Chapter Thirty

Old And New Comrades

Shrivenham, Oxfordshire, England, Royal Military College of Science, Tuesday, 25th June 1985

The question and answer routine had exhausted several tense minutes before it came to a grinding halt and the two CIA operatives silently faced one another. They had worked together for two years prior to this operation, but never before had there been a reason for one of them to question the professionalism of the other. Were it to be interpreted by experts on the subject, and Theo Welbeck considered himself to be such an expert, the body language being exhibited by both men was signalling acute unease. Theo was attributing this to the agenda hidden underneath the subject matter of their discussion. The subject matter was Platinum, and Curtis Melcher’s methods of handling the man, but, stripped of the operational camouflage, the hidden agenda was trust. ‘Could he trust Curtis Melcher not to flush both their careers down the toilet?’ was Theo Welbeck’s all-consuming thought.

They were seated on either side of the desk in their commandeered office, each of them now trying to read the other’s mind. Welbeck frowned across the desk at Melcher, knowing that both had been trained to conceal any kind of emotion which could betray their innermost thoughts or feelings, knowing this conversation was going to be a difficult one to decipher.

“So you’re telling me you allowed a... a relationship to develop between you both, and that you deliberately helped him in order to gain his trust?”

“Gaining his trust,” replied Melcher, “has always been Langley’s objective. Getting up close and personal was something the Brits’ didn’t do, which is why they kept losing him. And by helping him get clear of the last scene, I prevented his possible capture. Don’t forget that, Theo.”

The two men glanced up at the scene being depicted on the wall-mounted television monitor. The surgical procedure appeared to be almost over, and the subject of their discussion looked relaxed and perfectly harmless. The thought of Platinum being arrested and exposed stilled both watchers for a moment.

“There’s close,” said Welbeck, choosing his words with care, “and too close. I don’t give a shit about your sexual predilections, Curtis, but don’t let them screw me. And don’t let this sicko drag you so far down you won’t be able to get up again.”

“Relax, Theo,” responded Melcher, “I can handle him.”

Something in Melcher’s tone scraped across Welbeck’s nerves, reminding him of his own given assurance to Harry Albright at the start of this assignment, and the word glib unhappily floated across his mind. Kilpatrick, the new London Station Chief, would go ballistic if he found out about Melcher’s breach of discipline. The new Station Chief, who probably slept with the rule-book under his pillow, liked to use the acronym ‘Comrades In Arms’ for his beloved CIA but wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice any comrade who threatened to screw up the Kilpatrick career.

“Is there anything else you should be telling me?” asked Theo, trying to convince himself that the reason Curtis was looking uncomfortable was because it was hot in this room.

“No,” replied Melcher. Knowing he could never explain to Theo the first-time rush he was getting from actually being afraid of someone and attracted to them at the same time, and having decided not to mention that he had lost Platinum for a worrying period of time at the recent embassy function. “No, nothing else.”

“We’re on the home run, Curtis,” said Welbeck, “We can’t afford any slip-ups now. We gotta’ get Platinum clean and clear to New York in August. After the conference there, he’s someone else’s problem because you and I will hand him over to another team.”

“We’ll get him there,” responded Melcher, “Relax, Theo, I can handle him.”

At the sound of Melcher’s repetitive assurance, Theo Welbeck glanced up at the man in blue on the television screen and felt that disturbing scrape across his nerves again.

Royal Military College of Science, Secure basement level, Tuesday 25th June 1985

Their originally benign functions consigned to history, the basement rooms could now only be accessed by those with the highest security clearance. Apart from those singularly unfortunate individuals who had been selected to take part in the experiments. A selection process which had made no concession towards human rights, because the selectors were playing a high stakes political game and human rights didn’t concern them.

Selectively unfortunate individuals, but specifically chosen ones. Such as those professional technicians engaged on the fringes of this un-named military project who had voiced concerns about its purpose, and so they had been ‘selected’ without any consultation to sample the end product of their worrying endeavours. There had been other questioning individuals, more highly qualified in the field of electronics and more closely connected to the project, who had been experiencing financial difficulties and had set aside their own reservations in exchange for the generous selection fee. All of the selected passed through the belly of the RMCS facility once only, and briefly occupied three of the five specifically re-created basement rooms.

One room housed the state-of-the-art operating theatre containing the best equipment that joint British and American funding could buy, and its inter-connecting double-doors led to the second room. The second room was used as a recovery ward, and was filled by two bathrooms, six beds, and a variety of medical monitoring machines and other nursing paraphernalia. Two of the ward’s beds and one of its bathrooms were for the permanently stationed military male nurses, and were partitioned off from those used by patients whenever the need arose.

