Blood and Bone(33)

When I get to customs in Rome, I smile and nod, hoping everything checks  out for my new identity, Inga Deloncrae. My passport identity is an  American from Maine. The man at the counter grants the seven days I  require to attend the "business meeting" I am en route to Turin for.  Italian men are easy when you smile and bat your eyelashes.

Once I've arrived in Turin, I am desperate to get back to the US. The  cab ride from the small airport in Turin is short. I can't nap alone  with a man I don't know, but my eyes are burning, almost as badly as my  stomach is aching. I need food.

The aching and irritability don't end as we pull up outside of an  unostentatious building. I have never seen a bank look like this before.  It's stone and glass and might have been fancy once upon a time, but  the area seems to have become laden in graffiti and cars I wouldn't  assume were Italian. They're definitely not Lambos.

The cabbie leans back, giving me a smarmy look. I slap cash into his  hand, not certain how much I've given him, but by the smile it must be  an all-right amount. That was the only perk to stopping in Rome-I was  able to change my money and clear customs.

I get out, gripping the key and watching the people on the streets. The  sun is in the middle of the sky, but the air is cold. In the distance,  snowcapped mountains surround the city. It's cold and blustery and not  at all how I pictured Italy. I hurry up the steps, excited and anxious  all at once.

When I get inside the marble foyer of the ancient-looking bank, warm air  blasts me. I shiver with the chill I still have but walk to the front  counter. A middle-aged and yet sensual-looking woman smiles at me. She  asks in Italian if I have an appointment.         

     



 

I shake my head, offering her Italian in return, to my own surprise. I  explain that I just need to get into my safe-deposit box. She lifts a  perfectly sculpted, dark eyebrow, explaining I will have to come back,  as an appointment is necessary.

I nearly turn away, defeated and uncertain as to how long I will have to  stay, when a man smiles wide, clapping his hands excitedly and rushing  toward us. He embraces me, whispering in my ear in English, "Are you  crazy?"

I nod against his cheek, almost relaxing into the scent of his  aftershave. He smells like someone I know. He turns, telling the woman I  am his special client, and drags me across the shiny stone floor to an  office. When we are inside he offers a chair. "Ms. Barnes, I thought we  agreed that you would never come here again."

I scowl. "I need to see inside the box."

His gaze narrows. "Why? No good can come of that. It's not an insurance policy if you take it out."

"I just want to look in on it, check its safety and ensure it's still  intact." I know this dark-haired man. I know him, but I can't recall  how.

He sits on the edge of the desk, looking down at me, sighing and  nodding. "Fine, we go and look, and you leave. You never come back  again. Your life is at risk just being here."

What the fuck?

Who the hell am I?

I know I was a spy once upon a time, but an Italian banker is worried  about me? Needless to say, I am completely lost, and yet satisfied, when  he opens the door again and leads me down the long hallway.

"We have to be very careful; keep your head down." He plucks my  clothing. "At least you dressed incognito. No one here will recognize  you."

We descend a wide set of stone stairs to the basement. They make me  nervous with their sharp edges and brilliant shine. They're a deathtrap  waiting to happen. I can feel my sneaker treads gripping the shiny  floor, but he has on leather dress shoes. I'm terrified for him.

"They have been asking about you all over Europe. Searching high and low  for three years. It's been painful to see them struggle." He's joking  and mocking someone I don't know, but I smile and nod. He nudges me when  we enter another corridor, this one much more glamorous looking. "You  seem different."

"I am. I've had three years of peace and quiet."

He scoffs. "Right, like you and he could ever be peaceful."

The fact I don't know him or his name is driving me insane. I should  have looked when we were in his office. A real spy would have looked. I  am such a shopgirl.

He stops us at a giant room with frosted glass. "Do you have your key?"

