Andrew Britton - The Operative

“The disassociation is working perfectly,” the woman said in a voice barely above a whisper.

“How can you tell?” asked May. He was short, balding, and was dressed in a black Brooks Brothers suit with a tightly knotted red tie. His whisper was like a rasp. “It’s been less than two minutes.”

“You witnessed the point at which she actually joined the altered reality,” the woman said. “When she spoke of the board and the smell. It was the first time she took the initiative to elaborate and explain. He kept talking to her to see if she would expand on it, go further into that reality. But the wood, stuck in the sand, was a dead end, so he moved her away from it. But she was there.”

“Not to doubt your expertise, Doctor, but you got that from her talking about a board?”

“And her expressions,” the woman said with a trace of annoyance. “It isn’t just one nexus that informs us of success, but many. You saw the way she went on to personalize the princess as herself?”

“Okay-”

“All people have repressed desires,” the woman went on. “Family, society, our jobs, our financial status do that to us. When we go deep enough into our psyche and are given not just the freedom to express those desires but also a command to do so, people invariably, willingly submit. It is liberating. The id welcomes that freedom. It’s only a question of how long it takes. Someone in this woman’s situation-an impoverished, lonely childhood-is particularly susceptible. You see her hand, the one with the marble?”

The man said he did.

“Despite our orders, she relaxed her grip. She forgot that because of the very strong reality we impressed upon her. She abrogated her responsibility because of the power of the vision she’s creating for herself.”

“You told her you’d start again if she did that.”

“That was to emphasize how important it was,” the woman said. “Yet she still succumbed. That’s another way we know the hypnosis is working.”

“And yet the marble will remind her of this session.”

“It will do much more than that,” the woman told him. “It will keep her in the session, functioning outwardly as her old self, but inwardly focused on that object. It is called cognitive sublimation.” “So there is no ‘less pleasant sound,’ I think your associate called it?”

“Oh yes,” the woman said. “There is definitely a less pleasant sound. It’s not something you want to hear.”

May continued to peer into the adjoining room. The voice of Dr. Emile Samson, the moderator of the session, had already taken this Indian rani from the courtyard to the palace itself.

“How do you know she’s not faking?” May asked.

“Because we have seen virtually this same pattern in all the subjects who have come through here,” the woman replied.

The woman, Dr. Ayesha Gillani, had been introduced to May as the “brilliant hypnotherapist” who had treated Jacob Trask’s bipolar daughter in Atlanta. Trask was so impressed that he’d hired her to work in Xana, his psyops R amp; D division. It was named after a fairytale character Trask remembered from a childhood storybook, a nymph who was the keeper of a great treasure.

“It’s remarkable, Frank,” the other man said. Special Agent Hunt was in his early thirties. Square shouldered and six foot one, he was wearing a button-down white shirt, sleeves rolled up, knotted black tie pulled to one side at the neck.

May nodded in agreement. “And when you’re finished with the process, in two days, this woman’s traumatic memories will be gone.”

“That is correct,” said Dr. Gillani.

“We’ve proven it numerous times,” said Hunt. He laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “But that’s not the beauty of it. We can turn the Gillani Technique into a goddamn assembly line at Guantanamo Bay, send those miserable SOBs back home to spy for us.”

May shook his head. “It is amazing, and I’d back it in a New York minute. But I don’t see how I’ll ever get the director to go along with it.”

“Why? Congress? The ACLU?”

“For starters, but also Brenneman,” May said. “He’s not going to want to leave office under an indictment from the Justice Department for torturing detainees.”

Hunt laughed. “Torture? Christ, everyone will be thrilled that we’re finally going to clear out Gitmo! Hell, we can turn it into a petting zoo for the Cubans, win the hearts and minds of those poor people.”

The assistant director regarded his subordinate with a curious, wary expression. “The zoo I like. The rest of it is admirable, and some of the assistant directors may want to keep it going at a low burn. But I can’t see Cluzot going along with it. Hell, you’ve got her strapped down-”

“In case she has a post-traumatic episode,” Hunt lied. The woman was a killer. They had to keep her bound in case she slipped from their control.

“And if she does? And hurts herself in our custody, goes out one of these windows?”

“We’ll board them,” Hunt said. His eyes were hard, fixed on the other man. “Give us more time. We weren’t expecting you. We can clean this up, Frank.”

“Alex, look. I see the merits of the process. I do.”

“It’s not costing us anything!”

“That’s part of the problem and the main reason I came down early. A lot of people in D.C. don’t want Trask crossing from the military to the Feds. That’s too much influence in one place. Cluzot is being pressured to demonopolize, to sever ties like that.” May’s eyes were sympathetic. “You’re doing great work here, the three of you. Hell of an achievement. Beats all hell out of waterboarding. But frankly, speaking personally now, this is more CIA than FBI.”

“I’m really not sure I follow that reasoning,” Hunt replied. His voice was taut. His hand was still on his superior’s shoulder. “One, protect the United States from terrorist attack. Two, protect the United States against foreign intelligence operations and espionage. Three, protect the United States against-”

“I know the charter-”

“Cyber-based attacks and high-technology crimes. Four, combat transnational-national criminal organizations and enterprises. Five, freakin’ upgrade technology to successfully perform the FBI’s mission.”

May slowly shrugged off Hunt’s hand. His voice was still quiet, but there was an agitated little wire somewhere inside it. “You forgot the most important. These activities must have a proper purpose and may not undermine activities protected by the Constitution of the United States.”

“I haven’t forgotten it,” Hunt said. “It just doesn’t apply to scum who want to kill us.”

The men regarded one another. May shook his head. “I will recommend to the director that he communicate to Mr. Trask that the Bureau was extremely impressed by the remarkable work of the Xana team, and Dr. Gillani in particular,” he said. “But I will also strongly suggest that we do not add this procedure to our field operations.”

“You’ll sink us,” Hunt said.

“I’m sorry.” He looked back at the monitor. Yasmin Rassin was smiling. She was rolling the marble lightly between thumb and index finger. “Has the marble become something else in her little fantasy?”

“Yes,” Dr. Gillani replied, apparently unmoved by the conversation that had taken place behind her. “She is being told that it is the world, her world. I will soon go back inside and take it from her. To get it back, she will have to do as she is told in the next session.”

“Will she sleep like this from now until then?”

“This is not sleep, but a sensitized waking state, and no. When my colleague, Dr. Samson, brings her out of this, she will remember having the marble in her pocket and waiting for something to happen. Her wrist will be restrained, and she will be hungry, thirsty, and tired. I will feed her, and she will be allowed to sleep. Then we will begin again.”