Receptor Page 8

  I’ll put it on my to-do list.

  At the diner on the corner, I have a bowl of muesli and some orange juice. I get a coffee to go and sip it outside on the street as I decide what to do.

  I know what I should do. Park Row Research currently has about fifty clients on its books—a range of Congress members, labor unions, and various Fortune 500 companies. We have three full-time staffers and two interns, as well as half a dozen operatives who work either remotely or in the field, visiting libraries, scouring through archives, filing Freedom of Information requests. So it isn’t as if I don’t have plenty to do. But I’m distracted. And it’s not idle distraction. This business with Clay Proctor, this anomaly, is very unsettling, and I want to clear it up.

  The office would be the best place to do that, but I know if I go in I’ll just get caught up in other stuff, so I send a text to my assistant, Rosie, and tell her I won’t be in today, that I’ll be working from home.

  I head back to the apartment.

  For about an hour, I do nothing. Work is always easy to put off, but I have to start sometime, so I sit at my desk and do a review of what I found out last night.

  After a while, I hear the ping of an incoming email. It’s Jerry Cronin’s preliminary file on Clay Proctor—preliminary, but still substantial. Turns out that Proctor wasn’t a lawyer at the State Department in Washington in the mid-1950s, as I had guessed. He worked as a statistician at the RAND Corporation on their campus in Santa Monica.

  Which would make it even less likely that he had known Ned Sweeney.

  But whatever …

  The more I think about this, the crazier it seems. It was clearly a mistake. I misheard Proctor, or Proctor misheard me, we got our wires crossed, and now, as a result, there’s this thing in my head that I can’t let go of.

  But I have to.

  Because there’s nothing in the file that puts Proctor anywhere near Ned Sweeney. There’s no evidence that their paths ever crossed. There’s no evidence of anything at all, really. And what other route is there back to that time, what wormhole or rip in the continuum can I resort to if I want to resolve this? The CIA stuff doesn’t even help. Proctor was originally hired at RAND to do statistical analysis of data on the prevalence of mental illness among draft-age men and then found himself teamed up with a university research program that was bankrolled by the Agency. The next step was the creation of a special ‘medical intelligence unit’ within the CIA itself and Proctor seems to have been involved in that.

  But again, so what?

  A little frustrated, I call Jerry, who works remotely from Philadelphia. Jerry’s reports are always extremely dense, and while this isn’t usually a problem for me, right now I need clarity.

  “Well, I haven’t gone through everything myself yet, Ray—I mean, obviously, you only gave it to me last night. All I did was a quick trawl to gather up relevant material for later, but when I saw the Agency stuff, I figured I should put a red flag on it.”

  “Sure. And thanks.” The problem—and it’s only occurring to me now—is that I haven’t mentioned Ned Sweeney’s name. And I don’t intend to, at least not yet, so if there’s going to be any connecting of dots here, I’m going to be the one who needs to do it. “Look, Jerry, what I’m wondering is … does the work Proctor did for the CIA translate into anything?” I’m aware of how maddeningly vague this must sound.

  “Uh…”

  “Did it lead to anything?”

  “Oh, for sure. Did you come across that bit yet where it says the Agency wanted to set up a medical intelligence unit?”

  “Yes.”

  “They certainly went ahead with that, because what it turned into, and pretty quickly, was MK-Ultra.”

  “Oh.” I look down at the notes on my legal pad, as distant alarm bells start ringing inside my head. “Oh…”

  “Yeah.”

  I whistle. “Proctor was involved in MK-Ultra?”

  “Looks that way. I haven’t worked out to what extent, though. Do you want me to?”

  I think about this. “You know what? No. Leave it there. This was just a hunch. Anyway, as you said, we’re pretty swamped at the moment, so … go back to whatever you were working on before.”

  “Fine.” There’s a pause. “If you’re sure.”

  “Yeah, Jerry, I’m sure. And thanks.”

