Smoke and Mirrors (3 page)

A specific reference to “Dr. Brothers’s scream”, prior to the explosion, in Agent Bradley Milton’s statement is the chief basis for this secondary hypothesis. All interviewees concur with the timing of her “warning” (word used by Dr. Brothers on page 16, paragraph 5, line 2). Estimated to be within two to five seconds of the actual blast, it, in her words “had no correlation to any external factors” (same page, paragraph, line 7). Upon further questioning, Dr. Brothers guessed that a possible “scent” might have triggered the response. No further clarity of that scent could be determined, but the interviewee certainly warrants further questioning should future evidence point in that direction.

No other depositions revealed any indication of the explosion’s imminence. However, Agent Milton, upon being asked by John Thibaut why the scream motivated him to run after the Bentley, remained silent for ten seconds. His answer, repeated below, is located on page 5, paragraph 11.

“It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part. She (Dr. Brothers) isn’t prone to overreacting. I concluded, subconsciously perhaps…” pause of seven additional seconds, “that something was threatening Nigel and Sammy’s lives. Thinking back upon the incident, my knowledge of former KGB and current Russian Kriminalnaya vehicle hits must have induced my reaction.”

“What do you believe made her scream?”

“The same trigger which made me react.”

“And that ‘trigger’ is?”

“Instinct.”

C sat forward, returned the page he was reading to the folder, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.
But was instinct enough?
He rifled through the tea tray for a chocolate Hobnob and set to work reading the second file.

C flipped past the Patient Document Release form and eyed the Patient Care Plan begun by Dr. Brothers’s GP. It was dated 20, July 2009 and under the Focus/Problem section, there was a symptom list that included headaches, neck and back pain, and varied GI symptoms. Additionally, the GP had noted that the patient was complaining of unusual emotional fluctuations and abnormal levels of anxiety. The next column, Outcomes, indicated the patient’s desire for emotional composure, freedom from stress/anxiety and a relief from the physical symptoms previously indicated.

The notes covered several visits within a span of 32 days. A variety of tests had been administered, and their results were listed under Tests and Interventions. MRI findings had negated the presence of tumors along the spine and in the brain. Tests for arthritis, MS and a variety of other muscular afflictions were also negative. Blood tests showed no evidence of anemia or pregnancy, and all STD’s were ruled out. The final document in the GP’s packet was a patient directed referral for psychiatric consultation and a note from the GP that indicated pastoral intervention might prove useful.

Licking his thumb, C turned the thick end of the portfolio to a new section. This began with another release form and the familiar letterhead of a reputable Harley Street psychiatric practice branded the page’s top. It was a practice that specialized in violence against women. Again C reviewed the physician’s notes and found them to be detailed and thorough. They chronicled a six-month period of visits that began in August of 2009 and ended in March of 2010.

C glanced back at the first folder Jack had brought him. 17, March 2010 was the date written on Parker’s initial SIS application form. He resumed reading.

The last paragraph of the psychiatric office’s evaluation had noted that while the patient in question had made gains and wasn’t in need of further care, she was authorized to seek it should she deem it necessary.

The next forms were those SIS physicians had filled out. They indicated that the subject they had examined was “fit and ready for duties in any SIS capacity”.

But C knew how the vetting process worked, and the fact Parker had ticked yes to being the victim of a violent crime would have mandated an additional battery of tests administered by SIS psychiatrist, Dr. Gordon Monroe.

C ran his finger along the notes until he reached the Applicant Rejection/Recommendation form. The latter word was circled and C read Dr. Monroe’s succinct handwritten notes beneath it.

“Above applicant has no tobacco or substance abuse history. Furthermore, there is no physical indication that said subject has used a nicotine-based product or any illegal narcotics within the testing timeframe of twenty-four months. This, along with the data gleaned from the subject’s GP and non-SIS psychiatrist evaluations, indicate that no continuing effects from the July 2009 rape should be considered as a reason for the applicant’s dismissal.

