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Joe Bede was looking a little nervous himself now. "Hell, Sandy, if what
you say is true we'd better damned well get the hell out of here and over
to your FBI friend. If they killed Mark ..."
He didn't have to spell it out.
She grabbed the phone and dialed Jake Edelman's number. There was a click and
a whirr and then a mechanical voice that said,
"The-number-that-you--have-dialed-is-not-in-service-to-this-telephone.
Please-hang-up.
"
She slammed it down like it was an angry snake. "What's the matter?"
Bede asked nervously.
"The phone." She gasped. "I I called Edelman on it this afternoon. To get a
chance to see him.
Now it won't connect me."
He shrugged uncomfortably. "Probably just more of this martial law nonsense."
"Let's go, Joe," she urged, getting up. "Let's go over to the FBI Building
ourselves."
He sighed. "Okay, Sandy. Hell, I won't look scared if you don't."
They grabbed their coats and walked out the door. The sentries were still
there, and they nodded politely.
Sandra O'Connell suddenly felt extremely paranoid, as if unseen eyes were
watching everything they said or did, as if unseen enemies were waiting to
pounce at any moment.
The elevator came at last, and they got in. She pushed "G" and the doors
closed and the car started up, taking an incredibly slow path by her
imagina-tion's reckoning.
It opened and they walked out. Immediately four men converged on them. She
felt panic.
One flashed a badge. "Secret Service, Doctors," he informed them in
a crisp, businesslike manner. "We'd like you to come with us for a few
minutes."
They were puzzled, but complied. It was reassur-ing, at least, to be in the
hands of the law, she thought.
A small office door down the corridor was opened by one of the men, the other
three of whom flanked them, and they entered.
"Now, will somebody kindly explain to me what this is all about?" she demanded
angrily.
"This," said one of the men, wetting down a rag from which issued
the strong odor of chloroform.
ELEVEN
He was in a hazy fog, vaguely aware of what was going on but unable either to
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do much about it or to care very much. The drug was a minor hypnotic rather
popular with the young; you floated, you felt wonderful, everything looked
beautiful, and you didn't think but were willing to be led around
or do anything you were told. In the popular culture two people
took it, whispered wonderful things about love or sex or something in a
nice, quiet room, then acted out their fantasies until, in a couple of hours,
they went to sleep and woke up feeling great.
Like most such substances, its popularity sprang from the fact that the
average person's life is simply too damned boring. And, it was true, the
stuff didn't hurt you at all but it had one nasty little effect, being a
hypnotic. You were totally open to sugges-tion and unfiltered outside stimuli;
in
wrong or, worse, sadistic hands, you were strictly at the mercy of whoever was
around.
It was a handy little drug for an underground force.
So he'd cheerfully gone with the nice people, with vague, blurry memories of a
long car ride to a small private airfield, and from there into a plane with
nu-merous other people. Then he was asleep.
In between the periodic dosages administered in cups of juice or
even water, there were occasional flashes but not much else. A seaplane
landing, a ship pickup on the ocean, a voyage of who knew how long, a landing
on some deserted shore, more flights, funny-looking people with
strange languages and accents but all of it ran together and none of it made
much sense.
Sam Cornish awoke. It was a gentle awakening as if from a deep and restful
sleep; he yawned, stretched, and felt really good.
He was strapped in a plane seat and was in the air somewhere. It was a very
old crate; there was a lot of vibration and the interior hadn't been
maintained in quite some time.
Looking around he saw a number of other men and women in the other
seats, most sleeping deeply but a few awake and looking around or just
staring.
For the first time he realized that all of the win-dows in the aircraft had
been painted jet black. He looked over at the person in the seat next to him,
a black man with a few streaks of gray in his kinky hair who was still
sleeping, then turned to the win-dow. He was still wearing the clothes he'd
worn in the apartment back in West Newton. They, and he, smelled pretty gamy.
He fumbled in his pockets, but there was nothing there. Wallet, penknife,
everything had been taken.
He had fairly long nails, though, and found after a few tries that he could
scratch off a little paint with his index fingernail. It was slow and
frustrating, but he didn't have anything else to do, anyway.
Finally he produced a tiny line of glass under the paint, and he leaned over
and tried to see if anything was visible outside.
Either it was night out there or else they'd painted the outside, too. All was
still blackness.
He sighed and settled back. There was nothing to do but wait.
After a while more and more of the passengers came awake. Finally the man next
to him stirred, blinked, and sat up, looking around at the plane and
then at Sam. His expression was more thoughtful than puzzled.
"Very efficient," he mumbled at last. "Much better than the old days." His
voice was deep and rich, and there was the slight trace of a West Indian
accent in it.
"I think we could all use showers, though," Sam said, trying to open a dialog.
The other man nodded, then smiled wistfully, as if remembering. "Even so, back
in the old days we used to have to go under for weeks." He chuckled. "I often
wondered why the pigs never caught us by our stench alone."
"Who were you with?" Sam asked.
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"The Black October Brigades," the man said. "You?"
He shrugged. "A number of different groups. Synergistic Commune Action Brigade
was the last one."
The other nodded again. "I remember that. Jim Foley and I were in Cuba for a
while together a few years back. Whatever happened to him, anyway? I got a
little fed up cutting sugar cane and came back, but he stuck it out.
Never thought somebody like him would stay drives you nuts."
"He didn't," Sam Cornish said then checked himself. No names had
been released on that
Cali-fornia raid; he wasn't supposed to know about Foley. A slight tinge of
fear rose inside him and he suddenly realized how easily he could betray
himself, and how fatal that would be. His mind raced.
"I got word from some mutual friends that he was back in action again," he
managed. "I don't
know much else, but I
did hear he was back in action."
That seemed to satisfy the other and he let it drop, looking around. "Several
familiar faces here,"
he noted, "and a few who might just be familiar. I think a lot of plastic
surgery has been done."
"And a lot of years have passed," Sam pointed out. "Less hair, dental work,
and a decade can do a lot. I know it did for me."
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