  I put the phone down, lean back in my chair, and stare up at the ceiling.

  It is weird, of course. There’s no question about that.

  In fact, it doesn’t get much weirder.

  Project MK-Ultra was a notorious CIA mind-control program that started in the early fifties. I actually have a book about it. I sit up now and look over at the shelves on the other side of the room. I trace a line, row by row, until my eye rests on a familiar dark blue spine. I read this book a few years ago, and while it was long and densely researched, certain details really jumped off the page.

  One of these comes back to me now. It’s sudden and vivid, like an electric shock. I don’t even need to go over and check the reference.

  But I stand up anyway, my pulse quickening.

  Because I remember.

  It was 1953, a notorious case …

  This isn’t dots connecting, exactly, or pieces clicking into place, but it’s something. There are echoes here, and I can’t just dismiss them. I have an urge to get on the phone again with Jill. She’s my only family, the only person in the world who might hear these echoes and be affected by them. Yet it wouldn’t be fair to call her, because there’s no way I could explain everything without sounding unhinged.

  Which is how I’m beginning to feel.

  I walk over to the bookshelves, and gaze down again at the blue spine.

  The facts here are simple.

  Clay Proctor said that he knew Ned Sweeney. He also said that Ned Sweeney—who died after falling from a fourteenth-floor window in 1954—did not commit suicide. As a young man in the early 1950s, Clay Proctor was involved at some level with MK-Ultra. One of the most infamous casualties of that program—as detailed in the book I am now staring at—died from a similar fall, but was declared, many years later, after a second autopsy, to have been murdered.

  I start to feel a little sick.

  * * *

  It appears—after a brief search—that Clay Proctor doesn’t have any contact info that is public, or an office where he can be reached. He is no longer affiliated with any foundations or educational institutions. He has no online presence. Clearly, the quickest way around this would be for me to pick up my phone and call the congresswoman.

  But I’m reluctant to do that.

  Asking her to set up a meeting with her father would mean stepping outside the parameters of our relationship, which up to now has strictly been a professional one. It would also mean admitting that she was right—that Proctor had rattled me in some way. She’d want to know how and might even make me spill the beans.

  I know I have a tendency to overthink these things. But I also know when I’m cornered. I decide I’ll just show up and take her by surprise.

  I take a cab to her office, which is on Third Avenue at Forty-Sixth Street. I enter the building and make my way over to reception. I ask to see Congresswoman Proctor. The woman at the desk calls up and announces me.

  “I’m sorry,” she then says, shaking her head. “Congresswoman Proctor is not here today, but what did you say your name was again, sir?”

  I tell her and she repeats it into her headset.

  “Hold on a moment, sir,” she says.

  I look around. I’ve never been here before, never been to her offices. We’ve always spoken on the phone or met briefly in bars or coffee shops.

  “A Ms. Boyd would like to speak with you, sir, if you’d like to go on up.”

  “Thank you.”

  I walk over to the elevators.

  Ms. Boyd? I think that’s Stephanie’s assistant, Molly. What does she want? To take this opportunity to tell me to fuck off and stop bending t
he congresswoman’s ear? She might want to, but it seems unlikely that this is how she’d go about it. Maybe she has a message for me from her boss.

  When I get out on the third floor, it’s immediately apparent that something is up. There’s a hint of panic in the air. Voices are a shade too loud, most of them unloading into phones. Out of the kinetic blur, Molly Boyd herself emerges, striding toward me, a phone in each hand.

  “Hi,” she says, her jaw clenched.

  “Hi … Molly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  She’s about twenty-eight and has the harried look of someone barely clinging to whatever idealistic notion it was that brought her into this job in the first place. She’s intense, though, with dark hair in a bob, blue eyes, and black-rimmed glasses.

  “I’m Ray Sweeney,” I say, “but you already know that. I was looking for the congresswoman.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “So I gathered. What’s going on?”

