Carnival of Shadows (47 page)

“Maybe you think you see me for who I am, and maybe you’re wrong.”

“Maybe I am,” Laura said.

“Maybe—”

“Maybe you should shut up for once.”

Travis smiled. “I guess I should.”

“So, Secret Agent Travis, are we doing this or not?”

Travis hesitated.

“That’s my answer,” Laura said, and she got up from the kitchen table.

Travis watched her as she rose, and he said nothing.

“Are you not exhausted with pretending, Michael?” she asked.

“I guess I am,” he replied. “In more ways than one.”

She smiled, and it was a sincere and genuine smile. “It’s a shame,” she said. “More sad than just a shame. You seem like a good man to me. There are less of those than you think. I figured that maybe…” She looked away—toward the sink, down at the floor—then back to Travis. “Never mind,” she said, her tone one of disappointment.

Travis wanted to say something, anything, to bring her back, but he knew she was going, and there was little he could do now to stop her.

“Sleep well, Michael,” she said, and she left him there alone in the kitchen.

43

Travis fell asleep with thoughts of Laura McCaffrey, and he awoke to find the same thoughts present. What had he expected? That sleep would somehow miraculously wash away his emotions? He knew he could not afford himself the luxury of analyzing what had happened the previous night, and yet he so wanted to.

Downstairs, he was both relieved and disappointed to find Laura absent.

Danny was there, offered Travis breakfast, but Travis declined.

“You were off somewhere yesterday, Laura tells me,” Danny said, seemingly for no other reason than to prompt a conversation.

Travis was aware that it was close to ten, that he had slept far longer than usual, and yet that deep sense of internal fatigue was still very much present.

“Just had some matters to attend to out of town,” Travis replied.

“I understand that you and she had some words last night,” Danny went on, the tone in his voice one of caution.

“What makes you think that?” Travis asked.

“She was not so happy when she got home. I asked what was wrong. She said that you and she had a disagreement about something.”

“Is that what she called it?”

“That was the word she used, yes.”

“I think it might have been a difference of opinion, but I don’t believe it was a disagreement.”

“None of my business really, is it?” Danny said.

“She’s your sister. You’re going to be concerned for her welfare, naturally.”

“You know she…” Danny McCaffrey looked awkward.

“Danny, seriously, I am here to do a job. This is not a good time to be getting—”

Danny raised his hand. “Enough said,” he replied. “I am sorry. It
isn’t
any of my business, and I am simply concerned for her welfare. How she might or might not feel is not your fault. Not directly, at least. It’s not as though you’ve done something to encourage the way she feels.”

“I have to go now,” Travis said. “I am sorry that there is some problem here, but I cannot deal with it right now, you understand?”

“I understand, Agent Travis.”

“If you see your sister, please pass on my best wishes to her.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.”

“And are you going to be back for dinner this evening?”

“I don’t know,” Travis said. “Best not to expect me. I am not sure what will happen today.”

Danny said nothing further, just stood and watched as Travis headed out to his car.

Travis didn’t look back. It had been another awkward moment, another conversation that he really couldn’t afford the time to undertake, but life seemed to just go on happening irrespective of whether or not he did anything to ignore it or change its direction. He could not deflect and avoid forever, but at least he could postpone.

Travis drove out to see Doyle, the sheets of paper still in his pocket from Oklahoma City. Doyle was seated outside the caravan, an empty chair beside him, a small folding table before him, upon which sat a pot of coffee, two cups, an ashtray, and a packet of cigarettes.

“I hope you appreciate the effort I have made for you, Agent Travis,” he said. “Please take a seat. Have some coffee, and let’s hear the latest news in this ever-changing saga of bullshit and lies.”

Travis didn’t challenge Doyle. He merely sat down, took the printout from his pocket and handed it over.

Doyle read through it, and then he placed it before him on the table and folded his hands together in his lap. He didn’t look at Travis as he spoke, but toward Seneca Falls and the line of trees near the highway, beyond that to the horizon.

“I suppose the thing that surprises me most,” Doyle said, “is that you are surprised by any of this.” He reached out and tapped the papers on the table. “You know what Paperclip was… what it
is
?”

“No, I don’t,” Travis replied.