The third room was furnished to look like a combination lounge-cum-dining room, and two of its walls supported large two-way mirrors. Artfully concealed around this dual-purpose room were the pinhead cameras and microphones. Whilst obviously providing an area for relaxation and partaking of meals, this unit’s primary function was that of a behavioural observation arena. The fourth room was used to house the observers and their audio-visual recording equipment.

The fifth basement room had been divided up into four moderately sized and inter-connecting cubicles and a separate en-suite bathroom and shower area. Each of the cubicles contained a military-style cot-bed and full-length locker. All four cubicles shared the bathroom and shower room. This fifth room was used by the quartet of CIA operatives who worked in shifts to guard the basement area 24/7.

“We’re almost finished here,” said the man in green to the man in blue.

The scientist controlling the ultra-secret Shrivenham project normally satisfied himself by sitting in the viewing gallery. He could watch the proceedings on the television screen as the surgeon communicated with him through a microphone suspended above the operating table. But today was special to the scientist. Today he was taking a giant step into the unknown, so he had insisted on being present in the theatre as this latest operation was being performed.

“It took longer than was anticipated,” replied the man in blue, “but seems to have caused you none of the difficulties you had feared might present themselves to you.”

“Which is why it took so long,” responded the man in green, controlling his annoyance as he spoke, knowing there was no likelihood of any praise coming his way for the care he had taken. He and his thoroughly vetted military surgical team had performed several operations here to date, but neither of them had ever received a warm word from the cold man observing them now more closely than ever before.

To distinguish himself from the others, as was his habit, the scientist was dressed now in blue surgical scrubs as he observed that this momentous event was reaching its successful conclusion. The thought of the risk he had taken was causing him to have an erection, and he suppressed the giggle threatening to escape from behind his face mask. The device now implanted in the brain of the man on the operating table was one which his so-called professional contemporaries had said couldn’t be perfected for perhaps another two years, and the thought of proving those mental pygmies wrong was making him become even harder. He resisted the urge to stroke his hot member throbbing under the cool cotton surgical scrubs.

The military surgeon in green coloured scrubs signalled the end of the lengthy and groundbreaking procedure by stepping back from the operating table. He pulled down his mask and warmly complimented the four others in his surgical team, who were even now making way for the male nurses who would wheel the patient to the recovery ward. He glanced at his still unconscious patient, and turned to face the scientist. The words he had been about to use froze on his lips when he looked into the mud-coloured eyes of the scientist. The surgeon remembered that any words of caution to this strange man in regard to the handling of what he and his operating team regarded as patients, would be wasted on the scientist who considered them to be no more than too expensive guinea pigs. He nodded his head to the man instead, and saw the lifeless looking eyes stare back at him without blinking.

The scientist left the operating room without saying a word to the surgical team, or sparing any kind of look towards the operating table. The guinea pig lying there would only be of interest to him once he was conscious and back out there with the rest of his kind. Only then would he become of interest. Only then would he become the tool worthy of careful handling.

Once inside his private quarters, the scientist stripped off the surgical scrubs. Naked now, and breathing quickly, he entered the en-suite bathroom stroking his rigid member and stepped into the shower cubicle. He turned on the shower, and through the glass cubicle could see his reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror. Aroused by the sight of himself, but wanting to prolong the sensation, he began slowly masturbating as his excited thoughts on today’s guinea pig and recent events merged in his mind....

The clandestine overture from the Russians had surprised and delighted him. That he was ahead of their own scientists had not of course surprised, he knew he was light years ahead of anyone else in the field, but their approach at the embassy function had certainly surprised. And the way by which they had separated him from his black beauty had amused him.

His delight stemmed from their expressed intent as to how the technology could be used, and their kindred words had resonated within his mind and soul. The Americans and the British would have surrendered eventually to their liberal political lobbies urging caution, but the Russians had no such barriers standing between them and absolute power. The kind of power he himself craved. And of course the so-called ‘Comrades’ could allow him to exercise that power to its full potential, because their Gulags were filled with guinea pigs who could be used at no expense to the state.

This newly presented and wholly unexpected scenario, this new starring role, would accelerate his programme and see him crowned king of the scientific world far sooner than he had imagined. Diversification now, would be a potentially harmful distraction. So the dwarf, Rinaldi, could be forgotten now, the bigger picture had rendered him superfluous.

His further delicious delight in this development lay in the fact that the Russians had unwittingly provided the answer to his dilemma. By allowing them to whisk him away after the New York lecture, the problem of what to do with his own black beauty had now been solved. Compromising Curtis Melcher would no longer constitute biting the hand that fed and be counter-productive. Far from it, because by setting up Melcher in New York he could discredit the Americans and create a smokescreen for his disappearance at a single stroke. The giggle escaped with his choice of words at the same time as he reached his glorious climax...