Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

The last thing she remembered was a shadowy man standing over her. Then a stinking cloth slammed over her mouth, so tightly she couldn’t breathe. There was a struggle, and then…

Nothing. Nothing until this moment, still in her clothes from last night, in agony as the room wheeled around her.

She couldn’t remember what had happened or who that may have been. She had a strong sense that she had spoken to him, or vice versa. She half-remembered a voice, but she had no real recollection, no idea what she might have said or what she might have been told. And when she tried to think of it, when she concentrated on the moments after that ghostly stranger stood over her, she could see only one thing-the man’s lithe frame.

She pushed away the half-memory and the nausea, fighting to think clearly.

She had to tell Simon. He would know what to do, how to help.

She took a breath and called to her AI. “Hollis? Call-”

— and she stopped herself. Why didn’t my security systems work last night? she suddenly asked herself. Where was Hollis? Was the system compromised? And what about the phone lines now?

Simon had given them all those silly, old-fashioned phones at Ryan’s house last night. Maybe she should-

“Call whom, Doctor?”

“No one,” she said, thinking it through. “Never mind.”

She reached to the side table, picking up the cell phone Simon had given her. She knew she could use it safely. She had to tell him what had happened. Ask for help. But she stopped, her hand an inch away from the phone.

She felt confused and began to reconsider. If she did indeed tell him what had happened, she knew what would happen next: she would be cut out of his plan to find Oliver. She’d be left isolated and alone. Too big a security risk, they would say. Compromised. And the others would go off without her. She wouldn’t be there to help them, wouldn’t be able to protect Simon. And she knew, she was positive, he was going to need her more than once-more than ever-in the difficult days to come.

What else could she do? She thought looking around her immediate surroundings, then decided Simon needed to know. Otherwise, he may be in more danger if she didn’t tell him.

She decided she was sure and grabbed the phone, just as there was pounding on her front door. She froze, clutching the phone in hand.

Samantha's Flat

Simon didn’t realize how fast he had gotten to Samantha’s apartment.

He pounded on the door as hard as he could. “Sam!” he called out, desperate for an answer. “Samantha!”

Five seconds, he told himself. Then I kick the door in. Five…four…thr-

“Simon?” Sam’s weak voice came through the door.

Simon blew out a sigh of relief. At least she’s okay, he told himself. “Sammy, it’s me,” he said. “Open up.”

He heard her unlocking the door and impatiently helped to push it open, eager to see her.

Sam’s eyes were still half-shut; she looked disheveled and surprised. She was dressed in the same clothes from the night before. She must have fallen asleep as soon as she got home, he reasoned. And then…

Simon moved closer to her and held her shoulders, looking straight at her face as he asked, “Sammy, tell me everything that happened.”

There were tears in her eyes. “That’s just it, Simon, I don’t remember.”

He dropped his hands, still looking into her eyes. “Then tell me the last thing you do remember. Andrew dropped you off…you came inside…you…”

“…brushed my teeth,” she said, almost dreamily, “…sat down on the bed, still dressed and so tired…and…”

Her eyes were wide and empty when she looked at him. “And that’s all. Nothing else until I woke on the bed an hour ago, still dressed.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. She was doing her best not to cry. “Oh, Simon. God, what…?”

He saw it then-a tiny, circular rash about the size of a large coin on the side of her neck. He wouldn’t have noticed it at all except for the angle of the light; it was just a slight roughness to her skin and not much more.

“Wait a second,” he said, leaning forward, sniffing at her neck.

“Simon, what the devil…”

“Sorry,” he said again. But he had caught a whiff of what he had expected to: the astringent, garlic-like odor of the DMSO derivative used in most medi-patches. “You were drugged, Sam.”

She put her hand to her neck protectively, as if she half-expected a knife to be put there. “A patch?” she repeated. “But who…and why would they…?”

Simon was already on his feet again, pacing nervously. “I want you to gather some clothes and come with me. Now.”

She looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about? Have you gone mad?” He was already moving toward her closet, looking for a suitcase or a bag. “Where the hell do you want me to go?”

“Something tells me we shouldn’t be here,” he said. He shook his head tightly, quickly. “We should get the hell out of here. Sam, my place was broken into last night. Get your stuff-we’re leaving.”

More in response to the urgent tone in his voice than any real understanding, she jumped up and started toward her room to gather her things. “None of this makes any sense,” she muttered. She sounded muzzy and confused; clearly, the drugs were still in her system.

Simon moved back into the living room, thinking furiously. Maybe I should go back to my flat, he thought. But…but they could be waiting. He wasn’t quite sure what to do; he had never been on the run before, especially from something as bizarre as this. Max would know what to do, he told himself. This is his element. But he had no choice. He couldn’t go to the authorities; for all he knew UNED and Jonathan’s CIA bosses were part of the group that was after him and his friends. And now he was conspiring to steal a multi-billion-dollar piece of government technology. They couldn’t possibly know about that…

…could they?

Simon came to a decision at that very moment: their only alternative was to accelerate the plan that he had discussed just a few hours earlier. Get to the Spector safe house undetected-all of them. Highjack the fully assembled submersible, and get the hell out of Oxford, out of England, and as soon as possible out of the Northern Hemisphere entirely.

Simon looked at his watch, then called out to Samantha. “We’ve got to go.”

“I’m almost there,” she replied.

While she packed, Samantha suddenly asked him, “Do you remember Corsica?”

Simon was surprised. “You actually remember that?”

“How could I forget?” she replied, but made sure to add with a sarcastic tone. “The question is, how could you forget?”

Simon hadn’t forgotten a thing. He vividly remembered the weekend they had spent at his father’s hideaway, a beautiful cottage nestled in the hills in Corsica, when they were both in college. That was the first time Samantha had told him how much she cared for him…and the first time he had disappointed her.

“Never mind,” he said.

That weekend on Corsica had been a major event in Simon’s life as well-just not the one that Samantha imagined. It was the last time he had been at the cottage with Oliver-the last time in his adult life that he had a chance to share a few days with his father.

The secure phone made its familiar and annoying buzz. He put it to his ear and keyed the communication. It was Jonathan.

“Almost there,” he said. “I called Andrew. He’s meeting us in front of Sam’s place. I’ll leave my rental there, and we’ll go together with the Rover.”

“Sounds good. What about Ryan?” Simon asked.