Chapter # 10 – Of What to Come

TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA

Henrik stared into the empty simlab through the two-way mirror that was part of his workspace.

“You wanted to see me?” the harsh voice of Dr. Masoud questioned sharply as he entered the small office Henrik occupied with Dr. Stone following behind him.

“Yes sir.” the young pretender replied obediently, cowering slightly as the tall African man sat down at the table across from him. He eyed the doctor nervously before picking up the small file he had finished preparing late last evening. He joined the doctor at the conference table and hesitantly pushed the file across its dark mahogany surface hesitantly. Henrik was still incredibly intimidated by the two powerful men, bearing witness to Lys and Jarod’s struggles over the past few weeks had done nothing to allay his fears.

“What’s this?” the tall African asked.

“It’s Jarod. It’s your way in.” Henrik informed the man, forcing himself not to whisper as his heart pounded in his chest.

“And the girl?” the man asked impassively, scowling as Henrik bowed his head submissively.

“I’m still unsure about her sir. Perhaps if I could once again observe her?” he asked timidly.

“She will stay as she is.” Dr. Stone replied, looking through the file quickly. He passed it to dark man on his left.

“You’re sure this will work?” Dr. Masoud finally questioned. “Failure is not an option.”

Henrik swallowed nervously. What did they expect? He had not been allowed to interact with Jarod, instead limited to gathering everything he knew about the pretender from old DSAs, field reports from his pursuit and what he had been allowed to observe of the pretender’s time in Africa. Only if had he been allowed to interact with Jarod personally, gauge the pretender’s moods, could he fully be confident in his findings.

“I am fairly confident sir.” Henrik replied, with as much certainty in his tone as he could project.

The two men studied him intently, their unkind eyes piercing his for several uncomfortable seconds before they stood from the table.

“We’ll make the necessary arrangements then. In the mean time, focus on Lysander.” Dr. Stone informed the young pretender before the two powerful men exited the room.

Not a thank-you, not a word of praise. Never in his life had Henrik felt so unappreciated. His mouth tasted bitter, not one hint of the joy he would have normally felt at accomplishing his assigned task. And what about Jarod?

He should feel proud, but all he felt was lost.

TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA

They had finally given up.

Here Lysander was, surrounded by darkness, trapped in silence, enclosed in a concrete prison smaller than anything she could ever imagine. Only the small red dot of the infrared camera kept her company, even here there could be no privacy. She had played their games for two weeks until one day her handler had simply shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

Fourteen days, three hundred and thirty six hours, one million two hundred nine thousand and six hundred seconds. Her life was that of numbers, counting every minute as it passed her by, another second she refused to submit to their will, another day spent fighting, trying to ignore the unrelenting pain and suffering they were subjecting her to.

She was a predictor, her mind could see, predict, manipulate numbers in a way few people could. Her gift; her curse; a cruel destiny.

Lys had always been told her father had too possessed her talent for numbers. Other than a few happy childhood memories, she could remember little else. He had been killed in an automobile accident when she was three. Two years later, her mom had led them to Christchurch, saying it was for Lys, when in reality they both knew they were only running from the memories. Her mother found a school for gifted children, and Lysander had blossomed. She was defined by her unique abilities, forever a part of her identity. Her life had always been about numbers.

Now they had taken that away.

After her handler had left, without a word, the guards had come and released her from the ever present chains, her body so abused it refused to allow her to walk anywhere, as if a final loss of dignity. Lys had been dragged and shoved in this small cell, the only light being that of the camera and whatever filtered through when her one meal of the day was pushed through a small slot. Only four walls, herself and the damn camera. The side walls were so close together that she could touch both when she bothered to strength out her arms.

There was nothing left to count – no numbers left in her life. The walls were smooth and worn, the floor nothing but a slab of concrete. Meals were slipped through the door, along with a bucket, as an act of final humiliation.

Other than the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, they had taken the one thing her mind had been trained to crave away. She had lain there for hours, her hand on her neck, counting her pulse, her mind switching into gear and quantifying how much time had passed, but she had easily tired of that.

It was surprising what her mind was turning to, finally free of numbers. Memories of her father, suppressed for many years, slowly surfacing. The painful uncertainty of not knowing what had happened to her mother the day Lysander was stolen away; Tuxedo her adoring cat.

People often said that when faced with a near death experience, their life seemingly flashed before their eyes. Perhaps this was a twisted version, as she slowly descended into madness.

