The seniormost member of the Nine stood, the professor following suit.
“Pankaj Patel, do you swear upon your soul and all that is holy to safeguard the body of knowledge about to be entrusted in your care?”
“Upon my soul, I swear it.”
“Do you swear to uphold and honor the secrecy and sanctity of the Society of the Nine Unknown Men under penalty of torture and death?”
“Upon my soul, I swear it.”
“Do you swear to add to the body of knowledge for which you have been sworn to safeguard, and in due time recruit a qualified successor?”
“Upon my soul, I swear it.”
The Asian monk stepped forward and placed his keratin-flesh palms upon Pankaj Patel’s head. “I need to establish a connection with your biorhythm, linking your DNA with ours. In this way, you will know your brothers when your paths cross, and the dark forces can never penetrate our inner circle. You may feel a slight electrical discharge.”
The professor jumped as a surge of energy raced down his spinal cord, then distally throughout his anatomy by way of his nerve endings.
“Pankaj Patel, I welcome you into the Society of the Nine Unknown Men. From this day until your last, you shall be known among your brethren only as Number Seven. May the Creator sanctify your acceptance with His blessings and keep you and yours in the Light.”
“Thank you, Elder, for this honor. What is my first assignment?”
Gelut Panim, blood descendant of Emperor Asoka, student of Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, turned to face the swiftly moving waters of the Hudson River. “I need you to be my eyes and ears in Manhattan. I need your wife to be our barometer in the supernal realm. There is a storm approaching, my friend. The Angel of Death has been summoned—
— and for reasons that remain unknown, it has targeted your family.”
October
"Since I entered politics, I have chiefly had men's views confided to me privately. Some of the biggest men in the U.S., in the field of commerce and manufacturing, are afraid of somebody, are afraid of something. They know that there is a power somewhere so organized, so subtle, so watchful, so interlocked, so complete, and so pervasive that they had better not speak above their breath when they speak in condemnation of it."
"I never would have agreed to the formulation of the Central Intelligence Agency back in ’47 if I had known it would become the American Gestapo."
“Yes, he’s suffering from stress-related paranoia, but this is way beyond the usual post-traumatic disorder. The inner rage, the feelings of emptiness, most of all his unstable self-image… this is textbook borderline personality disorder.”
Dr. Mindy Murphy closed Patrick Shepherd’s folder, handing it to Dr. Nelson. “Bottom line, Leigh, this one’s dangerous. Pass him on to Bellevue and let them deal with it.”
“Pass him on? Mindy, this man sacrificed everything… his family, his career — now you want to lock him up in a padded cell?”
“It doesn’t have to be like that. There are new approaches for BPD. Dialectical behavior therapy has shown real promise.”
“Good! You can treat him right here.”
“Leigh—”
“Mindy, you’re the best psychologist in the system.”
“I’m the only psychologist in the system. Two of my associates quit last spring, a third took early retirement. My workload went from seventy-five patients to three hundred. I’m no longer practicing psychology, Leigh, these monthly meetings are nothing more than triage. Face facts, the system’s underfunded and overwhelmed, and sometimes soldiers fall through the cracks. You can’t save everybody.”
“This one needs to be saved.”
“Why?”
“Because he does.”
Dr. Murphy sighed. “Okay. You want to play Florence Nightingale, go for it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Just tell me what to do.”
“For starters, don’t try to change him right now. Accept him as he is but don’t coddle. If he tries to hurt himself again or contemplates suicide, let him know he’s inconveniencing you, even jeopardizing your career. Have you measured him for a prosthetic arm?”
“Last week.”
“Was he receptive?”
“No, but I bribed him with a DVD copy of Bull Durham. I’m being told there’s a six-month backlog on prosthetics.”
“It used to be worse. But getting him a new arm is potentially a good thing, it’ll give him something to focus his mind on. If nothing else, it could help alter his self-image. The biggest challenge you’re facing right now is finding a way to reignite his pilot light, to get him to desire something, to set a goal, to feel useful again. He’s in decent physical shape, why don’t you put him to work in the wards. Helping others is a great way to get someone to feel needed again.”
“Good idea.” Leigh Nelson scribbled herself a note. “What about his family?”
“What about yours? Shouldn’t you be home with the husband and kids?”
“Mindy, his wife deserted him, and he has a daughter he hasn’t seen in eleven years. Should I facilitate a reunion or not?”
“Go slow. There are a lot of anger issues there, feelings of abandonment. What makes you so sure you can even find them?”
“The two of them grew up in Brooklyn, they were childhood sweethearts. She might still have relatives living over there.”
Dr. Murphy shook her head. “You’re married with kids, you work sixty-hour weeks, but somehow you have time to search for one of your patient’s estranged wife’s family who may or may not live somewhere in Brooklyn. Leigh, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to save a lost soul, Mindy. Isn’t that worth a little time out of my day? A little sacrifice?”
“Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance: The five stages of grief.”
“You think Shep’s experiencing them?”
The former gymnast stood, tossing Patrick Shepherd’s file onto a stack of fifty. “No, Leigh, I was talking about you.”
Andrew Bradosky turned north on US 15, the four-cylinder car lacking the power of his new Mustang. He had debated all morning about whether to waste another fifty dollars on a rental car. In the end, caution had outweighed frugality. Besides, what was fifty dollars when a big payday was coming down the pike.
Tonight’s meeting would be the third in the last five weeks with the black ops officer. Andrew suspected Ernest Lozano was either CIA or DIA, maybe even Homeland Security. In the end, it didn’t matter, as long as the deposits kept arriving every two weeks into his offshore account.
The Hampton Inn was on the right. Andrew turned into the driveway and parked, then headed for the lobby, the Baltimore Orioles baseball cap tucked low over his eyes. He kept his head down as he moved past the registration desk and bar, then took the elevator up to the third floor.
Andrew Bradosky was thirty-six when he began working at Fort Detrick following a two-year stint at Battelle’s facility in Ohio. To his fellow employees he was a fun-loving guy, always good for a beer after work or the occasional male-bonding weekend in Vegas. His supervisors generally liked him, until time and activity revealed his work ethic to be less than stellar. To his closest friends, Andy remained the consummate bullshit artist, which was why they loved him. While he could charm the underpants off the hot chick with the frosty attitude, most of his peers agreed the terminal bachelor lacked the substance to progress from one-night stands to more meaningful relationships. In fact, Andrew preferred things that way. In small doses, women were sport; the trouble began when they started to nest, something that was clearly not in his best interest.