Edgely laughed. “I’ve condensed and oversimplified, of course, but in reality the procedures are incredibly delicate and involved.”

“After the microchip is imbedded into the brain, what then?”

“I should have mentioned that a section of the implant is a tiny transmitter/receiver which operates off the electrical impulses of the brain and is capable of sending thought patterns and other bodily functions to a central computer and monitoring post located as far away as Hong Kong.”

“Or Moscow,” added Brogan.

“And not the Soviet embassy here in Washington, as you suggested earlier?” Oates asked, looking at Brogan.

“I think I can answer that,” Edgely volunteered. “The communication technology is certainly available to relay data from a subject via satellite to Russia, but if I were in Dr. Lugovoy’s shoes, I’d set up my monitoring station nearby so I could observe the results of the President’s actions at firsthand. This would also allow me a faster response time to redirect my command signals to his mind during unexpected political events.”

“Can Lugovoy lose control over the President?” asked Brogan.

“If the President ceases to think and act for himself, he breaks the ties to his normal world. Then he may tend to stray from Lugovoy’s instructions and carry them to extremes.”

“Is this why he’s instigated so many radical programs in such haste?”

“I can’t say,” Edgely answered. “For all I know he is responding precisely to Lugovoy’s commands. I do suspect, however, that it goes far deeper.”

“In what ma

“The reports supplied by Mr. Brogan’s operatives in Russia show that Lugovoy has attempted experiments with political prisoners, transferring the fluid from their hippocampuses — a structure in the brain’s limbic system that holds our memories — to those of other subjects.”

“A memory injection,” Oates murmured wonderingly. “So there really is a Dr. Frankenstein.”

“Memory transfer is a tricky business,” Edgely continued. “There is no predicting with any certainty the end results.”

“Do you think Lugovoy performed this experiment on the President?”

“I hate to say yes, but if he runs true to form, he might very well have programmed some poor Russian prisoner for months, even years, with thoughts promoting Soviet policy, and then transplanted the hippocampal fluid into the President’s brain as a backup to the implant.”

“Under the proper care,” Oates asked, “could the President return to normal?”

“You mean put his mind back as it was before?”

“Something like that.”

Edgely shook his head. “Any known treatment will not reverse the damage. The President will always be haunted by the memory of someone else.”

“Couldn’t you extract his hippocampal fluid as well?”

“I catch your meaning, but by removing the foreign thought patterns, we’d be erasing the President’s own memories.” Edgely paused. “No, I’m sorry to say, the President’s behavior patterns have been irrevocably altered.”

“Then he should be removed from office… permanently.”

“That would be my recommendation,” answered Edgely without hesitation.

Oates sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve reinforced our resolve.”

“From what I’ve heard, no one gets through the White House gates.”

“If the Russians could abduct him,” said Brogan, “I see no reason why we can’t do the same. But first we have to disco

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“There is an excellent opportunity to turn this situation around to our advantage.”

“How?”

“Rather than cut off his brain signals, why not tune in on the frequency?”

“For what purpose?”

‘‘So my staff and I can feed the transmissions into our own monitoring equipment. If our computers can receive enough data, say within a forty-eight-hour period, we can take the place of the President’s brain.”

“A substitution to feed the Russians false information,” said Brogan, rising to Edgely’s inspiration.

“Exactly!” Edgely exclaimed. “Because they have every reason to believe the validity of the data they receive from the President, Soviet intelligence can be led down whichever garden path you choose.”

“I like the idea,” said Oates. “But the stickler is whether we can afford the forty-eight hours. There’s no telling what the President might attempt within that time frame.”

“The risk is worth it,” Brogan stated flatly.

There was a knock on the door and Oates’s secretary leaned her head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Secretary, but Mr. Brogan has an urgent call.”

Brogan got up quickly, lifted the phone on Oates’s desk and pressed the winking button. “Brogan.”

He stood there listening for close to a full minute without speaking. Then he hung up and faced Oates.

“Speaker of the House Alan Moran just turned up alive at our Guantanamo Bay naval base in Cuba,” he said slowly.

“Margolin?”

“No report.”

“Larimer?”

“Senator Larimer is dead.”

“Oh, good God!” Oates moaned. “That means Moran could be our next President. I can’t think of a more unscrupulous or ill-equipped man for the job!”

“A Fagin poised at the White House gate,” commented Brogan. “Not a pleasant thought.”

60

Pitt was certain he was dead. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be dead. And yet he saw no blinding light at the end of a tu

Suddenly she released her hold and began to blur, moving away, diminishing ever smaller until she vanished altogether. A dim light filtered through his closed eyelids and he heard voices in the distance. Slowly, with an effort as great as lifting a pair of hundred-pound weights, he opened his eyes. At first he thought he was gazing at a flat white surface. Then as his mind crept past the veil of unconsciousness he realized he really was gazing at a flat white surface.

It was a ceiling.

A strange sound said, “He’s coming around.”

“Takes more than three cracked ribs, a brain concussion and a gallon of seawater to do this character in.” There was no mistaking the laconic voice.

“My worst fears,” Pitt managed to mutter. “I’ve gone to hell and met the devil.”

“See how he talks about his best and only friend,” said Al Giordino to the doctor in naval uniform.