Maybe the Africans did have another trick up their torturous sleeves, but Lys was beginning to believe that they would be content to just leave her here until the madness from the enforced seclusion claimed her.

After what she had estimated to be her third day of isolation, a quote from a long forgotten history class had reappeared in her mind, wise words of Napoleon.

“To live, is to suffer; and the honest man is always fighting to be the master of his own mind.”

He’d definitely gotten it right.

The deep rooted fear that permeated Triumvirate pet projects was ironic in a way. The stories and rumours of indescribable torture, pain so great it could drive a man to madness. Lys had fully expected to land here and become the official punching bag for their muscled minions. But they were much smarter than that, and patient in a way the Conglomerate had never been able to be.

Her end wasn’t going to be the torturous path filled with bruises and broken bones as she had originally imagined; instead all it was going to take was four walls, the red glow of a camera and for the first time in as long as she could remember, isolation from her world of numbers.

Her last equation to solve; how many days, how many seconds, how many minutes and hours would it take for her to crumble? And would she even know enough to care, when she finally did?

TRIUMVIRATE HEADQUARTERS –THE CONGO, AFRICA

Jarod grimaced as he fought his way through the induced haze of the sedatives he had been given the night before, panicking as he found himself unable to move his hands.

“Ssshh…” A hushed voice behind him whispered, a quick hand of comfort placed on his shoulder, and withdrawn with such speed that Jarod thought he had imagined it.

With a light groan, Jarod forced his eyes opened, instantly recalling the position he had been left in before the sedative had been injected into him. He gave an impatient tug on the handcuff chain, a frustrated grunt escaping his lips.

A foot appeared on the other side of the bars almost instantly. “First and last warning. I’m in no mood for your theatrics.” The guard threatened.

Jarod ignored him, gently pulling himself to an awkward sitting position, given his state of restraint. He leaned against the bars heavily, using them for much needed support.

He remained in that position, his mind dull and clouded, so much so that even conjuring up the images of his family seemed too large a task. Jarod didn’t bother looking up as two guards entered the room. Weeks of being forced to look down, had given him cause to memorize the footwear of the guards that constantly escorted him. He knew these shoes.

Jarod lessened the tension on the handcuffs, allowing them to be released with greater ease. He slowly pushed himself to his feet without prompting, and moved slowly out of the cell, his hands placed obediently behind his back.

“Bath time for this monkey.” The one guard sneered as he pushed Jarod towards the shower-block at the rear of the room. The Africans had been very lax in regards to his personal hygiene, a stark contrast to Centre rules. He suspected he was allowed to bathe only when his keepers were adversely affected.

Jarod stood under the spray of cool water, his mind still fuzzy from the lingering effects of the sedative. As the water trickled down his back he felt his energy slowly creeping back as he gratefully washed the sweat and grime from his slender frame. He exited the shower and donned a fresh pair of the neutral coloured pants he was forced to wear. Ready to face another meaningless day.

Approaching the guards with a submissive demeanour, Jarod absently ran a hand through the thick beard that now dominated his facial features. He tried to imagine what his mirror reflection would yield, but with little success. With a frustrated huff, Jarod once again turned around, placing his hands behind his back as the guards moved in towards him. Within seconds, the hood was over his head, the handcuffs around his wrists and two threatening grips one on each of his biceps.

He was led on a familiar path, so familiar, that Jarod believed he could walk himself there, even give his current state of blindness.

As he was led into the sim lab, the hood removed from his head, Jarod almost automatically started to move towards the far wall of the lab, where he had been spending his time suffering through their twisted form of penance. The guards felt his slight movement in that direction, their grips immediately tightening on his arm.

“Could it be time for a change of location?” Jarod asked sarcastically. “I’ve heard wonderful things about the wall on the other side of the room,” he continued, waiting for the reaction from the dark African man who never seemed to be out of earshot.

“New game for this monkey,” the man replied from behind Jarod.

“What’s that?” Jarod couldn’t prevent himself from asking, resisting the urge to turn and face the man.

“One I like to call, Monkey See – Monkey Do,” the African replied as Jarod’s guard forced him to turn around.

Jarod’s eyes immediately fell to a lone file folder that sat waiting at a large work table. He would have dismissed it, but the manacles at the base of the table suggested its contents were meant for him.

Jarod clenched is jaw in determination. A few weeks, perhaps several months of suffering and they were hoping he had simply changed his mind about the bottom line? Not hardly.