I hesitate, almost not showing it to him, but the reality of the  situation is that I must. So I lift it from my bra where I've been  keeping it. He rolls his eyes. "Same Sam." He pulls a key from his  pocket, and as he walks toward the room with the frosted glass, the  doors swing open. In the dim light of the chandeliers and sconces and  rich colors, a technology such as automatic doors seems off. We walk to a  machine in the middle of the room. He holds his key at the opening on  the right and nods at me, staring at the one on the left. I hold my key  out as he counts down, "One, two, three." We push in at the same moment.

The machine sucks the keys in, keeping mine and then almost instantly  pushing his back out. He takes it and nods at the door. "I will wait in  the hallway." He leaves, and as he does, the doors lock with thick steel  bolts.

I am trapped in a glass cage, and I have a feeling it's not the first time.

He stands with his back to the doors as the machine comes alive,  clicking and grinding. It sounds medieval until a slot opens in the back  wall and a large black metal box is placed on the single wooden desk.

I walk to it as the entire system sounds like it's doing everything it has just done in reverse.

My hands tremble. My heart races. My mouth dries completely as a threat  of vomit attacks me. But I lift the lid, stepping back. I expect it is  the Holy Grail inside. I expect light and fireworks. I expect to be  wowed just by the sight of the greatness within this box. It is  something to die for, after all.

But inside is a thick folder, something of a disappointment, I have to  admit. It's huge, actually. I lift open the cover, scowling. "TOP  SECRET" is stamped in red on the top of every page. Names are blacked  out of some of it. JFK is mentioned on the second page, along with a man  known as the Ruse. His name isn't mentioned but his deeds are. They  call it an assignment-JFK was his assignment.

Oh shit. What do I have here?

I flip through, not understanding what all of this is until I reach the  last couple of pages and find Derek. On these pages he is Dr. Benjamin  Dash. My interest piques when I see his name repeatedly. The first  couple of pages are what appears to be a doctor's report on "the  incident," as they call it. A man was found dead, killed by venom from a  snake not indigenous to the area they are in. Area Seven is what it is  called. The person writing the report does not disclose what has  transpired, but it appears Dr. Benjamin Dash's test subjects have been  caught doing something unspeakable to fellow military personnel. The  dead man's name was Dr. Andrew Holt, and an explanation is discussed,  but it seems to be invented for the benefit of the deceased man's wife.         

     



 

The next page is a summary by the doctor for the council. It doesn't explain the council or who they are.

Dr. Benjamin Dash has approved our test subjects. All seven have gone  anywhere from twenty-five to thirty years without their disorders being  discovered or diagnosed. They have never stood out as a problem and have  managed their disabilities well enough to blend into regular society.  For this reason we feel they will excel at the training. None are  seriously disabled, the best to worst ranging from slight OCD to ADHD.  In the beginning they were all forthcoming and up-front about all points  of their prior lives. After only one week of training with Dr. Dash,  the answers to the very same questions about the subjects' childhoods  are suggestive and yet deliberately unhelpful. They are already showing  signs of manipulation and overconfidence in areas where they have  absolutely no expertise. Dr. Dash's theories on memory stimulation and  the induction of psychosis in a person through false-memory stimulation  are pioneering our ability to weaponize a person after they've moved to a  country or become a useful asset through their career or ranking in  society. The test results are the only reason we are continuing Dr.  Dash's research. His ability to create the perfect agent through  disassembling the brain and re-creating a weapon is unmatched in his  field.

I feel the incident with Dr. Holt is not something that will repeat. Dr.  Dash's control over the subjects has proven itself through exercises in  which he is able to command them even as they are under the influence  of the memory stimulation. We have approved seven of our own personnel  to work with him in this study. All documentation will be Top Security  Clearance, Level S. This shall further be known as Area Seven. Our hopes  for the area are growth in the use of memory stimulation in sedated or  deceased patients. We wish to unlock the secrets many try to take to the  grave with them. The tests we are running are giving us the results we  need to be hopeful that this is indeed a possible outcome for the  project.