  “Um…” One of her phones releases a plaintive ping. Half glancing at it, she rolls her eyes. “So, yeah … there’s a bit of a crisis.” She takes a sharp breath, then pushes it out, and hard, as if it’s either this or tears. “And I’m not sure what to do.”

  “What is it?”

  She looks at me, her expression uncertain, questioning. Am I supposed to just tell you? But there must be something in my demeanor.

  “We heard about an hour ago that Rise & Unite has some dirt on Stephanie, ethics violations, I don’t know, something to do with rental income and tax breaks. We’re trying to work it out, but it’s messy as fuck and I mean … she’s on the goddamned Ways and Means Committee.”

  Rise & Unite is the super PAC of Proctor’s chief opponent in the District, Howard Noakes, and if this stuff is true they’ll soon have ads up everywhere. It’ll be a bloodbath.

  “Where did you hear about this? Or who did you hear it from?”

  She looks behind her, as if to check that no one is listening. “I got a heads-up from someone I know who works for Jason Becker.”

  Rise & Unite’s main oppo guy.

  “How much do you trust this person?”

  Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I have to explain?”

  “No, but—”

  “These allegations, are they true? Partly? A little bit?”

  “We don’t … we don’t know, because—”

  “—because the congresswoman’s not here and for some reason you haven’t spoken to her yet today, am I right? Where is she?”

  Molly hesitates. “She’s having a dental procedure done, she’ll be out of commission for the whole day.”

  “Which you maybe mentioned in passing last week to this friend of yours who works for Jason fucking Becker, yeah?”

  “But—”

  She’s confused now, and angry. I feel bad for her.

  “Look, Molly, here’s my best guess. Congresswoman Proctor is too smart to allow herself to be compromised in such an obvious way. These people are just fucking with you. It’s what they do. They knew she’d be off the grid today, so they dropped this little bomb through a back channel and are waiting to see if you guys panic and maybe deny it, which would then put you in an endless loop of denying it. It’s a trap. I may be wrong, but I know Jason, and he’s a prick.”

  “Fuck.”

  “This hasn’t gotten out yet, has it? From here, I mean.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Good. Keep it that way. And listen…” I gaze over her shoulder, considering something.

  But she’s fidgety, impatient.

  I look back at her. “Okay, talk to your person at Rise and tell them not only are they full of shit, but that Howard Noakes is being catfished by a hacker in Dagestan. Tell them we’re eighty-five percent sure.”

  “Is that true?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I wave a hand in the air. “I’m maybe sixty percent sure. Whatever. It’s a thing I’m working on for another client. But we can use it.” I pause. “This is a onetime offer. Just say the words. There’ll be no need to follow up. It’ll be a surgical strike, and believe me, it’ll help shut this thing down.”

  “Oh my God, Ray.” She can barely contain her relief. “Thank you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  We stand there looking at each other, and for longer than seems necessary.

  “So, Molly Boyd,” I say eventually. “You’d better get on the case, then, no? Before it blows up.”

  “Right.”

  She turns to go, holding up the phone in her left hand to check the screen.

  “Oh, by the way,” I say.

  She turns back.

  “Her father? Clay Proctor?”

  “Yes?”

  “How do I get in touch with him? Do you know where he is, where he lives?”

  Molly holds my gaze for a moment. She seems torn. Is she walking into more trouble here? Can she trust me now? But then, as though snapping out of a trance, she says, “Of course. He’s at Beekman Place, an apartment building there.” She gives me the address.

  “Thanks.”

  I smile. So does she.

  7

  When he gets home, the first thing Sweeney does is hide the vial in an old shoe box on top of the wardrobe in the bedroom. It occurs to him that he should probably put it in the refrigerator. But then Laura would inevitably find it and he’d have to tell her what it was.

  Or lie to her.

  He’s done this already, though, hasn’t he? As well as lie to the police. And withheld evidence. And stolen.

  Is this really him?