But something within set off alarm bells, warning that this was Africa. They had been sitting by patiently, as if biding their time, for some bigger event. They would not be asking unless they had reason to expect the answer would be yes.

Had they dramatically underestimated him, or was he about to discover just how strong their resolve could be?

“You seemed to have missed the memo that was sent out over six years ago. I retired,” he stated, trying to shake his way out of the guards hold, his anxiety noticeably increasing.

The African doctor wasn’t fazed. “I have to give you credit. Few make it through with your level of sarcasm and reckless disregard for authority.”

Jarod could almost hear the lingering and the unspoken threat behind the man’s menacing words. He clenched his jaw in determination as the guards led him towards the table. The temptation to struggle was hard to ignore, but he managed; somehow.

As he was forced down and secured, Jarod focused his eyes away from the small manila folder that lay before him. He could feel the dark African’s eyes staring at him.

“Not even curious as to what in that folder?” The mocking tone asked him.

“I have no interest in anything you people have to say.” Jarod snapped back, crossing his arms as his handler approached him confidently.

“Lies don’t become a monkey of your intelligence.” The African retorted, moving in behind Jarod and bending over so he was speaking directly into the pretender’s ear. “The truth is you’ve wanted nothing but answers from us. Answers about your family, answers about how and why you were taken. Answers on exactly why it is that you are so valuable to us.”

“Your point?” Jarod asked, turning his head slightly to the right, as if daring to make eye contact with the man to his side.

“Face it. The Centre controlled everything about your life for over three decades: what you heard, what and who you saw, what you learned, when you showered. One could argue the control still lingered within after you had escaped. And now? Your existence is controlled by us. What you wear, when and where you sleep, the comfort or in your case discomfort of your daily routine.” The African lectured, growing more animated as he spoke.

Jarod took a deep breath and allowed a small smirk to fall onto his features, ignoring his handler’s attempt to dehumanize him. “Yet there is still one thing out of your control, isn’t there?” He taunted, expecting a reaction from the dark man behind him. The African remained still, as Jarod frowned as he realized the other man was not going to be drawn into a battle of wills. The man was poised, with an arrogant air that reminded him of Lyle the day he played with the firehose.

“Open the folder,” the man whispered the command into Jarod’s ear, causing him to flinch away slightly as he felt the other’s breath on him.

Jarod remained stubbornly still as a tall white man entered the room, a hardened facial expression on his distinguished face. “Silently defiant till the very end?” The new player asked through a thick British accent.

“The end of what?” Jarod quipped back, bringing his head around to meet the Englishman, before allowing his eyes to linger on the file folder. “All the fun you have subjected me to over the past weeks, and it’s all going to be for naught because of the contents of one lousy file folder?” He asked almost incredulously.

The African behind him moved quickly, grabbing a fistful of Jarod’s hair and violently slammed the pretender’s head down on to the table. Instinctively, Jarod turned his head slightly to protect his nose, his left cheekbone taking the brunt of the impact instead, suppressing the groan of pain that would have normally escaped.

“Eyes down,” the dark man snarled, before pulling the pretender upward. “I can see we are going to require a more hands-on approach. Take him across the room.” He ordered, before disappearing from sight.

Jarod remained still as his two guards moved in immediately, unchaining him and dragging him across the room to his familiar spot.

“And here I thought I wouldn’t get to spent quality time with this wall again.” Jarod remarked sarcastically as he pushed down to the ground in a cross-legged position. As the guards attached the nearby shackles, the dark African man appeared in front of Jarod, angrily pinning something on the wall in front of Jarod, obviously the contents of the file that had been on the table moments earlier.

As his handler stepped back, Jarod lowered his eyes onto the ground with a mock submissive posture.

“Your dedication to infuriating me is almost commendable,” the African exclaimed while approaching the pretender, the British man appearing at his side.

“I seem to have little else to do with my time.” Jarod muttered in reply, his eyes still stubbornly fixated on the floor, avoiding the new addition to the wall, obviously meant for him.

“Dare I say that is about to change?” The British man remarked.

The guards still lingering behind him moved so quickly, Jarod had little chance to react as his head was pulled upright, his eyes unwillingly focusing on the wall for the briefest of seconds.

Five photographs.

Sucking a breath of realization, Jarod couldn’t prevent a strangled ‘no’ from leaving his lips.