“Well, it was a little project that the Office of Strategic Services undertook at the end of the war. Berlin had fallen, Hitler was dead, and someone started to wonder about Wernher von Braun and Arthur Rudolph and Hubertus Strughold, all those brilliant minds that had empowered Hitler’s visions of world domination with aircraft and bombs and whatever else they could dream up. Those minds were still there, still working, and the worst thing that could happen is that those minds would be found in the employ of the Russians or the British. The Allied agreement counted for nothing in the face of that possibility. So they took all those brilliant minds out of Germany in an operation masterminded by the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency. They created false employment histories, false biographies, and wiped out any record that these people had ever been active members of the National Socialist Party or the Nazi regime. More than a hundred of them came to the United States, including Wagner, Neubert, Poppel, dozens more. The cream of the crop, so to speak. And that little performance was nothing in comparison to some of the other projects that you have here. The other stuff is altogether more sinister and horrifying, believe me.”

“More than those responsible for the worst war in human history evading justice?”

“Oh, they didn’t just evade justice, my naive and trusting friend, they are even now living the high life in the United States. These people figured on something called the Osenberg List, named after the head of the German Military Research Association.”

Doyle lit a cigarette and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his expression intense, focused.

“You see, after Stalingrad, the Germans needed all the physicists and mathematicians and engineers they could muster to work on new rocket technology. They recalled more than four thousand rocketeers from frontline duty and sent them back to the northeast of Germany. Germany fell regardless, and that Osenberg List wound up in the hands of British military intelligence. They gave it to US intelligence and then to a certain Major Staver in US Army Ordnance. He understood what those names represented, and he selected those he wanted in the United States.”

“And they are here, right here in the United States, and they have never been called to account for what they did?”

“Yes, they are here, and no, they will never be called to account.”

“How do you know this?” Travis asked.

Doyle smiled. “The same way you know how to secure evidence, take fingerprints, manage an investigation. The same way you know the ranking system of the FBI and how to ascend it. The same way anyone knows what they know… experience, familiarity, personal involvement, connections.” Doyle paused, as if he planned to say something further and had then changed his mind. “Because I am who I am, Agent Travis. Because I was there from the start… but we will talk of that later.”

“And you said that this Paperclip operation was nothing compared to some of the other operations?”

“That’s right.”

“Meaning?”

“The names you have… MK Ultra, Chatter, Artichoke… those are the very programs for which they want people like me, Agent Travis.”

“And they deal with what?”

“Well, let’s take a regular guy on the street, a guy who has his worries and troubles like everyone else, and maybe he figures he needs some help, you know? He goes to see his doctor, and the doctor refers him to a psychiatrist. He tells the psychiatrist that he’s been feeling depressed, that he isn’t so good these days. The psychiatrist listens, he makes some notes. He learns that the man has no wife, no kids, that his parents are dead, that he is, in essence, a loner. And so our depressed and unfortunate man becomes a candidate for a special type of research that is being done. The psychiatrist picks up the telephone and makes a call. Within two hours, there is someone there to collect the man, to take him to a special clinic, to cure him of his depression with a new experimental treatment. This is what he’s told, and he believes it. In fact, he is quite happy to believe anything as long as it will cure him of his problems. So the man goes to the special clinic. He trusts these professionals. He knows that he doesn’t understand his own mind, but these people, with all these letters after their names, with their white coats and their special language, well, they must know what’s going on. That’s what they do. Just as a man knows how to build a wall or fix a car, there are people who know how to fix a human being, right?”

“Right,” Travis said. “Of course.”

“Wrong. No. Of course not.”

“This is a real scenario you’re describing here?”

“One of hundreds, if not thousands,” Doyle replied.

“So what happened to the man?”

“Let’s call him John, okay? John goes with the men to the clinic. As soon as he arrives, he’s given a shot of sodium pentothal. He’s locked in a room for three days without food. He’s given water, but nothing to eat. Every time he falls asleep, someone wakes him up. There’s no windows, he’s naked, and he doesn’t know where he is, whether it’s day or night, what time it is, nothing. He’s completely disorientated. He starts to imagine things; he starts to hallucinate. He will say or do anything that he’s instructed to. This goes on for a week. Then he is given food. He’s allowed to sleep. He’s permitted to go outside, to walk around, to look at the trees. He starts to feel better, he becomes a little more himself, and then suddenly everything changes. He is given an injection of LSD. You know what LSD is, Agent Travis?”