  For a while, he thinks about little else. Then he gets used to the idea. It’s not as if he doesn’t understand the reason for his behavior. With a full vial of MDT now in his possession, he starts obsessing about when and where and how he might be able to administer another dose. Naturally, he worries about safety. Is it dangerous? Will it damage his brain? How much exactly is seventy-five micrograms? He was tempted to sample it immediately, as he sat in the back of that cab, but something held him back.

  In the office the next morning he has so much to do that he can’t even think about it. The phone won’t stop ringing and the pile of correspondence on his desk keeps getting bigger. Matt Drake’s funeral arrangements are all anyone seems to be talking about, though he suspects that in the general chatter there’s an undercurrent of speculation about who’ll be replacing him.

  At one point—and for the second time in two days—Dick Blanford drops by his office. He only stays a couple of seconds, and could have easily said what he needed to say through their secretaries, but it’s pretty obvious what he’s up to: his appearance down here on fourteen is intended to add fuel to the speculation.

  As well as pressure on Sweeney.

  “When you have a minute,” Blanford says, and nods toward the ceiling.

  Then he’s gone.

  Sweeney has given a lot of thought to Blanford’s offer, and really, what choice does he have? The salary increase would be welcome and getting to manage Matt’s accounts would certainly look good on his résumé. Why is he so reluctant to accept it, then? The obvious answer has to do with how the whole thing came his way in the first place. If a promotion is contingent on the death of a colleague, then someone else can have it, he’s not interested.

  But something else is playing on his mind. If he accepts the offer, he’ll be busy all the time—there’ll be more meetings, more client dinners, more late nights at the office. He might have to travel. He might have to play golf. Why should any of this be a surprise, though? Or a problem? Doesn’t it come with the territory?

  As he leaves the office and makes his way up to fifteen, Sweeney begins to see what the real issue is here: he’s only interested in one thing now, and that’s MDT-48. He doesn’t want to be distracted from it, not even by work, or money, or the prospect of advancement.

  But Dick Blanford is a formidable character, and he’ll be hard to say no to. When Sw
eeney enters his office, he sees that Jack Rogan is there as well, standing over by the window, and it’s then that he understands he’s effectively already said yes. Because in their minds there’s no other possible answer. Why else would he have shown up for work this morning?

  “Ned, Ned, come in.” Rogan walks toward him, extending his hand. He’s a small man, stocky and balding, maybe fifty years old, but he’s got boundless energy and is really the heart of the agency. “I wish the circumstances were different,” he says. “That’s a given. But let me extend my congratulations to you anyway.”

  They shake and Rogan indicates for Sweeney to sit down in the same olive-green chair that he sat in yesterday. Dick Blanford is behind his desk, leaning back, arms folded. Sweeney glances around. The blinds are open and there’s a bright, airy feel to the office. It’s sunny outside and the city is humming busily below.

  “It’s a terrible business,” Rogan says, shaking his head. “Just terrible.”

  Sweeney doesn’t say anything. There may be an inevitability to all this, to his promotion—it suits them, too—but he’s not in the mood to play along.

  Rogan offers him a cigarette. He declines. Rogan seems surprised by this, but lights one for himself anyway. After an awkward silence, Dick Blanford launches into what sounds like a prepared speech. Sweeney hears things like “client accounts,” “half a million in billings,” “dividends and profit-sharing.” He meets Blanford’s eye at one point, and Blanford stops talking.

  “When is the funeral?” Sweeney says.

  After another awkward silence, Rogan says, “Thursday morning.”

  “Thursday,” Sweeney says, half to himself. “Day after tomorrow. Fine.”

  He notices a quick look of concern passing between the two men.

  “You know what, Ned?” Blanford says. “This stuff can wait. We’re just glad to have you on board.”

  “We’re also glad,” Rogan adds, “that someone around here has the decency to put the brakes on once in a while. I mean, in a situation like this—”

  Sweeney stands up, cutting him off. “So, we’ll talk on Friday, then?”