He tried to lower his head, but the two guards each held a painful wad of his hair. Jarod tried more frantically, closing his eyes against the five images that were now burned in his brain, but the grips only tightened.

Balling his fists, Jarod gave a furious tug at the set of shackles that kept him down and restrained, his eyes still shut, but the images had already begun cycling behind his eyes, over and over again.

He barely heard the light chuckle of amusement from the two powerful men in front of him.

“It always ends this way. Monkey see, monkey do,” the dark African announced.

“I haven’t agreed to anything.” Jarod snarled back, his eyes still shut tightly.

“But you will,” the British man replied with disconcerting confidence.

“Over-confidence has been the downfall of lesser men.” Jarod replied, his tone falling flat.

“A bit of self counselling?” The African piped in.

Jarod took a deep breath, still keeping his eyes shut against the photographs he knew he would not be able to ignore.

“Blackmail, the bargaining tool of cowards.” Jarod said darkly.

“Perhaps, but it is effective.” The Brit remarked with a light tone. Jarod could imagine the satisfied smile that would dominate the man’s features and he would give anything to wipe that smile from his face. He swallowed the bile that was slowly rising in his throat. As long as he stayed in the safety of his darkness, none of this had to be real.

The African leaned in even closer. “So tell me, who will you choose? Their lives or those belonging to the dark shadows in your mind; the so-called faceless victims of your genius?”

Jarod again tried to flinch away, but he was still being held in place by his hair. Aware that his breathing was increasing notably, he took several moments before replying, trying hard to stay in control of his overwhelming emotions.

“They have names, and faces, and families. They are somebody to someone. They still matter.” Jarod whispered, his tone choked with emotion.

“What, like you do? You’ve been no-one since the day we acquired you. Tell me, if you were to disappear, would anyone even notice you were gone?” The African continued cruelly.

“By the way I was hunted down like an animal after I escaped the Centre, I would have to say yes.” Jarod replied, aware his argument, although imperative, was weak.

“I suggest you take a long and thoughtful look at your life then. You’ve been trapped in my maze for nearly two months. Ask yourself, who cries after you, besides the token Mommy and Daddy?” the man continued, his voice growing louder. “Can you even be certain that they haven’t given up, just like you are about to.” He further jibed.

“You people stole EVERYTHING from me, from my family. You made me do things, imagine situations and used them against innocent people all over the planet.” Jarod shouted back, his frustration and anger becoming more difficult to suppress.

“And when you reflect upon your life thus far, how does it add up? Here you are worse off than you were at the Centre. You are locked away from the people who claim you have tried so hard to protect with your ‘freedom’, led around in chains, told what to wear, when and where to sleep, how to act. Tell me, does your life bare more resemblance to your beloved society outside these walls, or to the tiger at the Capetown Zoo?”

“I am what you people made me!” Jarod yelled, no longer in control of his emotions. Guilt, anger, sadness, every feeling he had tried to suppress since his transfer was bubbling to the surface, with a force that surprised even him.

“You have no more choice than the stupidly proud tiger born in captivity. Life will become a lot easier when you learn to accept who you are, your destiny. The Centre may not have been able to do it for you, but rest assured we will not fail.” The African snapped.

“This is not my destiny. I had a life, parents, a brother and sister. They still are out there, and as long as they are, I will never stop fighting.” Jarod growled, full of determination.

“Letting you find your family was a mistake made by our lesser Centre counterparts. I assure you that you will never see them again.” The British man stated in a tone so void of emotion, Jarod shuddered involuntarily. He didn’t want to, couldn’t fathom his life becoming only this. There had to be a way out, somehow, someway.

His existence was so tightly controlled, his very being so suppressed. Everything the Africans did was about exerting their control. The hood, the chains, the demeaning accommodation, the humiliating punishments.

“I will never give up. NEVER!” Jarod stated with force resolve, aware he was faltering.

“Your family may exist inside that well-endowed brain of yours, but that’s as close as you’ll ever get to them again. You’re mine now. And today is a turning point in our arrangement. I’m only going to ask you this once, and once only. There are no second chances in Africa.” The African said with calm and controlled voice, pausing briefly. Jarod could feel the man’s deep and intense eyes upon him.

“Today you have the rare opportunity to be given a choice. An encouraged act of independent thought. I’m done playing mind-games and re-educating you as to your correct position in life. It’s time to go back to work.”

“What’s the choice? I give you my soul, and the people on the wall get to keep theirs?” Jarod asked knowingly.