“I do, yes.”

“You know where it came from, why it was developed?”

“I don’t.”

“Albert Hofmann, a Swiss scientist first synthesized it in 1938. The Germans were very interested in its potential to incapacitate a nation in preparation for an invasion. A few years ago, the CIA got wind of what it could do, and they started using it with far greater regularity. They gave it to teenagers, students, teachers, academics, even their own operatives, and they made extensive studies to see if it could serve any purpose in mind control and chemical warfare. The fact that it produced paranoia, schizophrenia, delusions, even permanent brain damage was all just collateral damage. This was vital research; this was for the sake of national security and the fight against Communism. They had to be in control, they had to know what a man could be made to do, with or without his agreement.” Doyle leaned forward and extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray. “And that, my friend, is just a tiny, tiny glimpse of what you have on that sheet of paper.”

“And the connection between this and the other operations?”

“Well, let’s take Paperclip, for example. Paperclip not only gave us the rocket men and physicists, it also brought the doctors, surgeons, neurologists, and psychiatrists too. It brought out the very people who’d gotten their hands dirty in the concentration camps under the auspices of people like Josef Mengele. Those people are now the backbone of American Military Intelligence mind and behavior modification and control practices. The CIA and the Federal Bureau of Investigation are taking care of America’s national and international security issues with knowledge about the human mind that came out of Auschwitz. Sterilization, electric shock treatments, operations without anesthesia, to what degree could a human being be subjected to mental and physical torture before death—all these things were tried and tested there in Germany and Poland, and these were the very people who did these things. Operation Paperclip gave birth to Artichoke, nothing more than an investigation into interrogation techniques overseen by the CIA’s Office of Scientific Intelligence.”

“This is just too incredible—”

“It is not difficult to comprehend, Agent Travis. It has been said that politics will never learn from history, but I beg to differ. The current US administration is well versed in the language of Machiavelli and the Borgias, believe me.”

“So now? What we have here? A dead Hungarian, a name I am not supposed to know, a body that has just vanished into nowhere. What does that have to do with the CIA and Nazi rocket scientists?”

“It is one and the same thing, I am afraid, Agent Travis.”

“How? How can that be?”

“MK Ultra. Your Hungarian, why he was in New York, why he was arrested, how he ended up here in Seneca Falls four years later with a hole in the back of his head. I could be wrong, of course, but everything that has happened here is directing me toward MK Ultra.”

“And that is what, exactly?”

“Human behavioral engineering. Sanctioned at the highest level, running at more levels through this society than I can even count and utterly terrifying in its ramifications and implications. They employ LSD, sensory deprivation techniques, isolation, physical torture, mental and emotional abuse at a level that you cannot even begin to appreciate, even so far as trying to create sexual fixations and obsessions through the use of hypnotic repetition of images and words. They hope to determine the very limits of human endurance—physical, mental and emotional—to see whether they can change a subject’s loyalties, discover things about a subject that even the subject themselves has forgotten. It is headed by someone who is right there on your piece of paper. Sidney Gottlieb, real name Joseph Scheider, a club-footed stutterer from the Bronx who became a chemist, specialized in poisons, wound up heading the chemical division of the CIA’s Technical Services Staff. His assignment was authorized by Dulles himself, his instruction being to discover if there wasn’t some drug or technique that could be used to control a man’s mind, all of this in the supposed direction of fighting the Cold War. Gottlieb actually said that he hoped to find a technique that would crush the human psyche to the point that it would admit to anything.”

“Honestly, if this is true, the consequences—”

“Oh, it is true, my friend. As true as daylight and darkness. You know, the funding for this came from a certain long-established and well-respected foundation whose stated purpose is to promote the well-being of mankind throughout the world.” Doyle laughed sarcastically. “This very American foundation was so generous as to support Josef Mengele in those vital eugenics programs he was working on before he was assigned to Auschwitz. Oh, of course they do a huge amount of beneficial things, I am sure, but the connection to Mengele and Gottlieb alone means they’re off my Christmas card list.”