Normal physical and emotional effects such as GI issues, thoughts of suicide and guilt were dealt with in a timely manner by trained professionals. The subject completed all visits, met all goals and has demonstrated no symptoms that would indicate a risk of revictimization, partner violence, chronic health issues or emotional instability.

Dr. Brothers meets all SIS criteria for strong mental health and it is my pleasure to recommend her without any reservations.”

A yellow sticky note had been placed under the last line. It was addressed to C and had been dated that morning.

C,

I thought it might be of interest to you that Dr. Brothers not only initiated all visits to her GP and psychiatrist, but she kept notes regarding her treatment. She brought her diary to one of our sessions. Below is a summary of the actions she took leading up to her rapist’s arrest.

Basically, she disguised herself, infiltrated his home, discovered documents that connected him to a high-end prostitution agency and set a honey-trap for him. The police arrested him, and he confessed to raping her.

When I asked her if the rape had made her wary of fellow medical professionals or men in general, she said, “If you burned your tongue, would you stop eating?”

She doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

Monroe

C sneezed, secured the file and dropped it into the outgoing tray.

•   •   •

If SIS has a family-like quality to it, which it does, it is also fraught with the type of jealousy and jockeying for affection and favor that affects all real families. On a large scale, the six main branches (Administration, Technology, Operational Officers, Corporate Services, Language Specialists, and Trades and Services) politely elbow one another for both monies and manpower. And then there is the need for commendation. For in SIS, promotion is solely based upon meritocracy and job performance.

Which brings one to the small scale squabbles. The more intimate rivalries and affections of the nuclear family. The daily love/hate relationships of siblings who vie for their father’s admiration whether playing cricket, clinking Guinness pints or working to counter terrorism in the name of Queen and Country.

And so, Reports Officer Jack Kingston was not asked by his friend, Agent Thomas Donovan, why he had been working so closely with the Chief of SIS’s Covert Division. Jack guessed Thomas was desirous of the coveted relationship, but not at his expense. Rather, he likely wished they both wore the cloak of secrecy that would serve to exclude others.

There was another official requisition slip in Jack’s pocket, and Thomas’s keen gaze noted it. He smiled warmly at Jack, and they made brief plans for dinner. Neither was married, and, while they couldn’t discuss certain parts of their professions, they could certainly be freer with one another than with non-SIS employees.

Perhaps Agent Donovan thought he could glean more information about Agent Forsythe’s death. The veteran agent’s flawless record and platinum reputation had made him a legend. And, Jack believed, somewhat of a hero to Donovan.

Unfortunately, and not without some good reason, Agent Forsythe had refrained from taking Agent Donovan under his wing. And so, with the failings of upper classmen who seek to defend those deserving and overlook those who aren’t, Forsythe and Agent Milton had drawn a line of indifference between themselves and Donovan.

Jack had remained with a foot on either side of the line. He wished they could all have been friends, and he thought about it on his way to the files’ department. He admired Forsythe and especially Milton. But he liked Thomas too.

Thomas had entered SIS with the long-term goal of becoming an Agent. He’d begun as a Case Officer, and, after a few years, won his spurs. While Jack, with his computer expertise, could easily have gone into IT, he’d found the Operational Officers side of SIS more compelling.

He’d begun as a Vetter, interviewing and researching candidates over a nine-month period, and then moved on to the position he now had. As a Reports Officer whose job was to collate, assess, validate and disseminate ‘humint’ and ‘sigint’ information, he’d been given much higher security clearance and a day-to-day working relationship with C.

This new position was proving fascinating but thorny. There was much Jack would have liked to discuss – today’s strange request from C, for example. But he found himself wishing his confidant could be Brad Milton, not Donovan. Which was ironic, because Brad was the last person with whom he could share the information.

So he kept his own council and continued on to the lower labyrinth of Vauxhall where he pulled more records: some which he took apart in order to ‘seal’ portions of them, some which he gave to Administrative Assistants who in turn passed them on to Targeting Officers, translators and IT specialists.

