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What's this project about? Gray asked.
Painter nodded at the pile of papers on the table. The full details are there, going back to the Cold War. It was officially overseen by the country's second-largest think tank, the Stanford Research Institute, which down the line would help develop stealth technologies. But back in 1973, the institute was commissioned by the CIA to investigate the feasibility of using parapsychology to aid in intelligence gathering.
Parapsychology? Gray raised an eyebrow.
Painter nodded. Telepathy, telekinesis but mostly they concentrated on remote viewing, using individuals to spy upon sites and activities from vast distances using only the power of their minds. Sort of like telepathy at a distance.
Kowalski snorted his derision from across the room. Psychic spies.
As crazy as that might sound, you have to understand that during the darkest days of the Cold War, any perceived advantage by the Soviets had to be matched in turn by our own intelligence. Any technological gap could not be tolerated.
The Soviet Union was pulling out all the stops. To the Soviets, parapsychology was a multidisciplinary field, encompassing bionics, biophysics, psychophysics, physiology, and neurophysiology.
Painter nodded to Elizabeth. Like the work your father was performing on intuition and instinct. The neurophysiology behind it.
Elizabeth glanced at Gray. From the wary look in his eyes, he seemed hardly convinced, but he continued listening silently. So she did the same.
According to reports by the CIA, the Soviets had begun producing results. Then in 1971, the Soviet program suddenly went into deep-black classification.
Information dried up. All we could ascertain was that research continued in
Russia, funded by the KGB. We had to respond in kind or be left behind. So the
Stanford Research Institute was commissioned to investigate.
And what were their results? Gray asked.
Mixed at best, Painter acknowledged.
Elizabeth had also read the declassified reports. In truth, there was little success with the project.
That's not entirely true, Painter countered. Official reports showed that remote viewing produced useful results fifteen percent of the time, which was above statistical probability. And then there were the exceptional cases. Like a
New York artist, Ingo Swa
Painter must have read the continuing doubt in both their eyes. He tapped the stack of papers. The Stanford Research Institute's results were replicated by testing at Fort Meade and at the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research
Laboratory. In addition, there were several prominent successes. One of the most cited cases involved the kidnapping and rescue of Brigadier-General James
Dozier. According to the physicist in charge of the project, one remote viewer ascertained the name of the town where the general was being held, while another described details of the building, all the way down to the bed where he was chained. Such results are hard to readily dismiss.
Yet it was, Elizabeth said. From my understanding, the research stopped in the mid-1990s. The program was dismantled.
Not entirely, Painter added cryptically.
Before he could explain, Gray interrupted. But back to the begi
Ah, I was just going to get to that. It seems that the Stanford Research
Institute, like the Soviets, had begun to broaden the parameters of their research, extending it into other scientific disciplines.
Like neurophysiology, Gray said. Dr. Polk's work.
Painter nodded. While the project was deeply classified, they did outsource to two Jasons who were doing parallel research. One of them was your father,
Elizabeth. The other was Dr. Trent McBride, a biomedical engineer in brain physiology.
Elizabeth knew that name. She remembered late-night visits, her father sequestering himself with strangers in his study, including Dr. McBride. He was hard to forget with his loud, boisterous voice, but in a good-hearted way. He also brought her gifts when she was younger. First editions of Nancy Drew.
I attempted to contact Dr. McBride, Painter continued. Only to learn that no one's heard from him in the last five months.
Elizabeth felt a cold chill. Five months. The same time my father flew to
India.
She shared a worried glance with Gray.
What was going on?
9:40 P. M.
Yuri Raev exited the elevator on the subbasement floor of the research facility.
After getting the phone call, it had taken him forty-five minutes to reach the
Walter Reed Army Institute of Research in Maryland. The building housed half a million square feet of laboratory space, much of it designated for BL-3 biohazard research, meaning it dealt with all ma
Yuri had used the panic code Pandora to reach the Jasons. It had taken another ten minutes to patch an alert to those he sought, an i
Mapplethorpe on the other hand was all about brinkmanship, political ambitions, and blind self-interest. Yuri didn't trust the man.
With Sasha missing, Yuri needed allies on American soil.
He'd been instructed to meet Dr. James Chen, a neurologist and a member of the i
They would be joined by another.
Someone who could help, he was cryptically told.
Yuri was given specific directions and clearance to the location of the rendezvous. He started down the hallway. At this hour, all the doors were closed. Few laboratories were down at this level. As he walked, bleach burned his nose and masked a muskier scent. Behind one door, he heard a familiar soft hoot of something simian. Here was where the facility must house its live-animal research subjects, deserted of perso
He checked the room number.
B-2 340.
He found the door with a frosted glass panel and knocked. A shadow passed across the pane, and the door opened promptly.
Dr. Raev. Thank you for coming.
Yuri barely got a glimpse of the young Asian man as he turned away. He wore a white laboratory coat over blue denim pants. A pair of eyeglasses rested atop his head, as if forgotten there. The room held a utilitarian table along one wall, and a bank of stainless-steel cages filled the opposite side. A few whiskered black noses poked between the bars. The scritch-scratch of tiny nails whispered from the cages. Laboratory rats. Only these were hairless, except for their whiskers.
Dr. Chen led him through an open back door. There he found a cluttered office: a steel desk stacked with journals, a whiteboard jotted with boxed to-do lists, and a bookcase crammed with glass specimen jars.
Yuri was surprised to find a familiar figure hulked behind the desk, a cell phone at his ear. The man, edging toward his midfifties, demonstrated his
Scottish heritage in his massive frame, ruddy cheeks, and a red-and-gray beard tidily trimmed close to a jutting jaw. He was the head of the cabal of Jasons assigned to assist the Russians and also a colleague and longtime friend of
Archibald Polk.
Dr. Trent McBride.
He's just arrived, the man said into the phone with a nod toward Yuri. I'll brief everyone in an hour.
McBride closed his cell phone, stood, and held out his hand. I've been updated on your situation, Yuri. Considering the girl's fragile state, this is a top priority. We'll do what we can to help find the child.