“What a stark picture you paint boy.” The Brit remarked. “You jumped our hoops for thirty years. Just shy of six years playing fugitive, it’s about time you realized that your little dream vacation is over.”

“I don’t trust you. Chances are they are already dead.” Jarod remarked sceptically.

“I can only but assure you they are still alive, but if your cooperation remains elusive, we’ll be forced to show you undeniable proof that they are no longer amongst the living.” The British man remarked cockily.

“Study those five pictures. Study them hard, burn them into your brain. We’ll be back later. You’ll be given one chance and one chance only. I want you to think long and hard about the shadows that haunt your nightmares. The familiar faces of your so-called friends you met while eluding our capture, or the unknown masses that may or may not suffer at your hand.” The African threatened, speaking directly into Jarod’s ear, before pushing away the pretender with a sharp push.

Jarod sucked in his breath sharply as the two men left his side, the two guards behind him finally releasing the hold on his head, before retreating. With an almost suppressed moan, Jarod finally allowed his eyes to rest on the five pictures pinned up before him.

Five familiar faces stared down at him.

He had to admit their plan was simple, basic, almost obvious that he was surprised that the Centre hadn’t tried it years ago.

Then again, Miss Parker likely didn’t have the stomach to order, let alone, suggest it. It would have ended his pursuit years early, had they dared to try it.

Aware he was nearly hyperventilating, Jarod turned away from the pictures, grateful that the guards seemed oblivious to his halting movements, for once. Five faces, each bringing a wealth of memories about his freedom; Memories about his quest to undue or at least counter balance the wrongs his genius had helped to create in three decades as a Centre prisoner.

He had rubbed their noses in his success while he was free, with the people he had helped along the way. It had seemed liked a harmless exercise, as long as he didn’t stay, the people he met, whose lives he helped to change were not in danger. Until now.

With a heavy heart, Jarod finally allowed his gaze to linger on the photographs.

JR – the healthy and talented college basketball player. His heart, once Kyle’s beating for eternity, the only remaining and earthly piece of his brother.

Mary – the mental patient, badly abused and manipulated by her psychiatrist because she had witnessed something she wasn’t meant to see. Jarod had rescued her from a forced drug induced haze and returned her to her family, where she belonged.

Violet - the feral child, left to fend alone in the woods by the most unethical and mercenary of scientists. Once rescued and provided with love, she had flourished, and would continue to do so.

Susan - the determined P.I who worked countless hours, evenings and weekends to reunite families with their lost children. She gave hope to those that had no one left to turn to. Her success rate was considered phenomenal.

And finally Jill, who had suffered through her own, then a subsequent forced addiction, the loss of her father, the loss of her son. Despite it all she still had the strength to survive her past. She had won back her family, son and husband.

Five lives out of the large group of people that Jarod had influenced in his freedom. He had helped them to escape the guilt of his past. Now he was being asked to weigh the guilt of their survival versus the lives of countless masses of faceless people.

How could he possibly make that choice?

He had fought for so long, so hard, with everything he had. Survived their abuse, the humiliation and degradation they had subjected him to. The endless weeks filled with only cruelty and hopelessness. He had survived it all, to save the vague shadows of the people he knew would be killed by the potential applications of his simulations.

The unproductive and tortuous what-ifs circled Jarod’s brain. Why had he so arrogantly flaunted his work in front of his pursuit team? Why had he not simply decided to vanish, the odd phone call to Sydney aside?

But it was much too late for endless reflection. At the end of the day it came down to a simple choice. Sacrifice those he loved for the lives of many more people he would never know, but whose lives could potentially be affected by what he thought up, in terrible ways he didn’t even want to imagine.

The numbers told him one thing, the almost crushing pain in his chest screaming another.

An impossible choice – yet one he had to make.

I decide who lives or dies.

Kyle’s words. His words.

His mind screamed logic, numbers, the simple argument based on quantity.

But his heart cried in anguish and the memories, the small gifts of kindness, family, togetherness, hope he had taken from each of the people he had helped on his pretends.

Closing his eyes, the screams from the shadows were easier to tolerate than the pleas from those he knew, those who had touched his life, who had helped him regain part of his soul.

There was another way, one life whose termination would save them all.

But he didn’t even have the power to do that.

How many days, how many weeks had he suffered? For what?

Jarod took a deep breath, straightening his posture and opening his eyes, staring blankly at the wall.

They had won.