It was, after all, a day like every other in the Lego-like home of several thousand bright children and their very busy, taxing, and detached father. Their tiara wearing mother was another subject altogether.

S
olomon Grundy born on Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday…

The absurd song was stuck in my head, for it had only been three days since Sammy and Nigel’s memorial service, and yet there I was in C’s office – not the Chief of Medicine’s – holding a folder he’d handed me.

“What is it?”

“Pocket litter.” His nose sounded stuffed, and I wondered if he’d caught a chill the day of the wedding.

I opened the envelope and stared at its contents
.
There was a passport for Alexandra Hermanas, an Italian doctor. There were one-way plane tickets to Sardinia, Italy. And there was a hell of a lot of paperwork.

“I don’t understand,” I said, never having treated a patient matching her description.

C eyed me, and I felt like the Sphinx had moved to London. “I think you do.”

“But I’m not a field agent.”
Maybe I’m still asleep.

He sneezed, and I felt a mist of droplets.
A very realistic and disgusting dream if anyone is asking.

“God bless you,” I managed through gritted teeth.

His half-smile was wry, his eyes red and teary. “He doesn’t.”

Disgusted by the thought of thousands of little germs flying my way, I said, “Sneeze into your inner elbow next time.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, doctor.”

“Precisely.”

“You speak Italian beautifully and look as though you were born in Rome.”

“I had an Italian au pair.” A Russian one and a French one. My parents hadn’t been idle rich, just detached workaholics of the olive-skinned, European variety.

Makes me sound like a type of tomato.

“Your marksmanship instructor gave you high praise, your annual physical reads like a marathoner’s and Dr. Monroe states that your past experience–” C cleared his throat, “Doesn’t impact your daily performance. In short, you’re perfect for this op.”

“What op?” I ignored his use of the word ‘experience’ even though it pissed me off to think of rape as one might mountain climbing.

“You’re going to Sardinia to fill in as Giovanni De Torres’s physician. You’ll treat local patients, and you’ll try your damnedest to be hired by Alberto Sanchez. His daughter’s a diabetic and very soon she’ll need a new personal physician.”

“Why?” I asked, trying to ignore the addictive bite of a challenge.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“Who is Giovanni De Torres?” I had a sneaking suspicion, and it wasn’t a pleasant one.

C stared out the window. “He’s Brad’s alter ego.”

“I thought the word was alias.”

C didn’t bother clarifying the difference, so I dropped it. From my limited knowledge, I figured Brad was involved with some pretty nasty characters. And judging from the knife wound I had treated when we first met, I guessed despondently that Giovanni was probably some sort of drug dealer.

“Does Brad know I’m coming?”

“Does it matter?”

I sighed, altogether irritated now. “It might.” Brad and I hadn’t actually spoken since our brief and uncomfortable meeting at the hospital.

C sneezed again, this time into his inner arm, and I pushed the tissue box at him with my pen. “You’ll leave tomorrow,” he said. “That leaves you one day to study your legend.” I must have looked perplexed, because he managed to say, “Your alias’s background,” before a third sneeze blew through him.

Then I fled.

To Sardinia.

C
’s Administrative Assistant, Suri Ganapathy, was used to long hours. Tonight was no different, so she grabbed a lamb curry from a take-away and strolled back through the semi-industrial Borough of Lambeth. She stopped at The Tate and scanned the Thames, deciding that poor urban planning and damage from WWII bombings hadn’t done much for what must have been a beautiful section of the riverside.

A few minutes later, she entered SIS’s green and taupe Vauxhall HQ. Nondescript and modern, its interior conveyed a sense of purpose and movement. Not home décor certainly, but useful given its purpose. She smiled at the guards and waited as the glass tube through which she passed scanned her identification card and retinas. Then, she disappeared into the depths of her workplace and made her way to C’s office.